Keep on Running (14 page)

  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.

  Writing in my marathon diary the day after, I was perhaps a little harsh: 'I hate to say it, but it makes the London Marathon pale into insignificance – probably largely for the fact that New York is foreign and thousands of miles away.' But somehow the support had just seemed so much greater in New York: so many fire crews, the gospel choirs, so many faces. It was the place and the exhilaration of being there that got me around so quickly.

  I had been far too busy thinking 'Can I really be here?' to bother about getting tired. If the course can take your mind off tiredness, then you're bound to succeed. Plus the conditions were perfect. How things can change. In London 2002 I had come in blue in the face, in a state of near collapse and absolutely shattered, yet 21 minutes slower in considerably cooler conditions. I was starting to realise that I thrive on warm marathons. I have since learned that I am useless in comparison in the cold and wet.

  Early on in New York, the heat had been a problem every time we went into an east-west shady street from a sun-drenched north-south avenue. I was so dripping in sweat that I felt chilly until we were out in the sun again. But overall, the sun had just made everything look all the more colourful and all the more beautiful on an absolutely sparkling day.

  The icing on the cake had been just how friendly the people were as they dished out space blankets and medals. They all said congratulations and really seemed to mean it. A bit less impressive was the time it took for my bag to be found on the van at the end, and then there was a long walk to get out of the marathon finishers' enclosure. But in that moment, I would have happily forgiven New York anything. Besides, walking was definitely the right thing to do. I'd felt a bit wobbly while waiting for my bag, but all in all I was feeling fine, helped on by complete strangers saying congratulations to me, all the way back to our hotel, half a mile or so south of Central Park.

  I freshened up and then headed out again, bumping into mum in the lobby just as she was about to go up. I bought a phonecard (how dated does that sound!), phoned Fiona and was amazed to find that she knew more about my time than I did. She'd been tracking me on the Internet, as had my dad and Michael, now a marathoner himself of course. She told me my time was 3:35:45 and knew that I'd taken just over two minutes to cross the start. She'd been worried when my quarter-marathon time flashed up – worried that I was going too quickly. The website had even thrown up a couple of predicted finishing times for me, one for 3:43 and the other accurate to within seconds. These days, we take this kind of thing in our stride. Back in 2003, it seemed positively space age.

  I was on a high. I wanted to dash back into the action and so left mum in the hotel for an hour and a half during which I wallowed in the whole experience of it all. I was very glad I did. I wanted to soak up every moment. I watched the runners going along the road at the bottom of Central Park and then made my way to the finish, determined to swim in the gush of post-race sentimentality which was threatening to engulf me.

  The grandstands were pretty thinly peopled by now so it was no problem getting right up close to the finishing line where I watched a fantastic woman on the tannoy who seemed to sum up the whole spirit of the day. She kept shouting: 'And here's Bill (or whoever)! Bill's going to make it! And so's Susan! And here's Jane. Jane's going to do it!' Or 'Rita's just done it. Dex has just done it. Brad's going to do it. And here's Leroy! Come on, bring him home. Bring him in. It's getting cold. He's tired. Bring him home!'

  Even now, when I think about it, I go a little misty-eyed. She was oozing goodwill in her relentless, fantastically good-humoured patter – an image of the day I will always retain. She was generosity on legs, a mother hen urging all her chicks home. It mattered to her as if she knew us all. For me, she'll always be the lasting symbol of the welcome that New York City gave us all.