A About 7,000 runners entered the New York City Marathon to run for nearly 300 charities, some large, many others small, but in their own way just as significant.

wind that had been forecast had pounded against my hotel window all night. But it was the excitement of what was to come that had kept me awake.

Thad grown up in Zanesville, Ohio, home of the famous Y-Bridge. My brothers still live there or nearby. Zanesville is the largest city and the county seat of Muskingum County, an hour east of Columbus, where I now live. By comparison, a group twice the population of my hometown was now making its way to the marathon start line. The flood of runners was mind-boggling. It was apparent that the New York Road Runners had done this before. Someone in charge had a plan, and it was working well. You had to admire the process.

My subway car and all of the others were nearly full when the train stopped by Columbus Circle, where I boarded. By the next stop, all of the cars were full to capacity, and with each successive stop more and more runners crammed in. After the subway and the Staten Island Ferry, our shivering mass waited to board buses for Fort Wadsworth, the last leg to the starting area. Wave after wave of runners: I couldn’t believe what I saw in front of and behind me. From the ferry I’d been able to get a good look at the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge, the marathon’s stepping-off point well to the southeast. /t looked so quiet, I thought, but even so far away it appeared formidable.

Thad found the perfect place for my stay while in the city. Traveling alone, I could pick a place my wife might choose to overlook. I got lucky. Six blocks to the south was the Trump International Hotel, and a number of blocks to the north

© Ken Frick

was the Dakota, well known for once having been the residence of John Lennon. But I picked this place for something else it was near—the marathon finish line, almost directly across the street, just inside Central Park. It didn’t hurt that it was one of the least-expensive places to stay in the city. It was the YMCA.

Windy weather warning

Earlier this morning, back in my hotel room, I had smeared my ritual plain bagel with peanut butter for my early-marathon-morning jolt of carbs and protein. And now, closer to the start, | had my last bit to eat, a PowerBar to chase after two Aleve tablets. The monkey wrench in the entire process was the weather. The forecast called for cold temperatures and steady winds of 20-30 miles per hour, with gusts to 50. To protect runners from flying debris, the signs on Staten Island telling us where our starting corrals were located had been removed. With no idea of where to go, I quickly decided to do what it appeared everyone else was doing: I followed the largest crowd. It seemed so straightforward; someone would take me to where I was supposed to be. Minutes later I found myself huddled somewhere well below the bridge, happily protected from at least some of the wind. I was within feet of the rope that held us back.

I was a bit anxious, but in minutes that would change to pure excitement. When the order was given, the two dozen volunteers beyond the rope linked arms like an honor detail, escorting us up and around what was an exit ramp. Forward we walked, not certain of what to expect next. In my 66 years, there had been special times when words simply weren’t enough to define what was before me. Once I was beyond the trees, on my left the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge came into full view, its two massive towers standing tall, well up in front of us. It was breathtaking. There were no runners, no cars, nothing but the linked line of men and women leading us. Looking up at the towers, it almost appeared that they had been expecting us.

Unless you’ve been there, you can’t begin to imagine the energy we felt. Quite by accident I had linked up with the first wave of the fourth group. We were walking to the starting line on the upper level of the bridge. At that minute, whatever happened over the next four-plus hours didn’t matter. That view will forever be etched in my memory.

All of the time we had been waiting, the security people and the volunteers had been, for a lack of a better word, “official.” They had done what they needed to do to keep us in line, to wait our turn. But that somehow changed once they linked arms. To me, it no longer appeared that they were doing a job; they were now there “for” us. I could sense that they knew this was something very special. They let us soak it all in. In minutes we were standing in place. One from our group, Tabitha Liggett, who had also sung for the previous two waves and would

be running with us, sang “God Bless America.” I can’t imagine anyone doing it better. It was chilly, and I could just begin to feel the wind. I knew it would be stiffer on the bridge.

Finally came the question, “Are you ready to run?” And when our response wasn’t quite adequate, it came again. There was no need to ask again. Only feet in front of me was the starting sensor. I turned to look behind me to see thousands of others, like me, ready to start their marathon.

I can still remember the special feeling when Kevin, my son, and I ran the 2012 Marine Corps Marathon. Like here, the beginning that day was special, running down Virginia Route 110, between Arlington National Cemetery and the Pentagon, and past the “hill” we would climb four hours later to the finish. It had been thrilling. I knew that being in New York would be similar. I was at the start of one of the most famous sporting events in the world.

