26.2

                I’m no rock star, but I now know what it feels like to crowd-surf. I have run the New York City Marathon.

                In our mid-20s, my wife and I attended the marathon for the first time, and we were amazed that such a spirit of community could be found in a city of eight million people. I vowed to run that race someday, and experience it on the other side of the barricades. It took me about 15 years, but yesterday I finally got there.

                Running 26.2 miles is a bit preposterous, and runners hit their own “wall” at different points in this race. But the spectators who line those 26 miles make it impossible for you to give up on the race. You write your name on your shirt, and they call it out – “Come on, Warren – you’re doing great!” You need some human touch, and they’ve got their hands out for some high-fives. You need hydration, and the volunteers are there every mile, handing you your Poland Spring or Gatorade. You need a reason to think you’re a hero, and there are firefighters standing along the route clapping for you.

You need some inspiring music, and there they are, 130 musical acts across the whole route. There’s plenty of rock, R&B and rap to get you moving, but check out the gospel music in Fort Greene and Harlem! And how about the students and alumni at Bishop Loughlin High in Brooklyn, playing “Gonna Fly Now” from Rocky, as they have for years? No need for headphones on this run.

You need signs to motivate you? Look no further. Here’s one that reads “You Run Better Than the Government.” Here’s another that says “You Are All Amazing!” And still another that reads “Run Faster – I Just Farted.” Eventually, you find a sign that looks more familiar – it’s got your name on it, and your children are holding it. You give your family members a hug, and tell them you’ll see them soon. The hugs seem to numb those aches, and get you moving up First Avenue.

Now you’re in the Bronx, and you’re starting to feel the burn. But here are three people on the sidewalk beside you chanting, at the top of their voices: “You can! And you will! You can! And you will!” The hop returns to your step.

As you enter Central Park after a grueling incline up Fifth Avenue, the spectators take it to another level. They call you out by name on a regular basis now, well aware of the pain you’re feeling. There is no way you can keep this up without their voices rising in volume, to overcome the doubts you might have. Do it, they say – you’re almost there. You turn onto Central Park South, just a mile more to go, so focused that you miss both your family and Tony Bennett standing behind the barricades.

It’s just too close. Dig deep, you tell yourself. And as the wall of sound echoes along the street, you are propelled there, surfing that crowd for just a few more meters. You cross the finish line, walk a few paces, and there they are – the volunteers handing you your medal. You’ve got it around your neck now, and the emotion is so strong you can’t breathe for a moment.

You walk slowly through the park, a heat sheet wrapped around your shoulders. It’s quiet now, just a bunch of exhausted runners trudging through the gloaming. But you don’t need the cheering now – it’s gotten you to where you stand.

Outside the park, on Central Park West, you near the family reunion area, where more hugs await. But before you get there, another volunteer drapes an orange marathon poncho around your shoulders. With this final, silent gesture, the most incredible day of civic engagement, community fellowship and pure love you have ever experienced is over.

And every time you think about it, your eyes well up with tears. Greatest city in the world. Greatest feeling ever.

Many the Miles

            I’ve been thinking about marathons lately. I’ll explain why in a bit, but first to the brainstorming. I’ve realized that I’m no stranger to long races. I teach, after all, and the school year is nothing if not a marathon. Twelve months are condensed into ten, complete with opening-day jitters, ambitious autumn months, sluggish winter days, and a wall of fatigue that must be overcome to reach the spring homestretch. By the time June arrives, my colleagues and I are exhausted from running these many miles at a sprinter’s pace.

            I also follow baseball closely, and the ol’ ballgame is the marathon of team sports. A month and a half of spring training is followed by six months and 162 regular-season games, followed again by a month in which the championship team plays anywhere from 11 to 20 postseason games. When the season ends in late October, some players will have suited up for nearly 200 games of nine innings or more. Those of us who play and follow baseball have learned the importance of patience, both within a single game and within a long season.

            Beyond the game, I’m also married, and that ring I wear represents a marathon of a different sort. It’s one with challenges and joys I cannot anticipate, but which I also can’t navigate safely without being present, patient and passionately in love with my wife. There’s nothing more difficult than growing up with someone, but marriage is just that. We’re not the same couple we were in 1995, but it’s kind of amazing to look back and know that my wife and I have been running this race together for almost 18 years.

            The marathon of parenting is perhaps the most difficult of all, as you have less control over where that race goes. You give everything you have along the way, and sometimes it feels as if you’re running with the weight of the world (or at least a couple of kids) on your shoulders. And then, after all the miles of nurturing, you realize at a certain point that you must let go. You stay ready and willing to parent when needed, but you also realize that it’s time to step back and let them run free.

            Life itself, of course, is the grand marathon, the one we are running, walking, skipping or crawling through each day. This is the mystery race, as we don’t get to pick the distance. Perhaps it will be 88 years, as it was for my grandfather, who would have turned 95 today. Or perhaps it will be a much shorter 42 years, as it was for my dear childhood friend David Ross, who passed away on Monday. We get what we get in this life, and we hope we can spend it enriching the lives of others – which both my grandfather and David managed to do in abundance.

            I’m thinking in all these marathon metaphors because I’m running a literal marathon this year. I’m training for the New York City Marathon, which I have long dreamed of running. I’ll traverse the five boroughs on the first Sunday in November as part of the Arthritis Foundation’s marathon team. I’m using my race to raise money for this organization’s enormously important work. My mom has had rheumatoid arthritis for almost four decades – a marathon much more impressive than anything I’m doing. She’s kept her spirits high and inspired others during her race, so the least I can do is jog for a few hours in honor of her.

            We try, as we move along this road of life, to make meaningful connections before we reach the finish line. It’s what makes it all worthwhile, from the grueling stretches to the steady miles to the moments of euphoria. In the spirit of marathons, life and connections, I’m going to take a moment to share with you the link to my marathon page. If you’d like to make a donation to the Arthritis Foundation, you can do so there – and if you do, I thank you so much. Meanwhile, let me hit the road again, and let us all continue the many marathons of life.

www.afmarathon.kintera.org/warrenhynes