The best day of the year

It’s getting cold, and you’re getting introspective. Come pick up trash in Gowanus with me and the Pickup Pigeons crew on Wednesday. Bring some good into the world, and take some trash out.

It’s funny when someone says, I read somewhere that… because — let’s face it — did they really read it? I am guilty of saying I read something that I actually learned through a TikTok. I am conscious of this about 50% of the time. Saying I watched something on TikTok diminishes the information’s credibility.

Anyway, I think I read some writer theorize that the best day of the year in New York City is when the marathon occurs. I forgot about this postulation until yesterday when I experienced the best day of the year a.k.a. the New York City Marathon. I am not saying yesterday was my favorite day of the year, but Sunday was the best day of the year. This is an objective statement, even though it sounds like the opposite.

The marathon is a unique sporting event. Its historical significance dates back to a Greek guy running nonstop to Athens, announcing their win at the Battle of Marathon, and collapsing to his death. Despite its morbid origins, marathons are accessible to the general population. Accessible does not mean easy, but completing a marathon does not require being on a certain team or practicing since childhood. People of all ages and abilities can run a marathon if they commit to training consistently enough.

All major and many minor cities host marathons. Growing up in Pittsburgh, my version of the marathon was sitting in the back of my mom’s minivan as she traversed around closed city roads while trying to get my brother and me to Sunday School on time. As I previously mentioned, my family avoided routine athleticism for decades, and none of us in our athletic renaissances have turned to running in a way that has stuck. Marathons were another reminder of how people do weird things when they’re bored.

Marathons took on a whole new meaning in Boston. Universities have off for Marathon Monday when athletes worldwide take the streets for the Boston Marathon. College students use days off as an opportunity to drink in broad daylight, and Marathon Monday was the craziest party day of the year. Boston college partying, although fun, pales in comparison to the debauchery at state schools with football teams and small towns. MarMon was the one day that attempted to capture the freedom and danger unleashed at Big 10 schools every Sunday. This was one of the most fun days to be in a sorority, complete with 7 a.m. breakfast pregames, customized crop tops, and gossiping over which sororities each fraternity invited over.

Reality alters on MarMon, and BU students transform from sweet scholars to roving creatures, littering the real neighborhood of Allston with beer cans and arguing with disgruntled police officers. Just a short walk away, normal people are cheering from the sidelines of a world-renowned race. The Boston Marathon is famous for being the oldest marathon but also because of the newer elephant in the room. Bostonians have spent the years after the 2012 bombing rebuilding unity and strength, but the terror remains in a quiet corner in the back of their minds. Marathon Monday produces the dichotomy of wholesome pride on the route and collegiate grossness a few blocks away.

New Hampshire marathons either meant annoying road closures on my way to work or teeny stories before commercials on weekend news. Boston’s marathon reigned supreme in our coverage and I began shifting my marathon thinking away from drinking. Older colleagues told me their stories of covering the marathon during the bombing. Fitter colleagues trained and interviewed fellow runners. The charity element gained more emphasis. I remember watching a particularly moving package from our sister station in Boston about the people who finish last, their commitment to continue through physical turmoil.

As of yesterday, I can finally have an opinion on what marathons mean in New York. One of the first things I noticed upon moving here is the sheer popularity of running. Turns out walkable cities are also runnable, with people taking to the sidewalks, riverwalks, and tracks to stay active and look more put together than me. There are a plethora of running clubs for all types of people: fast, slow, weed-smoking, and whatever other types of runners exist. New York is the perfect city for this free activity because there is a lot of beautiful ground to cover, and New Yorkers famously mind their own business, meaning you can flop with reckless abandon if need be.

One of the first people I met in the city was runner (but, more importantly, avid Gentrifier Olympics reader) Aimee. She is a self-optimizer, constantly checking in with herself on ways to better her life and maximize her potential. These qualities line up with someone who can run a marathon. In the months of knowing her, she constantly raised money and trained for the New York City Marathon, her first 26.2. I was both in awe and in fear of her drive to accomplish this goal.

I referred to runners in a previous issue as beautiful masochists and partly had Aimee in mind. As an aggressive non-runner myself, I could not figure out why someone with a full life would dedicate hours and stress to build their way up from casual to extreme running. Is marathoning a healthy activity, or does it put too much strain on the body? Do you have to be a little bit crazy to run one? I read this great New York Times article: “One Partner Runs the Marathon — and the Other Does Everything Else.” For some, extreme running can be a method to avoid responsibilities in relationships and serve as a selfish activity to sideline one’s core people to complete the more monotonous daily tasks. I have this mental image of a father mid-midlife crisis leaving his wife at home to deal with, well, everything while he literally runs away from his obligations. When I think of a marathoner, one of the first words I associate this archetype with is selfish; however, selfish is not how I would describe Aimee or most of my runner colleagues. Maybe I should open my mind.

