by Phil Hewitt
Also visible to our left was the Statue of Liberty, instantly recognisable and so much a symbol of the city and all that it stood for. Just to see it made me tingle. I knew we were in for an exciting day. In the foreground, just below the bridge, a couple of boats were squirting a multicoloured tribute to the runners – jets of red, white and blue water. Very impressive and all part of the fun.
One sad moment came when a guy took a tumble just half a mile in. He was writhing on the ground, clutching his knee in agony. He'd clearly fallen very heavily. I hoped his race wasn't over, but I suspected it was. He would have done very well to come back from that. Maybe he'd been clipped by another runner; maybe he'd just taken his eye off the ball. Poor chap. I really felt for him that morning. He was one of us, and he could have been any one of us. He'd put in months of training. He'd been looking forward to it all and planning it for weeks. And then that happened.
For the rest of us, it was a timely reminder of the need to concentrate. There are greater dangers when there is bunching; but whatever the conditions, you have always got to be race aware. And even then, there will be times when sheer misfortune will get you and there is nothing you can do.
The first mile marker came just before the end of the bridge, which underlines just what an impressive structure it is – a bridge so long that it was one of the first structures ever built to have to take into account the earth's curvature. From there we ran into Brooklyn, which proved one of the big treats of the run. First we were on a kind of freeway and then pulled off it onto a slip road, at the top of which were the first roadside spectators of the day, setting the tone for the entire event with their enthusiastic shouts of 'Welcome to Brooklyn!'
After that, we were soon into the populated areas; wide, leafy avenues lined by attractive brick or coloured houses several storeys high and all looking very smart. The main shopping areas were great too, and here the crowds were impressive and very vocal. There were lots of 'Go, man!' shouts all the way, a terrific, totally intoxicating atmosphere which was typical of the entire course from this point onwards. They don't just shout 'Come on' and your name. They give it the full works: 'You can do it, go man, Phil baby!' or 'Go, Phil, go!' And, yes, I was milking the shouts a fair amount. It was all part of the fun and the indescribable thrill of running the New York City Marathon. I had to keep saying it to myself: I am running the New York City Marathon. And still I couldn't quite believe it.
Uplifting and poignant was the fact that along the course we passed probably a dozen fire stations, each with a fire engine on show, mostly with the firefighters sitting on top, sometimes with the ladder extended, firefighters straddling it. All very moving in the light of September 11, so recent and so raw a memory that year. It was as if the firefighters were turning out to applaud the city which had applauded them when they responded in its days of need. I felt proud and privileged to be there with them in their city. How could I not be inspired?
Looking at the map earlier, I'd thought that the race wouldn't really take off until we were on Manhattan, the central island borough and the bit that we all conventionally think of as New York. But the 12 and a bit miles of Brooklyn were fantastic; mostly neat and attractive, always colourful and lively, and wonderfully enhanced by the bright sunshine of an increasingly warm day. Thank goodness for that, I remember thinking. Pamela, who'd trained me for my first London, had told me tales of the weather extremes you can get in New York on the first weekend in November. One year it might be freezing, another absolutely boiling. Just for sheer comfort's sake in those early stages, I was pleased that we were inching towards the hot end of the scale.
I was clocking up my eight-minute miles and occasionally thinking that I was going too fast and would regret it later, but at the same time I was thinking I should just make merry while I could and get the miles in the bank while the going was good. It seemed a balancing act and I tilted it in favour of enjoying present exhilaration. The euphoria was enormous: I wanted to exploit it; and I wanted to amass distance at a time when I felt I was running well. Let the future take care of itself.
The considerations and calculations that usually fill my head in a marathon started to slip just a little into the background. Or rather, they started to become part of the bigger picture. I'd been determined to cling to them, but it wasn't long before sheer enjoyment of the day started to seem an equally important imperative. Why hammer myself about minutes and miles when everything around me is so damned interesting? There was a constant sensation of 'Am I really doing this?' as I passed through Brooklyn. Nor yet can I believe that I also ran through Queens, Manhattan and the Bronx on that glorious day. It was a blissful run, every street a new discovery.
As I look back on it now, I can see that so much of what you take to be tiredness in another place on another day is simply lack of stimulation. I think of those long boring sections early and mid-race in London – boring partly, no doubt, because they seem so familiar and so un-exotic to a Brit. On my sunny Sunday morning in Brooklyn, on the other hand, there was endless stimulation, pushing further and further back the inevitable moment when genuine tiredness really would start to take its toll.
And so the miles mounted, each new eight-minute mile a pleasure and a relief. I even started to feel expectation grow within me. Having cracked 4:00 in London, cracking 3:50 was the target now. I wanted 3:40-something. 3:40-anything was the aim – territory I had never before entered. My half-marathon time left me with just over two hours to achieve it in. A few quick calculations confirmed that the 3:40s were looking within my grasp, and just the thought of them proved a spur as the miles ticked by.
The 2 miles of Queens, the third borough of the day, consisted largely of industrial-type buildings, but, uninspiring as they were, they were definitely a staging post, all part of the progress towards the Queensboro Bridge which was to take us over the East River onto Manhattan Island for the first time.
