A Marathon Odyssey

A Marathon Odyssey Ogan Gurel 5 November 1990

In early September, despite a summer's lay-off from running due to bursitis of the hip, I decided to run the New York City Marathon, about 7 weeks away.

I resumed my

training, tentatively on account of my hip, but gradually built up to about 8 miles. shaky.

I felt good but still somewhat

A track work-out was sure to put me out of commission.

Two weeks of vacation in France increased my confidence as I ran strongly in Grenoble.

I felt faster and fitter and upon

returning to New York, I markedly increased my mileage.

This

is where my problems began. To spare my right hip I ran through the long miles absorbing some of the shock through my right knee.

Although

an 18 mile run two weeks before the marathon went smoothly (2 hours for a pace of 2:54 for the marathon) during the following week, however, my right knee felt painful; to alleviate this I shifted more of my weight to the left leg.

A

13 mile run on the Saturday before the marathon had to be aborted at 10 miles.

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My left knee was shot and was to remain

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so for the remainder of the week. Bending the left knee was extremely painful, going up and down stairs was impossible, and even walking was difficult. Although I could feel the cracking in my knee, it was hard to make an accurate diagnosis: chondromalacia, tendonitis, plica syndrome, were all possibilities.

But, whatever it was, it

wasn't getting any better and the marathon was the next Sunday.

By Friday, I still couldn't run and by Saturday night

after using my arms to climb up the subway station stairs and a painful walk back to my room all indications were that the marathon was off. Some friends called to wish me luck; I told them that I was not going to run.

Feeling disgusted at the whole

situation, I nevertheless made my preparations for the next day.

I put together my bag with my running gear, my racing

shoes, Vaseline, aspirin, Kandinsky and The Economist for reading material, etc.

Last, I pinned my number (#2442) to my

shirt and packed this carefully in the bag.

I left for my

parent's home in the Village by bus; taking the A train would have meant using the stairs: an impossibility. I awoke at 5:30 Sunday morning.

I took a long, hot bath,

ate some muffins and bananas for breakfast, and had my first Naprosyn.

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I was extremely irritable, my fear, disgust, and

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anger unconcealed.

I took the bus uptown and said my goodbye

to my parents; the plan was that if I had to stop in the race, I would beep them (my father would be carrying my beeper). Earlier that morning, not confident I could memorize the beeper number, I had, in fact, written it down on a slip of paper and stuck it into my sock. At 6:45 AM, the streets around the NY Public Library were teeming with runners; all of whom seem to be walking so easily, so smoothly.

I cursed my knee and stood in line

completely alienated from the hordes of my running brethren. In front of the library, I gingerly climbed up the bus that would take us to the start and quickly, as a half-cripple might, took a seat next to the door.

My thoughts, as much as

I could drown them out with my walkman, were of fear and revulsion; how could I be doing something so stupid? so crazy? to what point? Among 25,000 others, I felt so hopelessly alone as we drove through the Battery Tunnel, into Brooklyn and finally over the Verrazano Narrows bridge.

We had arrived,

but to what point? My mind seemed detached, not only from the other runners but also from my own body.

As we got off the

bus we were overwhelmed by a cheering crowd; embarrassed, I tried to hide my limp.

We were briskly guided into the check-

in, video cameras recorded our presence and detached from all reality, I found myself in the Fort Wadsworth starting area.

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I meandered among the runners, each in various states of readiness; taping ankles, applying Vaseline, changing shirts, and everyone drinking water.

The day was hot, already 62

degrees; the guzzling faces around me spoke the fear of dehydration.

Water was furthest from my mind, my fears were

focused on simple walking.

Nevertheless, when they announced

the hot chocolate truck, I joined in.

I continued to walk

around, still alone, but somehow more in the spirit, I began to drink water. I got my outfit together but bending my knees to put on my running shoes was hell, sheer hell.

Before storing my

bags, I recognized two of my fellow medical students in the distance, but felt unable to reach out to them.

Since leaving

my parents back in the Village, I still hadn't spoken to anyone and didn't feel like speaking.

In this eerie way, I

felt so alone. By 10:15, they announced that the Blue Start (the fast men's runners) were to assemble.

I hobbled off and took my

place somewhat towards the rear of this group.

I carefully

began to stretch, and to whatever extent possible, loosen up. I began to feel a little better and could without much pain bend my knee.

Was this the miracle I was hoping for? Twenty

minutes before the start was I to be cured? Somewhat

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incredulously, I walked up to the start as the group continued to assemble.

At one point we had to walk down a small mound

in the dirt; my knee delivered a pang of pain and my hopes fell.

As we rounded the tollbooths at 10:47 the starting

cannon went off.

The race had begun.

I was running in the

marathon but as thousands of runners dashed ahead, I felt so alone. For a moment I hesitated, but soon picked up my legs. After about 100 yards, even before reaching the actual start line, my knee announced its presence.

