The Marathon - The Art of Suffering

Notes on the Run from the World's Most Spectacular Race

November 2005

Our rooftop is the best vantage point on New York Marathon day. For the past ten years, after breakfast, we've leaned down with a pair of opera binoculars and watched the runners pass by our house: young and old, slim and well-fed, as well as blind, deaf, limbless, autism-afflicted, cancer survivors, and topographic agnostics who don't know their right from their left. This year, we finally felt ashamed, and we too decided to run the Marathon.

We thought: if people can run 42 kilometers on all those clever plastic and metal springs that replace legs, if they can run deaf to the roar of the crowd, blind to the sea of cheering spectators, there must be something worth running for. There must be some prize at the end of all their suffering, something that drives them to run and endure.

Many have heard that the New York Marathon is the most spectacular race in the world. Three and a half million people line up (or sit, stand, lay down, hang, whichever they can manage) along the city's streets and squares to witness 50,000 people pass by between skyscrapers and bridges. What many don't realize is that the number of aspirants, whether as onlookers or participants, dwarfs this figure by several folds. Gaining entry to this event necessitates not just long legs and sharp elbows but also a measure of luck.

The New York Marathon has a ceremonial entrance: whoever runs 42 kilometers faster than 2 hours with a bit (the exact number depends on age) gets the coveted golden ticket. Another path is by lottery, where the odds remain shrouded in mystery. The third route is the completion of 12 qualifying races (ranging from three to 21 kilometers) in the calendar year leading to the marathon, all within stipulated times. It was this avenue, or rather, a clandestine loophole within it, that we chose to navigate.

Just as Greenland is the homeland of Arctic terns, New York is the homeland of runners. Not in the sense that people are born here in diapers as runners. Not at all - most of Manhattan's residents were born far beyond its limits. People become runners here. For by definition, you cannot become something else (like a motorist or an Arctic tern) in this city.

Every other person in New York is a runner. How this came to be is a long story. But without understanding this, you can't grasp the philosophy of a city that never sleeps and occasionally contemplates secession from America.

Sundays in Manhattan, in Central Park, anyone can witness the same scene: a crowd of tourists attempting to cross the path that encircles the park. Unsuccessfully. But it's not cars or park trams that obstruct their way; it's the people – the runners. A relentless stream races across the asphalt, uninterrupted. It's akin to caribou crossing the Arctic tundra in search of greener pastures.

Tourists from Arizona and Kansas look on in awe. They've never seen anything like this before. They came to the Big Apple to marvel at the skyscrapers, Broadway, and the Statue of Liberty, and here they encounter another uncharted wonder, not described in any guidebooks – the New York runners.

Truly, it's not immediately apparent: while the rest of the country relies on wheels, our city is built on feet. Only 23 percent of Manhattan residents own cars. The reason is simple: parking is getting more expensive, public transportation moves at a snail's pace, so people increasingly put their trust in their own two legs.

Another reason New Yorkers take up running is familiar to the residents of big cities everywhere. Stress, unexplainable melancholy turning into lingering depression and gloom. This is especially felt during the dark months of the year. People tackle the issue of winter blues in their own way. Some consume melatonin, some sleep, some bask under special sun lamps like amphibians and reptiles. New Yorkers run. They believe the marathon is the best antidepressant.

You can swallow handfuls of Sertraline and Fluoxetine. Such beautiful pink, blue, and yellow pills, like newborn baby chicks, but the problem is that you need more of these pills with each passing day. You can lie on a therapist's couch or join a group of anonymous alcoholics, consuming kilograms of food and gaining weight. Or you can try a different stimulant. Running.

And here we come to the main point. Of course, the marathon is an addiction. Similar to alcohol or narcotics. When you run a long distance, at some point, you experience your second wind: runners feel the high, euphoria, as proven on a chemical-biological level. Running is a drug. Runners are all addicts, hooked and unable to quit. And the marathon is their main celebration of life. During the marathon, they gather in droves and revel together, which is certainly much more interesting and enjoyable.

We all remove ourselves from the world of reality to enter the world of illusions. We all crave new sensations. Unusual sensations. The question is where to find them and at what cost.

But running, unlike other relaxants and distractions, at least provides us with an illusion that doesn't lead to death, doesn't make us writhe in agony the next morning, and doesn't fill us with painful shame for yet another aimlessly lived day. It's a sweet illusion, with a slightly salty taste of sweat, but as they say, tastes differ. Most importantly, it's entirely harmless.

Moreover, the price of the New York narcotic is the same for everyone. Everyone runs along the reservoir named after Jacqueline Kennedy on the park's reservoir loop. Illegal immigrants and Hollywood stars, asthmatics and world champions alike. There's no class distinction here. Karl Marx would leap for joy in his grave at the sight. Running is the most effective tool for creating a classless society. The marathon is communism. In its purest form.

The morning of my first marathon turned out to be frigid. We awoke long before the first roosters crowed and headed to the buses waiting for us in the city center. The streets were already jammed, and on the sidewalks, crowds moved slowly, much like on Christmas Eve. Traffic was already blocked.

By seven in the morning, we were on Staten Island – one of New York's five boroughs. Here, we had to undress and leave all our clothes in the trailer: underwear, a tank top, a bib with our number, and an electronic collar with a chip. With the rising sun, the temperature had climbed to zero. It was bone-chilling. Crafty runners wrapped themselves in 100-liter trash bags, which provided warmth much like a snow igloo. Those without bags wrapped themselves in strips of The New York Times. That worked as a makeshift fur coat.

