Ave Maria

New York

So. It's been almost four days to the minute since I stepped foot on the Verrazano Narrows Bridge and began one of the most fulfilling challenges of my life--the New York Marathon. It's taken that long to distill the experience, to savor the victory, to absorb the moments that made it great.

I awoke ten minutes before the alarm, at 4:20a.m. For the next hour, I dressed ( blue shirt, black, five-pocket shorts, socks with vaseline poised on top; then the layer upon layer to stay warm from 6 until 10am when the race began ). I stretched for 25 minutes, doing each one in the exact order that my trainers had prescribed like it was an elixir. In the last hurried minutes, I packed my running shorts with GU, vaseline, money for the driver, and my Ipod.

On the bus to Staten Island, I got the last seat. I looked around. Everyone looked 30. Everyone seemed animated. Everyone appeared confident. Me--I was terrified. All the naysayers returned with a vengeance: "This isn't good for your body";" You should consider something more age appropriate"; "Didn't you say that your father died of a heart attack at 60?". The light inside the bus was that bluish fluorescent, and I wished this were a movie instead of real life.

Ben, my youngest son, led the way across Fort Wadsworth toward the east and the bridge as daylight began. But it was cold. Even with my four layers, the wind on the island made me wonder what I was doing here. The four of us, Ben, Chris, my eldest, Abigail, Ben's girlfriend and me, spread out two large garbage bags I'd brought under a huge sycamore tree. I could see the bridge, and soon, I could see the sun rise over it. I couldn't sit, though. I tried to be "cool" but the kids ( 7 time marathoners ) knew. " Tough to be the newbie, huh, mom", Chris said with a wicked smile. "Oh, I like new things", I lied.

Finally, finally, after three trips to the port a john, endless stretches, I made the final decision about WHAT TO WEAR--and essential, even critical element of the race. Shorts, Tshirt, gloves, cotton long sleeve shirt, hooded shirt. We walked to the start, I hit yet another port a john ( oh, nerves ). "Mom--the race started", says Ben gesturing me toward the bridge that is already thick with bobbing heads crawling across it. We wound around the ramp, and in what seemed like forever, reached the start, high pitched beeps greeting our shuffling feet.

The three of them started running. I pulled back. They turned around, waving me toward them. "Come on, Mom." Shaking me head, I smiled trying to look non-chalant in the midst of my terror: "No, you guys go on. I need to stay back here and run my own race. I'll slow you down." They looked back once more, and then, all I could see was the progress of the court jester's hat that Chris wears every race as he weaved through the massive crowd.

I was alone. Manhattan was on my left. Above me were the immense cables of the bridge. At the crest of the bridge, I threw away my gloves with great drama; then my cotton shirt. I took my cotton kerchief off of my neck where it had kept the cold out, and made a bandana for my forehead. The miles flew by. Brooklyn's 4th Avenue was filled with cheering crowds, bands, firefighters waving from atop their engines. And I suddenly realized that I felt great--no pain, no tightness. Better hold back, I said over and over. Find a pacer. "Hi, I'm Mary Catherine. How fast are you running, maybe 11 minute miles? Great. Can I run along side you so I don't go too fast?" Two men from Belfast--steady as Greenwich Time, they were! I followed their lead almost all the way through Brooklyn but found myself constantly ahead. At 10 miles, I realized I could speed up a bit, so I pulled ahead of the two Irishmen, and it felt so good to stretch to my natural gait. I felt like a thoroughbred that had been let out of the starting gate.

Still, a little voice cautioned: You don't know what to expect after mile 16. You've never run farther than that. So, don't get cocky. And at mile 17, I hit the wall. It wasn't exhaustion, though, it was blisters. For months I'd been wearing the same shoes, and had conquered blisters. Why now, I wondered? I stopped on the Queensboro Bridge at the Medic tent, pulled off my shoe, and slathered vaseline onto all of my toes, realizing that the middle one was loose. Why didn't I put more on just before the race, I wondered? But, it was too late for that, and anyway, my endorphins were coursing through my body, moving me forward with that wonderful euphoria they create.

I wanted to get to 1st Avenue and 71st Street, where my friend, Ann was to meet me if she could negotiate the crowds, and the train from Philadelphia was on time and the emails with my actual progress were reaching her Blackberry. In the meantime, I went inside, starting up my Ipod to the first song for inspiration, "Ave Maria" by Aria. Every downbeat was a footfall, and soon I was in the zone. I must have played that song 20 times as I moved step by step up 1st Avenue toward Harlem.

69th, 70th, ( don't be disappointed if she can't get here, you still keep going, I warned myself ). 71st. Out of nowhere--she was on my left running in step. My tone changed, I think, knowing that someone was there with me for this last ten miles of this long haul--the one everyone had warned me about. I walked, ran, stretched, and we talked. Ann kept telling me how great I was doing, and that she and Betsy, my college friend who was at the finish line waiting, had been on the phone every ten minutes to check my whereabouts.

We ran together through Harlem, listening to wonderful bands, across 138th Street, and then, then...there was 5th Avenue with the Empire State Building glistening in the afternoon sun. Ann left me at 110th, and I was energized, ready to finish, thrilled to be alive. The crowds swelled as I moved down ( really uphill though ) toward 96, then into Central Park at Engineer's Gate. "We're in Central Park," I yelled at the tall Argentinian next to me."We've got this made." I don't think he quite agreed. But for me, that was home. I had run this leg of the journey hundreds of times, and I knew the whereabouts of the curves, the angles, even the manhole covers.

On my Ipod, I was listening to "I Won't Back Down" by Tom Petty. And there, popping out of the crowd was Betsy. I was thrilled to see her but completely surprised. "What are you doing here? I thought you didn't feel well," I said to the 7 time marathon runner. 'Well, I felt better, and I wanted to finish with you--I couldn't miss this." And off we went, Mile 24, 25--crowds cheering. At one point, I needed to stretch my now burning hamstrings, so pulled over to the side. I did runners' stretch ( hearing one of my trainers, Robin, in my ear saying: "Now, Mary, if you tighten up, just do 30 seconds runners each side--it'll take away from you time but you'll be able to run faster in the end, so it's a wash."). When I finished my stretch and Betsy and I pulled back into the street, the crowd cheered me --just for carrying on!

Betsy left me at Columbus Circle. 800 yards, then 600, 300. I kicked hard across the finish line, trying to make my final time under 5.5 hours. The final beep. I kissed the man who put the medal around my neck. Hugged some other volunteer as they put the Mylar cape around my back and taped it up so I wouldn't chill.

I can remember few times in my life when I've felt such elation. I was a chubby kid, a pre-Title 9 girl, so never coached or part of serious sports. But somewhere deep inside me, I always knew I could run.

My kids called soon after I got back to my apartment. "Mom--your splits were great, especially the early ones. You booked." Those words are better than mention on the sports page of the New York Times.

So, the little engine did get the toys and food to the other side of the mountain even though (s)he was small. Because (s)he thought (s)he could.

You get the metaphor, dear readers. It's all in the journey, isn't it.

M.C.