So without any further Freddy Adu . . .

TRAINING I was a huge slacker this past summer. I loved the really hot days, since it was an excuse not to go running and instead to hang out playing drums in my air-conditioned house. My summer lifeguarding job was a blast, as always, and getting tan was much more important than getting in shape. I think the longest run I did over the summer was around 11 miles . . . totally weak, I know.

Then September rolled around, and I moved from Philly to New York for my sophomore year of college. I decided that I’d better “Git ’er done” if I was going to qualify for Boston. Thus, the early-morning training began, and I was up at 6:00 running, swimming, or lifting. The worst part of this training was not being able to go out with friends and indulge in a beer or six as much as I would’ve liked. After a while, I got into the rhythm (I am a drummer) and started cranking out 20-milers every week. I peaked around 23 when the eight days of rain in the Northeast cut short my planned insane 30-miler because I couldn’t run anywhere without running in a 3-inch puddle. I was in the best shape of my life because:

1. I wasn’t drinking, B. Running is good for you, and III. I wasn’t drinking. My roommate would scoff when I did push-ups and sit-ups, as she would chow down half a pint of Ben & Jerry’s. My mental resolve to not eat Taco Bell still amazes me.

THE DAY BEFORE TOMORROW (STARRING JAKE GYLLENHAAL) The day before the race, I was much busier and excited than I wanted to be. Instead of taking a day off, I cleaned my apartment, had a three-hour rehearsal, and went uptown to the sporting goods store where I work, because I stupidly forgot the GUs I had bought the night before. I guess I did a really bad job at staying off of my feet (though I eventually found the couch and got to watch another great Penn State football win).

After a delicious dinner of, you guessed it, pasta, I talked to my parents on the phone and watched ESPN for a while. Around 9:00, I stretched and meditated for a few minutes while listening to John Coltrane’s “A Love Supreme.” That calmed me down enough, and I was in bed by 9:30. Surprisingly, I was asleep by 10:00. (I was surprised that I didn’t worry about worrying that I’d be awake all night worrying about the race.)

THE END IS NEAR At 5:15, my cell phone woke me up, and I stumbled out of bed to a breakfast of a Clif Bar, banana, and Gatorade. I stretched a few times, put on my clothes, and headed out to my bus. A short subway ride and I was at 53rd and Sixth Avenue where I was to meet my Sub-Elite bus.

OK, time for a quick side note. I received an e-mail from New York Road Runners about being in the Men’s Sub-Elite program in early October. Um, dude, I’ve never run a marathon, so how can I be sub-elite? Not being one to argue, I showed up in a pair of cotton sweatpants and an unnecessarily oversized free fleece from Sports Illustrated that I wasn’t sad about throwing away before the race. All of the other Sub-Eliters had their sleek and streamlined track suits on and looked very serious. The guy checking our numbers as we boarded the bus took at least a triple take when he looked at the goofily attired kid in front of him. One of the Sub-Elite perks is the police-escorted bus to our private warm-up area with the Elite athletes. Ha! I definitely pulled one on the race organizers, but once again, I kept quiet and enjoyed the VIP treatment.

The bus was stale—everyone was serious and focused. I mean, I can understand that you have to relax and focus before a big race, especially if you’re shooting for a sub-3 or something like that, which most of my fellow Sub-Eliters succeeded in accomplishing. I found myself to be the complete opposite (as are most casual marathoners, I presume). After one smartass comment didn’t go over well with the other Subs, I shut up and dozed off for a while. Just after 8:00, we arrived at our private warm-up area. Honestly, watching all of my fellow Sub men stretch, jog, and eat one-fifth of an energy bar every 8.2034 minutes was the most fun I’d had all day. During the hours before the start, I tried to call my

sister in Germany a few times, but she never answered. She was probably the only person in my phonebook who wasn’t A. asleep, B. drunk, C. still drinking, or D. any combination of the list above. My nerves were kicking in a little bit, so I did some easy jogging and stretched many times. I made sure that I was loose since I’d never run a race longer than 10 miles and I wasn’t sure how my body was going to feel about it. Around 9:40, our small group was escorted up to the front of the Orange start (probably the best perk of being elitely sub). During our stroll up to the start line, the official who was leading our group announced that the woods over to our left were the last bathroom opportunity before the port-a-potties on the course. Needing no further coaxing, most of our party sprinted over and started dropping trou all over the place. Talk about a bonding experience . . . I’ll leave it at that.

As we walked past all of the Orange runners, they started applauding and cheering us on as we walked by. I cracked one of the biggest smiles of the day at that moment but also felt like I was shortchanging them, since they probably worked much harder preparing for this marathon than I did. It was at this point that I realized that marathons aren’t about PRs, free T-shirts, or the excuse to eat like four bags of Oreos the night after the race. Although all of these are great (especially Oreos), marathons are about the camaraderie and community that thousands of runners join together to create.