Sunday arrives, and I am in the best mood not because it’s New York’s best day of the year, but it’s my best day of the year — daylight saving (there is no s at the end). Ever since I was a fragile child, I have loved the extra hour of sleep and the productivity it brings, even just for a week. Darkness shmarkness; there’s no difference for me once it gets dark at 6 p.m.

Meera and I woke up around 8 a.m. with McCarren Park in mind, the park on the Williamsburg/Greenpoint border 12 miles into the race. We took a leisurely Autumn walk through sunlit blocks lined with fallen leaves. Dunks cold brew in hand, beanie on head, and oversized Portsmouth, NH sweater on body, I looked like I was ready to watch a marathon a few hours and months away. Random runners passed us on the sidewalk as part of their Sunday morning routines, including a lady in a Pittsburgh Marathon hoodie.

We converged with our friends at the Greenpoint corner of the park. This corner of cafes and thrift stores is already busy most Sundays, but a brassy band plays where the outdoor clothing racks usually stand. Plenty of people and their respective animal companions pack behind caution tape to cheer on their loved ones along with everyone else. Spectators scream and clap into the running void, personally encouraging runners with names on their shirts. I was particularly charmed by the man standing in front of me. He was decked out in a Ted Lasso brand of excitement, wearing the show’s team jersey and holding a cardboard BELIEVE sign. He cheered for every person, not stopping to catch his breath. Runners understanding of the show’s lore ran up to slap the sign and boosted themselves forward. Ted Lasso is a cheesy show, but the cheese evokes a sincerity I enjoyed seeing play out in front of me.

My friends and I kept checking the marathon app or Find My to figure out when Aimee would pass by us. Hordes of runners flew by, smiling through the pain and feeding off the crowd’s electricity. We excitedly stared out at the runner tsunami, overwhelming my eyes to the point of dizzying my surroundings if I looked away. I saw all ages of runners, some wearing flags or silly hats. I saw people with shirts that said Visually Impaired and runners panting as they pushed a loved one in a wheelchair. Running as a disabled person and keeping a great pace? I can’t be bothered to run a mile as a baby in good health!

Seeing love overflowing in the park Sunday morning had me on the verge of tears (um yes, I did get my period today). Our crew searched for Aimee in the sea of runners, even sitting on each other’s shoulders to scope her out. Once we found her, she was halfway past us, and we reflexively blurted a noise with her screaming back. We probably scared her, but we gleefully hugged each other knowing that we transferred some love to our hardworking friend. It was amazing to see her in the mix and crushing the race.

We met up with other friends at Central Park and got some food before lining up near the bottom of the park at mile 25. Her family was on the other side, and we saw some runners we noticed earlier in the race still chugging along. Aimee passed us again, almost done with her five-borough journey. We joined forces after the race and again that evening for spaghetti and coziness.

What a heartwarming day — definitely New York’s best day of the year. The entire city is bursting with people, cheering for the strongest of us in amazing weather during the best season. Marathons attract international attention, but this day felt distinctly American, or at least what America should be like. People unified in encouragement and pride, motivating one another to succeed and in awe of hard work. I read something (actually, I watched it on TikTok) that the race is the reward, a time to celebrate the diligence people put towards training. Hard work yielding success is the epitome of the American Dream.

Unfortunately, the American Dream fades away more each day. A pessimist would see a marathon as a physical embodiment of the capitalistic rat race we all, especially New Yorkers, run daily. The Puritanical suffering America is famous for, toiling to no end in search of perfection for God to maybe see. Marathoners have the privilege of time, health, and probably support to see their goal met.

To root your thoughts in negativity like this is simply no fun. You miss out on the beauty and joy around you. Yesterday was one of the days I’ve felt most like a New Yorker, a feeling notoriously hard to come by even for transplants of many years. In a city where people mind their own business, the marathon was everybody’s business. I saw people hobbling around the Upper West Side in the orange ponchos finishers receive and felt connected with them. I was so inspired and felt the closest I’ve had to wanting to run, but that desire is still very small. I got home exhausted and sweaty after my big day of walking six miles.

I need new q’s y’all :/ if you’ve sent one in and I haven’t answered it, it’s because it requires a longform answer I’ll address in a later issue. Think smaller! And thank you!

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