A Different Kind of Unforgettable Marathon

What happens when an obsessive-compulsive marathon runner takes a turn behind the water table.

the New York City Marathon. First, I looked up the weather online—just in

case something had changed dramatically in the three minutes since I had last checked. No, still upper 40s, low 50s, and a light wind. Out of both time and second guesses, I committed to my wardrobe: one wicking base layer, a coldweather water-resistant jacket and gloves, a bag with extra socks and sneakers in case the ground was wet, hand warmers (check), sunscreen in case it was too sunny, and hat in case it was too cold. I checked and double-checked the NYC transit map for the correct subway train and calculated the time to the start within a 60-second margin of error, trying hard not to jump up, put my coat on, and do a dry run of my route, since it was already 9:00 p.m.

The one thing I didn’t pack? Water. Because I wasn’t going to be running the NYC Marathon this year. Instead, I was going to volunteer at a water station for the first time in my rather selfish running life. Of course, just like every marathon Thad run, I was determined to make my volunteering debut, well, perfect.

[ any experienced runner, I carefully reviewed all my gear the night before

Motives, pure and unpure

I would like to say that I decided to volunteer to give back. Certainly, that was a big part of it. After all, I had run 30 marathons in 20 states and four countries. I surely owed somebody somewhere, and then some. Volunteering is also a new requirement for runners hoping to qualify for the NYC Marathon based on the number of local races they run. But I had already deferred my guaranteed entry from this year and therefore had a guaranteed entry next year.

The truth is, much like my first NYC Marathon eight years earlier, I was attracted by the idea of how glorious it would be to participate and to do well. I

thought about how many times I had been handed a sports drink that was mixed incorrectly or had found a station that had run out of water at the worst time. Not on my watch, I thought. Literally. I was an experienced runner. I would make the ideal volunteer because I knew what it was like to be on the receiving end of a water cup. I was going to do it right.

The perfect start line

In the online volunteer form, I had to roll the dice by selecting my top five choices for an assignment with no guarantees. (Could I really be a course marshal? What if I sent someone the wrong way?) A month later, an official e-mail informed me that I should report to the water station just past mile 22, where runners would be coming out of the Bronx and headed for Central Park. My first choice! I was thrilled. Having run the NYC Marathon five times, I knew that’s where runners would be struggling most and I, super volunteer, could do the most good.

On race day, I arrived at my post at 8:00 A.M. exactly, overcaffeinated and eager to get going. With dozens of other volunteers, I listened intently to team captains Jim and Isaac, straining to hear every instruction as if a start gun was about to go off any minute. Initial directions turned out to be pretty simple. We would mix Gatorade first, pour water second. We would refrain from standing too far out on the course (this is known as “spectator creep” and causes bottlenecks). We would hold cups out to runners using a thumb and two fingers. Rubber gloves were to be worn at all times. Proudly donning my cap and credentials, I reviewed emergency numbers while imagining myself rushing to the rescue of some poor, exhausted runner stricken with cramps, hyponatremia, or who knows what.

Early signs of trouble

First, however, I would have to learn how to use a spoon. As other volunteers ran around to tables with water bottles, large rubber pails, and concentrated Gatorade mix, I found myself confronted by a large man with a bag of giant plastic pieces. “Here,” said Isaac cheerfully. “You’re in charge of spoons.”

“You got it!” I exclaimed and then stood there confused. I was holding two white pieces of plastic that should equal one five-gallon Gatorade mixing spoon. Every way I tried to connect the two halves was the wrong way. My hand shaking either from the cold or from the pressure, it took me 12 valuable minutes to assemble my first spoon. I glanced around, thankful that everyone was too busy to notice my incredibly slow start. Of course, once I knew the secret—it’s in the hooks—I picked up the pace, locking spoons together at breakneck speed. Thank goodness, | thought, looking at my watch—still on schedule, with the wheelchair competitors not due for over an hour.

Now for the Gatorade. Isaac was clear on this: one giant bottle of Gatorade concentrate to four gallon bottles of water. OK, I thought, J can do this. There would be an official Gatorade tester coming, and I did not want my mixture to be found lacking. As the greenish fluid went tumbling into giant rubber pails, I counted each empty bottle out loud, occasionally looking up to see how my competitors, I mean, other volunteer teammates, were doing. My table was ahead! But soon I would pay for my early rushing. In my haste to reach a PR in pouring, I knocked a cup directly onto myself, making the sticky mess on my clothes that I had assumed some tired runner was going to make hours later.

Hoping no one would notice the guilty green blotch on my shirt, I slunk over to the water tables, trying to pretend I had been there all along. Wow, the Poland Spring water advertised came from actual bottles and not a garden hose. Truly, [had reached the inner sanctum of fluid-station secrets. Before long, the other volunteers and I worked out our own systems of place cup, pour, align logo, place cup, pour, align logo. Who knew that each logo had to be placed exactly facing front? Being from an advertising background, I applied my completely unnecessary marketing expertise to the situation, examining logo alignment with a critical eye. Did I get it right? Did I get it right? My heart soared when the head of the NYC Marathon volunteers stopped by and said we were way ahead of other water stations on the course, then sank as he commented that our cups were too close together—not good for grabbing with finger and thumb. Ugh, another rookie error.

An extra reward

Finally, all the tables were ready. Taking a breath, I looked at both sides of the street in amazement. Two symmetrical rows of long tables, each with three layers of cups, sat still and quiet, neatly aligned like wedding cakes and ready for the chaos to come. I carefully took a cup between my thumb and forefinger and checked my position, determined not to be the volunteer who created a bottleneck by inching out on the course. One arm’s length from the table, good. Suddenly, the sound of helicopters and a police vehicle heralded one of the great perks of working mile 22: the chance to see the likely winners up close. First, the wheelchair athletes. Wow, I had only ever seen Kurt Fearnley on television. Shortly afterward, the women’s leaders passed by, spread out but still within reach of each other—and almost within reach of me.

Paula was first. Of course! Then Ludmila. What a champ. Then Kara Goucher of the U.S. A U.S. runner in the top three! I jumped up and down and screamed for them, shouting their first names as if they were my friends. “U.S. is third!” I yelled at the woman next to me, who just stared as I recklessly expended far too much energy this early in the race. As the rest of the elite women zipped by, several threw their special fluid bottles to the ground. Feet now planted firmly at my station, I resisted the urge to dive under the table and see what magic formula made them twice as fast as me.

The “middle miles”

Fortunately for my self-respect, I did not have much time to consider crawling around on my hands and knees. Soon, the men’s leaders arrived—Go, Goumri! Go, Gomes!—and the real work began. Slowly the pack thickened with all kinds of runners, big, small, young, old, every nationality and running style possible. As just one of dozens of volunteers with arms outstretched, I worried that no one would choose my cup. “Pick me! Pick me!” I thought, holding my water out anxiously and attempting to use telepathic powers to convince runners that mine was somehow the best. I also worked hard to master the balance between cup extending and cup crushing. Cup crushing, I learned, is essential to the ongoing clean-up process and involves sticking a foot out and stomping on wayward cups so that they will not become airborne and float back onto the course. Sure, it sounds easy until your target cup gets mixed up in the flying legs of the 3:15 pace group. I broke into a light sweat, not from exertion but from the collisions I feared I might cause.

| hit The Wall

Sadly, after about four hours, both my right arm and the glory of holding out little green wax-paper cups began to fade. I switched to an awkward cross-body