By the time we reached the start, I still had the balloon of a fleece on my upper half, though I had shed my überly unfashionable sweatpants before we came up to the start. All six GUs were stashed in the back pockets of my shorts, and I had to rethink my GU-stashing strategy, since my shorts were riding down with every stride due to the weight of the GU. I’m sure the last thing you want to see during a marathon is some plumber butt from the guy in front of you.

After acting like I knew what I was doing warming up on the bridge (I did a few short, very intense-looking sprints and striders, because, um, that’s what all my fellow Sub-Eliters were doing), we were called behind the mats for the singing of the national anthem before the opening cannon. Luckily, I was standing next to the most unbelievably tone-deaf volunteer, who proceeded to BELT out our lovely anthem in a very unorthodox, well, interpretation of the tune. Between that and the fact that I was about to run 26.2 FREAKIN’ MILES, I forgot to eat my prestart GU until about 30 seconds before the cannon. Fortunately, I chugged it and a mouthful of water down. And then, we were off.

IT’S THE END OF TERRY AS WE KNOW IT All of the 2:30ers went out very fast, and I just kind of started running at no particular pace. With adrenaline coursing through my veins, I scaled the first mile at 5:50. TERRY! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING??? JUMP OFF OF THE FREAKIN’ BRIDGE RIGHT NOW! SERIOUSLY, KILL YOURSELF!

Someone needs to hit the weight room. ▲

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OK, so it turned out the 5:50 was the Blue one-mile marker, and since the Orange start is ahead of the Blue, I hadn’t yet finished my first mile. I crossed the real mile one at 6:31. Great, Terry, just great. Your goal was 7:10 miles. Dude,

you totally need to slow down. Coming off of the bridge was tough on my shins. I lengthened my stride to take advantage of the delicious gravity coming off the bridge. Mile two was around 6:11. Are you kidding me, Terry, what are you doing?

Just past the two-mile mark, I heard a lady in the crowd yell, “The worst part is over!” Oh, right, like the next 24 miles are going to be cake! I forgot! Thanks for reminding me! Mmm . . . cake. Lower Brooklyn was a lot of fun. I felt great, even at the crazy 6:38 pace I was

holding (so much for 7:10s). The crowds, for the most part, were very supportive, and focused Terry got replaced with fun Terry as I cruised up Fourth Avenue. I started cracking jokes with people around me. For every country’s flag I saw that

I could possibly be from (i.e., Canada, Italy, Australia, NOT Kenya, Mexico, or Qatar), I acted like I was from that country, shouting, “Yay, Canada!” “G’day Australia” “Vive La France!” and my favorite “Oy! England!”

As I had hoped, the people holding the flags thought I was from their country, and subsequent freak-out periods from them ensued. At this point, I was running with mostly women, since the fast open women were at the front

of the Orange start. As we clipped through the first eight miles, I heard lots of “You go, girls!” “Great job, ladies!” and “Looking good, girlfriend!” So, as I passed those shouts, I’d wave, wink, and

yell to the crowd, “Thanks!” in the highest, girliest voice possible.

Probably the most fun I had in Brooklyn was running past a few guys holding a “Go Kristen!” sign. As I ran past, I yelled, “Thanks for the sign!” The utterly confused look on their faces was priceless.

There was a great stretch of crowds on Fourth Avenue, and on that steady hill, it was awesome having them. I maintained my insane pace of 6:40 for the most part. Cruising through the miles before the Queensboro Bridge was pretty uneventful, except for that damned KFC that smelled soooo good. Screw you, Colonel Sanders.

Hitting the half was uplifting, for the fact that, in my view, the glass was half full. But then I was like, “Crap, that was only half?” My half time was 1:27:29 . . . Oooh, Terry, could a sub-3 be in the making?

The Queensboro Bridge was fun! And by fun, I mean it totally sucked. The lack of crowds, stank of motor oil, and oh, yeah, 150-foot climb lost it some style points in my book. Good thing I’m not a French figure-skating judge. I ran 7:11 from miles 15 to 16.

Coming off of the bridge and into Manhattan was much better because of the AWESOME CROWDS!!! A buddy of mine was playing drums in the band at 61st and First, so that was cool seeing him rock out. The best moment coming off the bridge was seeing a crowd of people wearing Philadelphia Eagles jerseys. It was probably the most uplifting and stupidest part of my race, because instead of continuing to run, I started jumping and yelling, “GO EAGLES!!!! WOOOO!!!!” etc. A serious pothole almost blew out both knees as I hopped around in my Eagles euphoria. After that high died down, I realized that First Avenue is pretty long and steep. Crap.