The pain shot through,

deep but sharp, insistent with every stride. right there as the pain grabbed my leg.

I was stopped

Somewhat confused I

began to run again, this time instinctively without bending my knees.

I ran with my legs straight throughout the entire

stride...stick-legged, like the tall man in the circus.

To do

this, I had to hold my shoulders up, pull my arms close, and take small steps pulling my toes up so they wouldn't catch the ground.

Instead of a sharp, incapacitating pain, I had only

to run through a dull, pain hanging around my leg.

Running

like this I soon reached the start; to my left was Mayor Dinkins smiling like the consummate politician, wishing us all individually luck.

How could he smile so much...just the day

before he was implicated in another scandal.

Moving on, I saw

the cannon beside him, a speaker was blasting the first

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movement of Beethoven's 5th, to be quickly drowned out by the joyful sea of human voices enveloping the Verrazano Narrows bridge.

"More like the 9th" I thought.

Slowly, painfully I made my way up the bridge.

I was

sinking, deeper and deeper into the crowds as they surged ahead of me.

Thousands, young men, old men, young women, old

women, were passing me by as I gingerly stick-legged my way along.

Before I reached the one-mile mark, still hobbling on

the bridge my heart sank as I saw the helicopters following the leaders; they seemed to be already in the middle of Brooklyn.

Thirteen minutes to the one mile mark the crowd

still, endlessly, relentlessly surging past me.

My legs were

tightening up, the pain seemed to grow, I was getting slower. "Perhaps there's a medical tent at the other side of the bridge at the 2 mile mark." I thought.

"How pathetic, what a

disaster!" Reality took hold and I began to consider how I would actually return home from the very edge of Brooklyn. Cab -- no money.

Subway -- does it exist out here? Bus --

what bus? "This is completely, utterly ridiculous," I thought. "I can barely walk." But I stuck with it.

And coming into Brooklyn, among

cheering crowds, I seemed to get the hang of it.

Slowly but

surely, I was getting a little faster as I adjusted to this

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new gait.

24 minutes at the 2 mile mark, at this pace I would

run the marathon in about 5 hours 15 minutes. "Five hours of living hell" I thought.

Disconsolate:

But, never to back

down from a challenge, as I stick-legged through Brooklyn, I began to relish this opportunity.

An opportunity of sheer

mind over body, "how strong was my will?" By the five-mile mark I was able to run at a 10:00/mile pace, and committed myself to accomplishing this impossible task of completing the marathon. Along the long stretch along 4th avenue, the crowds were tremendous, every few blocks bands were playing, the atmosphere was festive, carnival-like; even the runners around me were having fun.

I wasn't.

As my body adjusted to the

stick-legged gait, new pains would surface: my calf s, my feet, my right knee, my thighs.

Every step seemed to take

complete concentration, every step felt like new.

And most

important, I realized that one false step into a pothole, slipping on a paper cup or the like could easily and quickly destroy my already straining knee.

So with my mind willing my

body forward I made it through Brooklyn and by the time I reached the beautiful tree-lined areas around Fort Greene I was beginning to advance among the crowd, my pace had increased to about 9:30/mile.

Every so often I would test my

knee, bending it back slightly to see if I could run more

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naturally. myself.

My knee painfully yelped back.

"No way" I said to

Stick-legged for 26 miles it would have to be.

Looking over to the left, I saw the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center, a sight which stiffened my resolve. After 13 somewhat serious, somewhat comical miles I still couldn't believe I was running this marathon when I reached the halfway mark at the Pulaski bridge entering Queens.

My

mind seemed exceedingly clear and focused but in some sense I was in a dreamlike reverie.

I took another Naprosyn.

In any

case, by virtue of my improvement and the fact that I was still running among the 4 hour 30 minute crowd I was moving "strongly." Old ladies didn't seem to be as daunting to me. As people slowed down their pace going up the bridge, some even walking, I kept on running, pushing a little harder and feeling somewhat more confident.

But I still felt alone.

We turned up onto the Queensboro (59th street) Bridge but hitting the uphill everyone seemed to slow down.

A majority

were walking now and I had to weave my way among them. Picking my way up the bridge, at the 15 mile mark, I looked down at my left leg and noticed that my knee was bending. "What?! Could this be true?" I carefully pulled my body into full stride.

No pain.

"What?! Could this be true!" By some

incredible luck my knee seemed to have been completely cured.

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Now in full stride I made it over the bridge and began the downhill into Manhattan with what felt like a sprint. somewhat disbelieving, I reminded myself to relax.

Still

My mind

was still in this surreal detached, controlled, and focused state -- my body responded.

I felt light, strong, and smooth

and burst into Manhattan feeling like the phoenix had just risen. I took the turn onto 1st avenue wide so that I could avoid the crowd of runner's huddling along the inside.