The bridge is so huge that it starts a long way back on land. More importantly, it starts with the 15-mile marker, which I reached in 2:01. From the rare occasions I had paid much attention to my training schedule, I knew that I was supposed to be reaching 15 in 2:05 if I was going to do a sub-3:45 marathon. In training I had managed it a couple of times, but then only by about half a minute. Now I'd smashed it.
It sounds terribly anal now, of course, but anyone who has ever pushed themselves in a marathon will know: these things matter, and they matter hugely. You need to know how you are doing; you need to assess; you need to adjust. You need to keep the focus and, to do that, you need to find an approach that is right for you. So much marathon talk is far too dogmatic, far too prescriptive, neglecting the fact that for the most part it simply isn't an exact science. Far from it. It's all about reaching conclusions that suit you and then modifying them whenever experience suggests you should do so.
By now, I was starting to think of myself as a reasonably experienced marathon runner, and with that went the need to use that experience to my advantage. As I ran, I thought back to Pamela's point about having three finishing times in mind. Her argument was that fixating on one particular time is potentially the road to disappointment, too absolute an approach over such a long distance. You need to be able to adjust your expectations on the hoof, as it were. What might seem achievable at the start might very quickly seem impossible once you start to factor in the real-life running conditions.
But in New York quite the opposite was happening: the dream was starting to seem ever more likely. Things were starting to slip into place. My times were confirming that the 3:40s – that inviting ten-minute time zone – were there for the taking. I had achieved comfortably my fastest 15 miles ever; confidence was coursing through my legs.
Even better was the fact that we were now on Manhattan, where the reception was stunning. Soon after the bridge, we veered right to head north on First Avenue, a deliciously wide and straight stretch, wonderfully packed on either side with massive, roaring crowds. I positively tingled.
My feet almost left the ground.
New York City Marathon folklore tells you that this is the danger stretch where many runners, pumped up by the sheer excitement of reaching Manhattan and buoyed up by the stupendous crowds at this point, simply go much too fast and rapidly burn out. It is the most seductive and encouraging stretch, I learned later, and it has wrecked many a runner, seducing them into forgetting that there are still 10 miles to go.
I'm glad I didn't know this at the time. All I remember is the glory of it on a glorious day, and also the fact that I knew that the MS reception point, with mum waiting, would be at around 17 miles, just a mile ahead. For some reason, as I approached the marker, I was convinced the group would be on the right, and then I realised that I had no reason for thinking that. And so I started scanning both sides, fearing that I had already missed them. But soon enough, just after the 17-mile marker (which came up a predictable eight minutes after the 16th), there they were – on the left.
I'd been carrying a very light, one-use-only disposable camera from the start, hoping to catch a few moments along the way, but mostly forgetting I had it to hand. But with the chance to ditch it coming up soon, I had rapidly used up the last shots on the Queensboro Bridge and on First Avenue. I veered across to the cheering group and thrust the camera into mum's hands before she'd even seen me. I was well ahead of the time I'd said I'd be there. I didn't consider stopping because the going was still too good to believe and still those eight-minute miles kept coming. Besides, seeing cheery, friendly faces was yet another boost, and I had to make it count.
First Avenue was massive, wide, noisy, invigorating and very straight. As with so much of the route, there was space in abundance, with absolutely no need for that debilitating weaving in and out that you get in London, though perhaps that was because by now I was so much further ahead of my corresponding London position. At this point, though, I was trying not to work out finishing times. I was just preserving and nurturing the rising feeling that I was going to do my best time ever.
In fact, on the Queensboro Bridge I had been mentally – and very presumptuously – writing the piece for the paper: 'Phil Hewitt raced to his sixth and fastest marathon in a sweltering New York City on Sunday.' Oops. Count no chickens. Take nothing for granted, I told myself, but not too harshly.
Confidence and enjoyment were running hand in hand, carrying me with them – especially when the 18-mile marker came up, always a favourite figure in my number games and particularly welcome now. Here the officials were handing out sachets of power gel, the energising fix that's supposed to revive flagging feet.
We were well into the so-called 'wall' territory by now and I did wonder whether I was going to be able to keep my pace up – so I took a couple of sachets. I reckon it must have done me some good. By 19 miles we were in Harlem, another name rich in resonance. It seemed pleasant enough, nice buildings, each decorated with characteristic retractable wrought-iron staircases on the outside. I was still running well; the sun was out; the crowds were strong; I was having a ball.
At about 19.5 miles, leaving Manhattan to enter the Bronx, we went over the Harlem River, across the Willis Avenue Bridge, a shortish span with a hard, iron-grid surface at a couple of points which the organisers had thoughtfully covered with a very soft, plush red carpet. It took us into the fifth of the five boroughs of New York City, but we ran through it for barely a mile, the crowd as loud as ever, thousands of people lining the streets to cheer us on.
