Going The Distance- by my Mom
In celebration of the NYC Marathon yesterday, I wanted to share an article that my mother wrote and published in my hometown's newspaper following my 1st marathon in 2001.
"When my 28-year olf Baltimore-transplanted-to-New York City daughter announced last spring that she was applying for the New York Marathon, I remarked, "how nice." Although proud of her determination, I was somewhat dubious of her ability.
A 1991 graduate of Pikesville Senior High, Debbie was not a varsity athlete. She dabbled at tennis and skiing and lacrosse, but a runner she was not. Why would she elect to put herself through such rigorous torture?
But owning a lucky lottery draw sealed Debbie's membership to this elite group of 30,000 marathoners. I was impressed. I immediately made my bus reservation for November 4th.
Over the next months, Debbie reported on her training regimen, giving me bi-weekly updates on her progress. But could she make the obligatory 26.2 miles- the magic number that defines a true marathon? Debbie was determined to go the distance. After a few months, she was running 20-mile stretches. Now, it was time to rest the body for November 4th.
The New York City Marathon is the kingpin of marathons. This annual fall event, which began in 1970 as a small race with 55 finishers, ballooned into a huge behemoth touching all five New York boroughs. Today, the city would become a mecca that would attract millions of spectators and tens of thousands of runners from throughout the world, united with the common thread of realizing their personal best. Debbie would accept the challenge of enduring a long-distance run, announcing her internal message, "I can do extraordinary things."
One hour before the race, I was about to enter New York. The din of the bus engine faded into the background while I reflected about how the city changed since my last visit. I searched the skyline, naked without the familiar sillhouette of the Twin Towers- the outline that told me I was about to enter the most exciting city in the world. I welled up with tears as I saw huge flags draped over buildings that represented a city still in mourning. And when I heard my fellow busmates sing "God Bless America," I knew that today's race had the ingredients of an emotional roller coaster.
As Debbie soared through Manhattan's avenues, we calculated her presence at the northwest corner of 110th Street and First Avenue at 2:09pm to see her run past the 18.5-mile mark. We had her banana half-peeled and the camera poised, ready for a 10-second photo-op before she continued onward.
En route to meeting Debbie, I crossed 110th and 5th Avenue as the first runners were headed up toward Central Park to the finish line. I heard the thunderous crowd cheer on the runners, calling out their names plastered to their T-shirts. Onlookers called out, "Way to go Tom," "You can make it Lisa." I joined in. I yelled out to the runners as if they were my best friends. I needed to do this. Perhaps there would be strangers cheering on my daughter when she needed encouragement as she ran through Staten Island, Brooklyn, Queens and the Bronx- strangers giving her encouragement and motivation when her battered body wanted to quit.
Suddenly, we spotted Debbie's broad smile in the distance as she approached us. Her ponytail flapping in the wind told us that she was OK and that the adrenaline was kicking in. The short hugs and kisses and "we love yous" would hopefully strengthen her for the final eight miles, enough to help her push the envelop, hit the wall, go beyond her endurance.
We met Debbie at the finish line. She clocked in at 4 hours, 32 minutes, 15 seconds. SHE DID IT!! Her face read a mixture of feelings- exhiliration, exhaustion and the natural letdown that follows an emotional high. All that preparation and it was over in a few short hours. She limped towards us cloaked in her mylar cape protecting her sweat-soaked body against a chill. She needed time to regroup her thoughts, to grasp her personal victory and to reconnect with loved ones.
The celebrations were soon to follow. The gathering of her Baltimore and New York friends and family in a trendy midtown restaurant would soothe the physical pain. The flowers, a teddy bear, cards, hugs and kisses would numb her aching muscles. She may not have brought home the "gold" but she made us proud.
Baltimore gave her roots. New York gave her wings."
Written by my mother. Love you Mom!
"When my 28-year olf Baltimore-transplanted-to-New York City daughter announced last spring that she was applying for the New York Marathon, I remarked, "how nice." Although proud of her determination, I was somewhat dubious of her ability.
A 1991 graduate of Pikesville Senior High, Debbie was not a varsity athlete. She dabbled at tennis and skiing and lacrosse, but a runner she was not. Why would she elect to put herself through such rigorous torture?
But owning a lucky lottery draw sealed Debbie's membership to this elite group of 30,000 marathoners. I was impressed. I immediately made my bus reservation for November 4th.
Over the next months, Debbie reported on her training regimen, giving me bi-weekly updates on her progress. But could she make the obligatory 26.2 miles- the magic number that defines a true marathon? Debbie was determined to go the distance. After a few months, she was running 20-mile stretches. Now, it was time to rest the body for November 4th.
The New York City Marathon is the kingpin of marathons. This annual fall event, which began in 1970 as a small race with 55 finishers, ballooned into a huge behemoth touching all five New York boroughs. Today, the city would become a mecca that would attract millions of spectators and tens of thousands of runners from throughout the world, united with the common thread of realizing their personal best. Debbie would accept the challenge of enduring a long-distance run, announcing her internal message, "I can do extraordinary things."
One hour before the race, I was about to enter New York. The din of the bus engine faded into the background while I reflected about how the city changed since my last visit. I searched the skyline, naked without the familiar sillhouette of the Twin Towers- the outline that told me I was about to enter the most exciting city in the world. I welled up with tears as I saw huge flags draped over buildings that represented a city still in mourning. And when I heard my fellow busmates sing "God Bless America," I knew that today's race had the ingredients of an emotional roller coaster.
As Debbie soared through Manhattan's avenues, we calculated her presence at the northwest corner of 110th Street and First Avenue at 2:09pm to see her run past the 18.5-mile mark. We had her banana half-peeled and the camera poised, ready for a 10-second photo-op before she continued onward.
En route to meeting Debbie, I crossed 110th and 5th Avenue as the first runners were headed up toward Central Park to the finish line. I heard the thunderous crowd cheer on the runners, calling out their names plastered to their T-shirts. Onlookers called out, "Way to go Tom," "You can make it Lisa." I joined in. I yelled out to the runners as if they were my best friends. I needed to do this. Perhaps there would be strangers cheering on my daughter when she needed encouragement as she ran through Staten Island, Brooklyn, Queens and the Bronx- strangers giving her encouragement and motivation when her battered body wanted to quit.
Suddenly, we spotted Debbie's broad smile in the distance as she approached us. Her ponytail flapping in the wind told us that she was OK and that the adrenaline was kicking in. The short hugs and kisses and "we love yous" would hopefully strengthen her for the final eight miles, enough to help her push the envelop, hit the wall, go beyond her endurance.
We met Debbie at the finish line. She clocked in at 4 hours, 32 minutes, 15 seconds. SHE DID IT!! Her face read a mixture of feelings- exhiliration, exhaustion and the natural letdown that follows an emotional high. All that preparation and it was over in a few short hours. She limped towards us cloaked in her mylar cape protecting her sweat-soaked body against a chill. She needed time to regroup her thoughts, to grasp her personal victory and to reconnect with loved ones.
The celebrations were soon to follow. The gathering of her Baltimore and New York friends and family in a trendy midtown restaurant would soothe the physical pain. The flowers, a teddy bear, cards, hugs and kisses would numb her aching muscles. She may not have brought home the "gold" but she made us proud.
Baltimore gave her roots. New York gave her wings."
Written by my mother. Love you Mom!
posted by Does Debbie @ 10:37 PM
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