As the crowds began to thin out, the sun started to heat things up. At mile 18, I said to myself, “Sweet! Mile 19 . . . oh, wait, that’s an eight isn’t it. Damn.” Just before the bridge to the Bronx, we passed a DJ who happened to be playing James Brown’s “Get on the Good Foot” (which I thought was appropriate for the setting). I was immediately rejuvenated by the funkiness of Mr. Brown and started dancing, singing, and shouting out “HUH!” a la James Brown to my fellow runners around me. They were not amused. I guess they weren’t on the good foot.

When we got to the Bronx, I was feeOh, wait, we’re back in Manhattan again! I was beginning to slip off of the totally slow 6:40s that I was running and posted a 6:54 coming into mile 21. The crowds coming back into Manhattan were a welcome experience, especially when I heard a DJ spinning “Hypnotize” by the Notorious B.I.G. I started rapping along with Biggie, as the runners around me gritted their teeth and tried to block out the goon screaming, “AND I JUST LOVE YOUR FLASHY WAYS!!!” At mile 22, another incredible musical experience occurred, EXCEPT this one totally sucked. What song was being played just before mile 22? That’s right, George Michael’s

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“Faith.” Never in my life have I wanted to kill someone so much as I wanted to kill George Michael for recording that song. By this point, the sun was, you guessed it, pretty freakin’ sunny. As I slogged up mile 22 on Fifth Avenue, I was totally feeling the dreaded Wicked Cottonmouth, a killer feeling to marathoners. At mile 23, things started to go downhill, pretty much everything except the FREAKIN’ RACECOURSE!!!!

Just after the 23rd-mile marker, I felt a split-second muscle spasm in my right calf. I immediately slowed to a shuffle for a minute, before I resumed my slowed pace of around 7:10 (I was still on track to break three hours). This continued off and on for the next mile, as I slogged up the hills into Central Park. Miles 24 and 25 were pathetic. The only reason I ran a 7:34 24th mile was because a lot of it was downhill and I could increase my stride and riiiiide the gravity.

Right after mile 25, my right quad started to go too, so I had to slow down a lot to prevent any serious stuff that might take me out of the race completely (I was NOT going to bonk). Just as I turned from Central Park South back into the park at Columbus Circle, I saw my buddy (the only person who came to see me race) yelling at me over everyone. I turned to him and said something like, “Dude, my legs are freakin’ dead, yo.” I finished the last mile in 9-something. I had stopped using my watch by that point and shuffled my way through the IMMENSELY annoying “800 Meters To Go,”

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Wow! My pathetic finish line photo.

“400 Meters To Go,” “200 Meters To Go,” “100 Meters To Go,” and “17 Feet To Go” banners. It wasn’t the glorious, all-out sprint to cross the finish as I had dreamed about, and about 10 yards before crossing the finish, I watched the two guys in front of me raise their arms as they crossed the line.

This is how slow I was going. I had time to think, “Wow, how cliché. I mean, I guess it’ll look good on the race photos, but honestly, how many race photos actually look good? At the same time, completing a marathon is a terrific accomplishment . . . but, it’s also still kind of lame.

Needless to say, I crossed the line with my arms above my head. I staggered over to get my medal and then my cape of awesomeness. My legs were totally like “Dude, Terry. Not cool, man. Not cool! We’re gonna pout for a couple days.” They’re still pouting. A volunteer guided me to the private Sub-Elite finishers tent, where I high-fived a few sullen-looking guys and then gave up. Come on guys, cheer up. RUNNING (with the exception of blisters, cramps, side stitches, black toenails, chafing, knee injuries, stress fractures, and muscle pulls) IS FUN! So now for the official officialness: •

Overall: 3:03:45 (gun), 3:03:42 (chip) • Half split: 1:27:29 (Holy crap. That’s a nine-minute positive split for those of you scoring at home.) • Place: 713 (overall), 667 (gender), 2 (age)—Honestly, how many 19-year

olds run marathons? WHAT A TORTUROUS (and fun) RACE! I accomplished my sub-3:10 goal, which got me the BQ I was hoping for. The sub-3 didn’t work out, but I don’t mind. I never thought I’d actually have a shot at a sub-3 my first time in the trenches, so coming close was totally cool.

Congrats to all of the runners who smoked up the course this year in New York! Da End. For three easy installments of $29.95*, you can own your own copy of Terry’s NYCM Totally Rockin’ Race Report!!!! It comes in a beautifully fashioned, breathable, open-mesh, bound carbon-rubber frame. Customize your edition with your name, your race number, and the name of your favorite My Little Pony. *Payments may also be made in pizza, iPods, beer, Body Glide, homemade baked goods, or GU. Residents of Canada may also pay in toques, maple syrup, or calling me every day for like a month and saying stuff like, “What are you laughing aboot?” while we die from laughter.