At

this point I was running at about 7:00/mile, close to 2 minutes per mile faster than the group I was in.

I put myself

in place on 1st Avenue and what seemed to me like the wind

smoothly gliding up towards the Bronx.

What a contrast to

the awkward hobbling I endured for 15 miles! My parents had said they would be somewhere along 1st avenue and felt happy they could see me like this rather than my pathetic state earlier.

My stride felt full, smooth and quick.

My

leg would hit the ground, sharply push me forward, snap up with a kick, and recover quickly for the next stride. Drive, pop, drive, pop...barely breathing, I felt great! I never saw my parents.

But ignoring the

disappointment, I continued on.

Around 90th street, I had

my first setback since my miraculous "cure." Over the past Marathon Odyssey

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ten blocks my left foot seemed to get more and more painful.

I feared a stress fracture, especially since I

was absorbing more than the usual dose of shock with my foot to spare my left knee.

Suddenly, I felt the telltale

blister pop and it suddenly seemed that there was now much more space in my shoe...and less cushioning.

"My God,

that must have been a big blister." A sharp pain racked my foot but driving up towards the Bronx, though, I had more important things to think about, for coming up at approximately the 20 mile mark was "the Wall" -- glycogen depletion. Over the Willis Avenue Bridge in the Bronx, I was still moving among the crowd and quite suddenly, entering into the Bronx I noticed that those around me were noticeably slowing.

Groans could be heard, I saw a man

vomiting convulsively along the side, people grabbing their cramped legs, faces contorted with pain.

Still

driving ahead as I approached the Madison Avenue Bridge to reenter Manhattan, I overhead the following conversation between two obviously spent men: - I can't listen to you.

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- Now, let me tell you about my childhood. - No! leave me alone. I pulled into Manhattan still going strong.

I never

did hit "the Wall." At 21 miles --only about 5 miles to go --I still felt fast, but the miles seemed to be getting longer.

I was physically strong, but after three hours of

complete concentration on the road, I was psychologically beginning to wear thin.

While in Harlem, I noticed an

elderly gentlemen standing alone in a gap along the street.

He seemed somewhat out-of-place, looking with

disbelief over the entire spectacle. alone. him.

He seemed very

As I ran close to him, I raised my hand towards Seeing that I intended to "high-five," he slowly

raised his and as I crossed him, our hands met. felt less alone.

I hope he

I felt certainly stronger.

At 102nd street, we turned into Central Park and here the crowds were at their thickest.

The police lines were

filled to the rim with cheering spectators, exhorting the rapidly exhausting runners on.

It was an amazing sight.

A beautiful fall day, thousands of well-dressed, well-rested onlookers screaming at a now substantially thinned pack of

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human wreckage.

Runners were dropping all around, covered

with the sweat and grime of 23 miles.

The last few hills in

the park were brutal for most; but still dizzy with joy, I moved strongly through them. long.

But the miles did seem awfully

"When the hell was this going to finish" I asked myself

and looked searchingly up for some sign of southern exit to the park.

It all seemed so anticlimactic now...I knew I would

finish the marathon. to me.

Nevertheless, it was simply incredible

Just after the 24-mile mark, I took up the pace, maybe

I would make 3 hours 45 minutes.

I felt fresh and fast as I

burst out onto 59th street. Along the southern edge of the park, I took the left hand close to the police barrier so I could move ahead unimpeded. Somewhere along 6th avenue, I heard my parent's call out my name.

I looked to the left and there they were.

I was

running too fast to catch them head on, and as I looked back raised my hand in salute.

I moved on but was now gripped by

an emotion so strong that all my breath was choked.

I

couldn't breathe! Sucking air into my collapsed trachea, I snapped my mind forth and relaxed my body.

I quickly regained

my composure and my breath and continued on through the last mile.

As I approached Columbus Circle, I heard someone in the

crowd yell above the din: "looking great! two, four, four, two" For some reason the voice lingered in my mind and as I

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looked down at my shirt...Sure enough that was me: "2442" I no longer felt so eerily alone--my horizons seemed to expand.

It

felt good as I whipped around the turn back into the park. By this time the tension all around was overwhelming both on the road, the runners groping, grasping for the finish and in the grandstands, where everyone was exuberantly cheering us all on.

"All of humanity was great!" I thought.

And as I

ripped into my final sprint, feeling fresh as never before, it felt like all the world were brothers.

200 yards from the

finish, a smile came over me and soon thereafter, I hit the finish line in 3 hours, 45 minutes and 16 seconds.

In the

finish area, crowded with depleted runners and earnest volunteers, my number was recorded, a medal pressed into my hands, and as an aluminum wrap was passed over my shoulders, I looked behind imagining in my mind's eye the Verrazano Bridge.

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