One year when watching the New York City Marathon in Central Park, an elite runner collapsed in front of my husband (then boyfriend) and me just short of the 25-mile mark. We had made our way through the crowds over to the east side to watch the conclusion of the race–not the tape line finish, or the jubilant entry to the park, but the last uphill slog the runners have to complete to get to the end. Running was something we did a lot together, both of us convinced that nothing could compete with the endorphin rush, the deep sweat, the satisfying ache after a long workout. We especially loved the joy/pain of pushing past our mental limits. And so this spot–this climactic point in the marathon where, after hours of exertion, the athletes had to dig extra deep to claim their victory—was exactly where we wanted to be.
As the runner fell to the ground, he appeared almost naked–blond with pale skin, no body hair, light gray singlet and matching running shorts. By contrast, we were bundled up in coats and hats trying to brave the below-freezing temps. He immediately yelled for us (in Polish maybe?) to rub his legs which had apparently stopped working. So we did. We dropped to our knees and began kneading his calves and thighs–like we were making bread or waxing a car–trying to get his muscles to stop spasming. I don’t remember how long we worked on him, maybe just a minute or two, but suddenly the blood flow kicked in and he bounced back up, taking off down the road in a sprint. He never looked behind. Never acknowledged the intimate moment we shared. He had one thing to do, and that was to finish. I’ve always hoped that he did.
Week 49 is my mile-25 collapse. Like my Polish running friend, I have seized up and face-planted. I don’t have a single idea despite the many words I still want to explore…like love, pain, karma, and Charlize-Theron (hyphenated to make work). I still want to write about prayer, claustrophobia, siblings, rapid-aging, friendship, and happiness. I want to fill a page on Ray, a made-up name for the old guy in my neighborhood who wears the same cowboy outfit every day and shuffles through the streets with his cane, sorting out his life woes in stereo. I want to dive deep into partnership, sex, pain, death, perfectionism, and my obsession with hip-hop. I want to have a go at all of the 28 words in my idea folder that I’ve tinkered with on-and-off, but have never fully executed. And yet, right now, at this very critical moment, I’ve got nothing. Not a concept or a through-line or a turn of phrase. My brain (and probably my heart too) is exhausted to the point where all I want to do is curl up and protect myself from the stick that’s been poking at me for a year-and-a-half. Curious timing, I realize, because the end of the race lies just around the corner.
Two things come to mind as I attempt to revive myself and drag my body towards the finish. First, even though I’ve never run a marathon, I know what 26.2 feels like–raising my kids, opening a school, and this blog for starters. I know how desperate that runner felt when his legs wouldn’t turn over; when he was forced to call on strangers to carry on. I also know that over the years, I’ve regularly failed to ask (or yell at) someone to rub my legs so that I could keep going. We don’t ask for help often enough, and we’re all in some sort of marathon. I’ve been cheered on throughout this process; it’s the reason I’ve made it to 49. Cheer on those who need it. Regularly.
Second, maybe I don’t want to get up because when I do the experiment will be over.