The 20-mile marker came just inside the Bronx and felt crucial. A couple of weekends before I'd done a 20-mile run in 2:43. I thought at the time that I'd be delighted to do that in New York. In fact, I hit the marker at 2:42. Six miles left, and they surely wouldn't take an hour, so the possibility of 3:30-something suddenly opened up. And even if those final 6 miles did take an hour, I would still be comfortably in the low 3:40s, which I'd have happily settled for. Even now, I was calculating. Enjoying everything and everyone, but never letting the numbers slip from my mind.
As we clipped the Bronx, we veered momentarily north and then west before heading back south-west again, over the Madison Avenue Bridge onto Manhattan Island once more. Just at the start of the bridge there was a gospel choir, which simply radiated happiness. I can picture them now, beautifully turned out, singing in perfect harmony but with such joy across their faces. I had a little tear at that point, I don't mind admitting.
Just after the bridge, just inside Manhattan, was the 21-mile marker, and I was annoyed to clock my only ten-minute mile of the day. My response was to run the 22nd mile in just over seven minutes, which even now I find highly surprising. It was my second-fastest mile of the day. Later I wondered if I had muddled up the timings in my head, but I doubt it. I was thinking unusually clearly for a marathon at this point. There I was at 22 miles and inside three hours – progress beyond my dreams – as we passed back through Harlem, heading south now along Fifth Avenue towards Central Park.
It wasn't long before we touched the park's north-eastern corner, definitely the beginning of the home stretch. Fortunately the guy I had been speaking to on the coach that morning had reconnoitred the finish the day before. He warned me against feeling you're home once you see Central Park because there are still well over 3 miles to go, and it was useful advice. For a start, it's ages before you actually enter the park. You run alongside it first for at least a mile – the point at which tiredness finally started to kick in for me.
By now I was positively courting support, willing people to shout out my name. Even so, I still didn't let my pace drop significantly, perhaps a reflection of the fact that the crowds, so strong throughout, were getting noisier still – a sure sign that the home stretch was beckoning. And indeed it was. Just before the 24th mile, we finally made the turn into Central Park, the point at which I started sucking on the other power gel sachet I'd grabbed – raspberry, I think.
I'd been drinking water and Gatorade sports drink throughout, pouring the cups they distribute into the plastic bottle I'd had from the start. With the heat, I had been very aware of the possibility of dehydration and so sipped regularly throughout, missing out on very few of the drinks stations. I must have got it just about right because I didn't need a single wee – and certainly wouldn't have stopped if I had.
I was flagging just a touch by 24 miles, but just being in Central Park was a boost, especially on such a beautiful autumn day. Once you're in the park, the terrific thing is that the route is fairly gently downhill for the mile and a half or so to the south-eastern corner from which you exit, and that definitely helped me to stay reasonably in touch with my eight-minute miling.
As I left the park at its south-eastern corner, I saw a glorious sign saying 'one mile to go', just as we turned right to run along the road which skirts the bottom end of the park. At the end of it, we re-entered the park, this time by the south-western corner. Along the bottom of the park, it was just one long roar from the crowd – terrific motivation spurring us on.
Then there was the '800 metres to go' sign and then I was back in the park, the roar rising all the time. Then came the 26-mile marker, a fantastic sight – but precisely the moment I had my only serious downer of the day, the overwhelming feeling that I was going to be sick. The gel had been just too thick and too rich. I knew I would make it over the line but I was sure the first thing I would do on finishing would be to throw it all up. I am delighted to say that I didn't, but for those last few hundred metres, the nausea was awful.
But at least I was nearly there. I was thinking that I ought to be 3:30-something by now, and when I looked up at the finish line, I saw the clock change to 3:38. Crucially, that was elapsed time from the start, not my actual running time. I'd taken just over two minutes to cross the start and so I noted my time as 3:36 as I finished – a fantastic feeling. I had a time to my name which simply wasn't the kind of time I ran. It didn't seem like mine.
My five previous marathons (three Londons and two Chichesters) had been, in time
order, 4:13, 4:11, 4:10, 3:56 and 3:53. I'd been hoping for 3:40-something. In fact, I had waltzed through the 3:40s entirely and out the other side, recording a confirmed finishing time of 3:35:45. It was an astonishing result in my own terms and heralded my longest-ever period of being pleased with a time.
For weeks afterwards, I wondered whether there was any point ever doing a marathon again. It was the closest I had ever come to complete satisfaction – a time I couldn't ever see myself beating, 18 minutes faster than anything I had ever done before. And it felt wonderfully, blissfully good.
I had produced a controlled run, thanks largely to running with an exceptionally steady pack. I must have passed quite a few people and quite a few others must have passed me, but my overall impression was that I simply matched the general pace.
I started hyperventilating after the finish, but I kept walking and it didn't last long, being replaced by a confusion which I hadn't felt to any great extent during the race itself. I had to keep working out when four hours would have elapsed just to keep checking that I really had done it. Meanwhile, I was being processed. First of all you get handed a space blanket and then someone secures it with a sticker and then you get your medal placed around your neck. A glorious moment. A medal from the New York City Marathon. And what a day. What a wonderful course. Five boroughs, five bridges and the most stunning support for virtually the whole length of the run.
