Six stars, eight Majors, twenty-five marathons, and a social media post that
kept rewriting itself.
I already had my Instagram and Strava caption in mind even before reaching
New York.
“Finally,
another monkey off my back. I am BQ!”**
Boston qualification was on my mind. The qualifying standard I was targeting
was 3:50, but I knew getting accepted would probably require another five or
six minutes faster. Having run a personal best of 3:40 in New Delhi earlier
this year and trained hard for this tough Major, I thought another good
performance was possible.
And what better occasion than my final race of the original six World Marathon
Majors?
Clearly, I was being a bit overconfident. Funnily enough, as the miles passed,
the caption kept changing.
But first, the good news. The Six Star medal was finally mine. It was due last
year, but life took a few good turns. Sydney and Cape Town came along, and the
final star of the original six had to wait another year. I ended up completing
eight World Majors before collecting my sixth star.
New York was also my 25th full marathon, and I finished in 3:58—my sixth
sub-four-hour finish in eight Majors. Not bad, one would think. Yet I was
disappointed. I still had unfinished business: I wanted to earn the title of
Boston qualifier, something many serious amateur marathon runners aspire
to.
Preparation had been reasonably good. I studied the New York elevation profile
and included repeated hills in my long runs. Unlike a single big climb, New
York's bridges interrupt your rhythm at regular intervals.
An injury threatened my preparation, but my physiotherapist Dr Manali helped me
recover. Then, just three days before travelling, a wrongly sized shoe caused a
serious toenail injury. A timely procedure by Dr Khade saved the situation. By
race day the injury was no longer a major concern, but jet lag, travel and sightseeing
had disturbed my sleep all week. Not excuses, but certainly not ideal recovery
either.
The Marathon
Before the Marathon
New York Marathon is not a three- or four-hour affair. It starts long before
the starting gun. The race began in 1970 entirely inside Central Park. In 1976,
it moved to the five-borough route, starting on Staten Island and passing
through Brooklyn, Queens, Manhattan and the Bronx.
Getting to Staten Island is an adventure in itself. We left our hotel roughly
five hours before our 9:45 a.m. start. Early transport, security and
considerable waiting. Imagine preparing for a marathon for five hours, mostly
by sitting or standing in the cold!
Fortunately, the organisation was excellent. Coffee, bagels, volunteers and
even therapy dogs were available at the start village. I had never imagined a
marathon might provide dogs to calm nervous runners. The expo too had been
efficient, with bib collection taking just minutes.
Race week gave me another special experience—representing India in the Parade
of Nations at the opening ceremony, wearing traditional Indian attire. When I
started running in 2014, I hadn't imagined anything like that. Running has
taken me to unfamiliar cities and introduced me to wonderful friends. But
wearing Indian colours at the opening ceremony was a different kind of
pride.
Now it was time to negotiate New York's 42.2 kilometres.
## Brooklyn
— A City Comes Out to Cheer
The starting gun went off, and immediately we began climbing the Verrazzano
Bridge. New York doesn't allow you to settle into a rhythm on flat roads. The
first challenge arrives in the first kilometre.
Our wave ran on the lower deck. The morning view over the waters of the Narrows
was wonderful, although I suspect the upper-deck runners had an even better
one. I tried spotting the Statue of Liberty but had no luck. The descent
towards Brooklyn was tempting, but I resisted speeding up. No point punishing my
quadriceps so early.
Once we entered Brooklyn, the atmosphere changed completely. Thousands of
spectators lined the roads, cheering almost continuously. Runners from
different starting lanes merged into a colourful river of people.
One placard caught my attention:
**“YOU ARE A F**KING ATHLETE. RUN!”**
It did more than encourage me. After a sleepless week, a runny nose and an
intermittent cough, I had started with borrowed confidence, hoping everything
would settle once I began running. I had trained hard, and the placard reminded
me of that.
I remembered a placard from Cape Town that said “KEEP GOING”. Those two words
had helped me through a difficult final 10 kilometres there.
Other spectators held placards cheering John, Mary, Abigail and many more. If
someone holds a “GO JOHN!” sign for several hours, surely every John passing
that spot benefits from it!!
Halloween had been celebrated the previous evening, and New York was still in a
festive mood. People were out in colourful, sometimes ghostly costumes. The
weather was sunny but cool, almost ideal for running.
Having run Chicago and Boston, I couldn't resist comparing their characters.
Chicago has long straight roads and perpendicular streets. Boston winds through
neighbourhoods and rolling terrain. New York seems to offer a mixture of both,
interrupted by those famous bridges.
As a civil engineer, I find these details interesting. Even the numbered
streets entertained me. I started counting steps between intersections,
estimating the shorter blocks at around 70–75 metres. Street numbers generally
increase as you head north and decrease as you travel south. Probably not the
most accurate survey of New York, but I have a habit of noticing small details
along a route. Such distractions make my runs enjoyable and the effort more
bearable.
Autumn added another dimension. Trees were turning red, orange and yellow, with
fallen leaves scattered along the roads. In Boston, I had admired trees just
beginning to blossom after winter. Here, in another month, they would be bare,
dark figures ready for the weight of winter snow. Different seasons, different
beauty. I loved both fall and blossom and may be that occasional silhouette I saw
in Tokyo Marathon
And fortunately, the legs were still cooperating.
## The Bridges Begin to Collect Their Dues
Kalyani, an excellent runner from Nagpur, was alongside me. I have achieved PRs
in Sydney and New Delhi with her discipline pacing. We had agreed to remain controlled until
around 32 km and then push if we felt good. At Cape Town I had pushed after
halfway and suffered cramps around 32–33 km. I didn't want a repeat.
The Pulaski Bridge took us from Brooklyn into Queens, with the halfway mark on
the bridge. We were slightly behind our ideal schedule but comfortable enough.
