In the birthing class that I took before having my first
child, the nurse—not a pretend baby nurse who bought scrubs from
buycostumes.com, but a real nurse from the Mount Sinai labor floor—told us, as
I’d heard many times before, that giving birth to a child is like running a
marathon. That’s how much energy you exert, that’s how tired you will feel,
that’s what physical duress your body experiences.
What became very clear to me last Sunday, November 2, as I
crossed the finish line of the New York City Marathon for my first time, was
that this nurse clearly never ran a marathon. I’ve given birth five times, last
time a double whammy—two sessions of pushing 17 minutes apart—and that was all
a piece of cake compared to the pain I experienced running 26.2 miles around
our city’s five boroughs.
I knew from the moment I saw that strange wind icon on the
weather app of my iphone I was in for a ride. I just didn’t know that I was
literally in for a ride, getting blown around a few times crossing the bridges.
Spilling Gatorade inside my sneakers before I started was not helpful either.
And having my iphone go from 88% battery level to 1% on mile 2 made carrying it
in my hand with headphones in my ears, feel awkward to say the least. I had
some great marathon playlists I’d prepared, and I was addicted to the app Map
My Run, announcing my completion of each mile, my overall pace, my splits, and
all this other jargon we psycho marathoners want to know. For 26.2 miles (yes
the .2 makes a difference), images of fainting, vomiting, dehydrating, breaking
my knee, breaking my hip, maybe even dying flashed through my head, wondering
what possibly had possessed me to do this in the first place.
I had made the decision over the summer. I had always liked
running, was very comfortable running four or five miles a few times a week,
and said to myself—hey, how hard can this be? I’ve watched the marathon, I’ve
seen a lot of these marathoners, and let’s be honest, they’re not all built
like Greek gods. If they can do it, I can do it. That, and I got a little tipsy
at a wedding and decided to reach out to the director of a wonderful charity organization
called Beit Issie Shapiro (http://en.beitissie.org.il) and ask for
one of their guaranteed marathon spots (no, it’s never a good idea to drunk
email). By the time I sobered up the next morning, I already had an elated
response, taking me through the sign-up process, Staten Island Ferry and
baggage arrangements, and telling me how much my fundraising effort will mean
to the physically disabled children in Israel that Beit Issie seeks to support.
And so, it looked like I was officially running the marathon.
I thought I’d wing it. A few normal jogs, some long runs, no
biggie. But everyone told me I needed a program, so I signed up for a New York
Road Runners 16-week virtual training program. Yes, as in I never communicated
with someone live (I don’t even know for sure that he was alive), only through
email, and took his daily schedules, tips, and suggestions as gospel. Hydration
and energy strategies (to Gu or not to Gu?), emphasis on stretching, sports
massages, the right shorts, how to prevent chafing, the perfect sports bras,
you name it. He was a real wealth of information. It’s hard to believe I did
this in retrospect but I even reached out several times to my “virtual coach” with questions—my husband was
always convinced my coach was a 500-pound couch potato who’d never run down the
block, let alone a marathon—but I believed in him. Even if he seemed to answer
most of my questions with brief retorts like “keep it up” or “keep at it” or
“don’t worry” or his absolute favorite “let’s see what happens on the next run.”
As the race approached, though, I did start to notice there
were some similarities between the marathon, and maybe not labor, but
pregnancy. I had to start limiting my alcohol. No drinking Saturday nights
since Sunday was always my long run day. I found myself getting very dehydrated
all the time. I was hungrier. Knees, hips, and my back started aching all the
time. I had trouble sleeping. I was getting muscle spasms. I packed all my gear
for race day well in advance just as I packed a hospital bag before having a
baby. Multiple layers were laid out in a marathon corner of my bedroom, along
with all kinds of foam rollers, stress balls and other, what I can see in
retrospect, were somewhat obscene looking objects.
And the excitement only built in those days right before, as
they do before one’s due date, nervousness and excitement all bottled into one.
I went to the Javitz Center where the 50,000 plus runners go to get their numbers,
and shopped at the Expo like a pregnant woman picking out her first layette. I
was buying t-shirts for the whole family (matching ones that said “My mommy is
faster than yours” for my twins), new socks for me, all different kinds of head
warmers, hats, gloves, even an insulated TCS NYC Marathon coffee cup. I had marathon
virgin written all over me.
But the fact is I hated every minute of the race. I’d be
lying if I said I got that runners’ high, or a high from the crowds, or a high
from seeing my kids standing in the cold holding signs. I could barely crack a
smile. I was in so much pain and I was so cold. All I could think about was the
famous “Seinfeld” when Kramer gives the Kenyan runner a cup of hot tea during
the marathon and how much I’d love a hot beverage myself. Perhaps my
expectations had been too high. So many people had told me the marathon was the
best day of their life.
I finished though. I made it to the end. And at many points
I really wasn’t sure that I would. I was immobile that whole night, frigid, faint,
tired, nauseous, responding to my day full of texts once my phone was recharged
with “never again” or “I’m one and done.” I took a hot bath, a bowl of chicken
soup, three Advils, and went to bed.
I spent the next two days walking around like Kevin Spacey
in “The Usual Suspects,” but by Wednesday I was back and feeling normal. And
then the unthinkable happened. I actually started reminiscing about the fact
that I actually ran the New York Marathon—nostalgically recalling the early
morning ferry ride, the sounds of Frank Sinatra blasting across the Verrazano, the
random people who stood along the whole course watching and screaming “Erica,
you can do it” “Erica, you got this” “Erica, you look great” (if you couldn’t
tell I had my name on my shirt), the musical bands playing all along 4th
avenue in Brooklyn, the runners who stopped to take selfies on the Queensboro
Bridge, the runners who vomited on the side of Fifth Avenue then kept on going,
the runners who waited on long lines by the port-a-potties, the clock ticking
away, instead of running inside a course-side Brooklyn diner, Queens nail
salon, and Harlem White Castle like I did (yes, three bathroom stops for me,
the bladder from six natural deliveries has its racing drawbacks), the
excitement when you hit First Avenue, the excitement when you turn into Central
Park, the letdown when you leave Central Park, the relief when you re-enter
Central Park for the final meters. Yes, all of it came back to me.
And, as we so often do in life when we use some revisionist
history, I decided that it was actually a great day, one of the best days of my
life, and assuming no limb on my body worsens significantly before November 1,
2015, I think I’ve got to do it again.
I guess in that sense the nurse was right. It is a little
bit like having a baby.