The sun shines on our race

A minute before we were joyfully sent on our way, the sun came out. I couldn’t help but wonder if that was my mother’s doing. It lit us up like a human Christmas tree, the many different-colored shirts around me ablaze. Over the years, I had spoken with my mother often. Maybe this was her way to tell me to run well and that she was watching.

And we were off.

The highest point on the entire course was the crest of this bridge, almost a mile away. From there we ran over the same slope, but reversed, going downhill. It was here that we were hit broadside by the first heavy gusts of wind. Everywhere else along the course, it would swirl from different directions, but here it hit with vigor, a fierce crosswind coming at us unabated from somewhere northwest, well up the Hudson River. I had been warned to be

<4 The author, enjoying the thrill of running across the VerrazanoNarrows Bridge in the marathon’'s first few miles.

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careful for the first mile, that it was easy to get carried away, so I ran with caution. But going up that grade, I don’t believe my feet ever touched the pavement. I went to the left to get a photograph of faraway Manhattan and down the middle of the bridge, doing a “selfie” and photographing some of the runners near me. They were the first of hundreds of pictures I would take this day.

Back in Columbus, Kevin was keeping track of my progress, and in Zanesville, brothers Bill and Chuck were doing the same. Bill was thrilled that I had taken on this challenge. When I hit the crest of the bridge, I had no doubt that he would have already been down the other side, way out in front, such was his talent. I do all right, but in his prime Bill was a gifted runner. I wished that he could see what was all around me.

Brooklyn would come after the bridge. There were homemade signs telling us we had arrived in Brooklyn, that we were running in Brooklyn, and a bit later telling us we were leaving Brooklyn. Thousands of spectators lined the route, yelling their support. It was impossible to ignore them. By some chance I found what I knew were the two most important signs I would see all day, both made for “Zanesville Runner Girl,” Brooke Smith.

The two exuberant young women holding them were enjoying this day, of that there was no question. Had Bill been running the course, there is no telling what he might have done, how he would have responded to those two. There could

NOTHING WOR, . 43 EVER EASY}

FINISHING IS 1 — 2! ot. 26.2 ZANESVILLE RUNNER GIRL . /OU’VE Gor THis BROOKE SMITH = BROOKE!

NYC 26.Z

A Everywhere along the route the crowd seemed insane, no two more crazy than these young women who were in town to support their friend.

© Ken Frick

have been dancing in the street, or maybe a kiss or two! All I know for certain is that those two girls would have remembered Bill and that they would have had their very own NYC Marathon story to talk about back home.

Over the many miles, I thought often of how blessed I was. It seemed that whenever I was experiencing something special or was struggling a bit, my mind seemed to go to my mother. It was a powerful feeling to have her so near.

Somewhere well into Brooklyn, the route took us up a hill on Lafayette Avenue. It was loud, very loud. The boisterous crowd that welcomed us had been yelling for hours and would do so for hours to follow. On their narrower street, we ran closer together. With the large crowd so close and with the tighter running space, it seemed strangely intimate.

Every mother’s sons

From mile 15 to mile 16, we turned west over the Queensboro Bridge from Queens into Manhattan. The first half of the bridge was up a pretty tough grade, for me the first time I noticed a prolonged head wind. Halfway over the bridge, I caught up with “Mike from New Jersey,” running with a message on the back of his shirt honoring his mother. When I passed him, I mentioned my own mother’s passing. It lit him up. He was yelling encouragement for me until I was out of earshot.

Beyond Brooklyn there weren’t many real hills until Central Park much later, only long, painful up- and down-grades that went on forever. The first 20 miles of the course runs generally north, so at the top of each rise you would see thousands of runners stretched out well in front of you, ridge after ridge after ridge.

By mile 18 many among us were walking. Crossing the final bridge from the Bronx and again reaching Manhattan meant that we had only five miles to run. Thad hoped that by that time we might feel a bit of a tail wind, but not so. The gusts were still random, coming from every direction. But for me what hit the hardest was the incline up Fifth Avenue. It seemed to go on forever. I was weaving in and out quite a bit, going around those who had slowed.

It was like magic once we entered Central Park for the last two and a half miles. At that point everyone was running. The energy level was insane. I don’t remember any wind. I tried to keep my eye on the course and the runners around me but was compelled to keep looking to the side to watch the excitement. The crowd was cheering us on at a fever pitch.

The final turn of the course took me around a corner, past Columbus Circle. Eight hours earlier I had walked to this corner to catch the subway, and yesterday, from my hotel room, I had seen the banners that were only a few blocks north to the finish line. On that corner my mind went again to my mother. There was only a quarter of a mile to go. I looked up and told her I was near the end, I was about to finish the New York City Marathon. Everything flooded together. Crossing the