The scenery shifted from red brick buildings to commercial structures and
high-rises, with Manhattan's skyline in the distance.
And then came Queensboro Bridge.
I had studied its long incline and tried to reproduce similar efforts in
training. But there is a difference between climbing a hill on fresh legs and
climbing one after 24 kilometres.
The cheering disappeared as we entered the bridge. Thousands of runners moved
together, yet we heard mostly footsteps and occasional traffic noise. I enjoy
running alone, so the silence didn't bother me. The incline did. It seemed
longer than the elevation chart suggested. My pace dropped, and I was reluctant
to attack the descent.
Finally we turned beneath the bridge and entered Manhattan. Suddenly, an
explosion of sound. First Avenue stretched ahead, a wide river of runners with
spectators lining both sides. Probably the most spectacular moment of the
race.
First Avenue looks almost flat in photographs and elevation charts. In reality,
its gentle gradients are deceptive after Queensboro. We were running reasonably
well, but maintaining pace was taking more effort. London is perhaps the only
Major I've run where the crowds felt comparable.
There were placards displaying photographs of pets, including dogs with missing
eyes or ears. Were they rescue animals, or were runners supporting animal
welfare causes? Another subject to investigate later. I also noticed runners
with disabilities and their guides, and wheelchair participants supported by
their teams. Their determination was admirable.
I kept looking for distractions—streets, buildings, even how volunteers managed
pedestrian crossings. In Sydney I had seen temporary pedestrian bridges for
crossings; New York relied on carefully coordinated crossing points.
We crossed the Willis Avenue Bridge into the Bronx and the Madison Avenue
Bridge back into Manhattan. Five bridges completed. I was relieved. But New
York had not finished with us.
## My Social Media Headline Needs Editing
At around 32 km, Kalyani began experiencing cramps and asked me to go ahead, as
we had agreed. I increased my effort. Or at least I tried.
The plan was to run the last 10 km faster if I had enough energy. But the watch
showed no improvement. I was working harder merely to maintain pace. Perhaps
3:50 was still possible? That would meet my qualifying standard, even if it
wasn't enough for the eventual cutoff.
The headline underwent its first revision:
“BQ achieved. Who cares about the cutoff?
A tired marathon runner can be remarkably generous with his calculations.
Unfortunately, my legs were less generous. Despite the effort, the pace fell.
Fifth Avenue's long gradient wasn't helping.
By 36 km, I needed another distraction. I decided to count runners I overtook,
targeting 100 per kilometre. An ambitious target, but I soon lost count as my
legs stopped taking orders.
I started walking.
This was puzzling. I had carb-loaded, taken gels regularly and followed my
hydration and electrolyte plan. I had trained on hills for this course. Was it
muscular exhaustion, disturbed sleep, the repeated climbs? Probably a
combination. I would analyse it later.
For now, a little walking wouldn't harm, I told myself. My watch, however, kept
counting every second without sympathy. I ran again, hoping for a kilometre
below six minutes. Instead, it was closer to 6:30. Another walking break
followed. My BQ headline was becoming irrelevant.
## The Crowds That Refused to Carry Me
I was approaching Central Park, surrounded by cheering spectators. Earlier I
had enjoyed the placards. Now I'd lost interest in John, Mary, Abigail and
their pets.
I remembered what I'd heard repeatedly before New York: “The crowds will carry
you through the final miles.”
Really? Here were thousands shouting themselves hoarse, and here I was walking
helplessly. Nobody seemed interested in carrying me anywhere! The absurdity
made me laugh.
I had travelled halfway around the world, trained for months, studied every
bridge and incline, and was now walking through one of the greatest marathon
atmospheres in the world. I decided to keep smiling. If I couldn't run fast, at
least I could look happy.
Somewhere along the way I remembered that Brooklyn placard: “YOU ARE A
F**KING ATHLETE. RUN!”
At the beginning it charged me. Now I wasn't sure. Only months earlier I'd run
3:40 in Delhi. I had come dreaming of Boston qualification and was already
thinking about a strong Comrades next year. And here I was struggling to
maintain six-minute pace. Was I really an athlete, or just a marathon finisher
getting carried away by his ambitions?
Then I remembered the Six Star medal waiting at the finish.
With about 800 metres remaining, I abandoned the Boston calculations. Forget
BQ. Forget 3:50.
“At least make it sub-four!”
Another headline revision. I tried counting ninety right-foot steps four times,
a little mental trick. I lost count, but kept running. Eventually the finish
appeared. I straightened myself, put on the widest smile I could manage and
crossed the mat.
**3:58.**
The smile for the camera was somewhat artificial. The relief wasn't.
## The Final Headline
And then came the Six Star medal, finally around my neck after eight World
Majors. There was pride, happiness and relief, but some disappointment
remained. Perhaps that's the problem with being both runner and coach. The
runner wants to celebrate while the coach is already analysing what went
wrong.
Still, this was my 25th marathon, my sixth sub-four-hour finish in eight
Majors, and another qualifying performance for Comrades. Not bad for a race
that hadn't gone to plan. I am fortunate to have the understanding of family,
business partners and colleagues, and the help of doctors and friends along the
way.
My imaginary social media headline had travelled from “Finally, I am
BQ!” to “BQ achieved. Who cares about the cutoff?”, then “At
least make it sub-four!”
And finally, something I hadn't thought of before the race:
“Six Stars. Eight Majors. Twenty-Five Marathons.”
Perhaps I should have written that headline in the first place. But then what
would I have done with all those kilometres of calculations?
And that placard in Brooklyn? At 5 km, I believed it. At 40 km, I questioned
it. At the finish, I decided it was probably right after all.
Six stars. Eight Majors. Twenty-five marathons. And still learning.