I had neither a bag nor a newspaper. People like me simply gathered in groups. The closer, the warmer. You felt like you were in a soup, in a fish stew. Around you swam hot bodies. In that moment, you started to love humanity intensely. Starting with yourself.

After the gong sounded, we set out on the bridge. Here, those who didn't want to strip at the start left their clothes behind. Sweaters, jackets, fur coats… Later, volunteers would collect all of it and give it to the homeless. Then the most interesting part began – a journey through the city's five boroughs. You'll never witness anything like this from a car or a bus.

Each little neighborhood prepared its own special welcome for us. Grandmas had been baking miniature, literally tiny, pastries, bagels, and pancakes for us all night. You could swallow them without chewing, just gobble them up on the run. They brewed fruit drinks, cut fruit – and now their grandchildren ran alongside us, carrying trays, hoping that someone would get hungry.

The local food – Greek, Italian, Arab, Jewish, German, Polish – the list is endless. No, the marathon organizers also gave us food and drinks along the way, but here in the ethnic neighborhoods, it's different – it's the outpouring of human hearts. And who are we? Not stars, not super champions – the stars are far ahead, they're approaching the finish line, and yet we're showered with love. Why?

Everyone wants to shake our hand and offer words of support. Three million people are watching us. Orchestras play, people sing and dance – no one hired them or organized them, they came here on their own this morning.

At the 21-kilometer mark, I finally started to realize that I had run out of energy. The sun was merciless, and the new hump of the bridge loomed ahead like a dinosaur. I thought, "That's it, I can't go on. They won't shoot me for this. They won't fire me. And they won't judge me."

Three days before the marathon, my senior comrade, who had already completed 20 marathons, told me, "Just make it to Manhattan, to First Avenue, and from there, the crowd will carry you." Back then, I didn't understand what he meant.

And now, I'm in Manhattan. My goodness, gracious! With every linear foot, dozens of eyes are on me – from street level, balconies, skyscraper windows, lamp posts – and they're all shouting my name (Oh, I forgot it's written on my shirt): "Galya, run, please, just a bit more, you can do it, we're with you, you're amazing, Galya, don't give up, push through!"

And behind me, there's a cry: "For Mathew, for Greenland, you must run – you can't drift off!" See, every runner writes a short sentence on their back about who or what they're running for. It's believed that if you finish the race, your wish will come true. Some write, "Mary, merry me," or "Mom, please get well." My friend Mathew, a polar explorer, was in Greenland in those days, crossing its icy expanse on skis with Igor – another friend of mine, in a wheelchair. No one had ever done it before. I was very worried about them. So, I wrote on my back: "For Mathew, for Igor, for Greenland! Please, make it to the end!"

And in the end, I carry Mathew, Igor, a wheelchair on skis, and Greenland like a cross on my back, and I simply can't step down from my path. The cheering crowd won't allow it. Like an incantation, three million people repeat after you, "For Greenland, for Greenland, you must go!" Every second, camera flashes sparkle. Try to step down! In this sense, the crowd truly carries you.

The pain in my legs becomes excruciating. Knees crack, blood oozes from my ankles, and my chest is tight from coughing. One more step, and another. Like an alcoholic yearning for one more day without liquor. And then, at the 29th kilometer, a miracle happens: my second wind arrives. The world brightens, fresh blood rushes through my arteries, and the air fills with oxygen. Oh, happiness! Lost and found anew! Like a bird, I soar above the sticky asphalt, layered with the sweat of a thousand feet, and I fly forward, toward the finish line!

In the final kilometers along Fifth Avenue alongside Central Park, I run next to a blind Japanese athlete from Kyoto, and he tells me about the beauty of New York. I look around, and indeed, what a beautiful city it is! Unlike anything else! Fantastical! How did I not notice this before?

The finish line is just around the corner. "Run, Galya, run, Hiroshi, there's just one last hill left for you. Galya, look ahead with joy! How proud we are of you! How we love Greenland! It's the best country in the world! Go! For icebergs! For people of Greenland! For polar bears! For the guy in the wheelchair! He's proud of you too! Three more steps – and you're there!" they shout from somewhere above, from tall trees that have transformed into grandstands.

My goodness, no one has ever loved me like this. So passionately and unconditionally. Without asking for anything in return. Love has never poured over me with such intense and uncontrollable torrents, down to every tiny millimeter of my fragile existence. Never. And suddenly... But that's how it's supposed to be, isn't it? True love appears at the doorstep when you least expect it.

Looking back and seeing my life in a completely different light, we sprint toward the finish. We cross it easily, as if those 42 kilometers weren't behind us. The crowd weeps, musicians go wild, and children throw flowers at us. We cross the raspberry carpet. The electronic counter counts the last second and turns off. That's it.

It's better not to dwell on what happens after the finish. The pain returns in an instant and clings to you like a rooster's comb. You realize that perhaps this is how you have to enter the gates of death. Men, gray-haired with age, weep, and nobody even tries to discreetly wipe away their tears.

This year, the famous cyclist and cancer survivor, Lance Armstrong, ran with us. After the finish, he said, "I've turned into a cripple." And Ed Viesturs, the world's most renowned mountaineer, put it even more precisely: "The marathon is the art of suffering." In reality, the victor here isn't the one with the strongest or longest legs, but the one who can endure pain better.

Reaching the impossible is how we affirm ourselves. And the marathon is the cocktail of the impossible, sipped one drop at a time.

Late in the evening, when I finally reached my bed, the true moment of triumph arrived. Comparing post-marathon night to anything else is impossible. Perhaps only with the first night spent at the North Pole."

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