A Marathon Day in the Life of New York

The New York City Marathon marks first year reporter Mary Kohlmann’s first time exploring the city—all of it—on her own. Hailing from Camp Lejeune, North Carolina, she is assigned to walk through all five boroughs in a single day in an attempt to find the “real” New York. Her parents’ reaction? “You’re going to get mugged.”

Downtown 1 train, 10:15 a.m.

It is Sunday morning on a quiet subway, and I am off.

India and Manhattan, 11:20 a.m.

I emerge from the subway into what I hope is northern Brooklyn. There are Christmas decorations strung across the streets. The buildings are smaller, older, made almost exclusively of painted brick. People walking past speak languages I don’t recognize, languages that taste of Southeast Asia or Eastern Europe. I follow a family that appears to be out of place here, despite their strong New York accents, hoping that they are heading for the marathon. They are looking around curiously, wielding three smiley-face balloons.

Leonard and Greenport, 11:35 a.m.

I’ve found the marathon. Good God. I come from a Marine Corps base, and these people look scarily fit even to me. It’s about 90 percent men, most in their twenties or thirties. It feels like a party, with a decent cover band playing to a soundtrack of constant cheering. People watch from fire escapes; two little girls, ash-blonde and about four years old, are peering out in fascination from behind Venetian blinds. Spectators wave signs: “Go Boppy”. “Lucky number thirteen!” someone calls out as the runners enter the thirteenth mile. “Halfway there!”

Pulaski Bridge, noon.

My planned route calls for me to cross the Pulaski Bridge, which today is open to marathoners only. I think I can run at these people’s pace for the length of the bridge, but I do not, by any stretch of the imagination, look like a marathoner. Hmm.

Side stairs to Pulaski Bridge, 12:12 p.m.

I arrive at the bridge’s caution-taped side stairs to find a young man eyeing them pensively. After telling one another that the worst thing they can do is send us back, (Right? “We aren’t stealing diamonds here,” he says) we crawl under the tape and sprint upwards. At the top, we find two police officers. All things considered, they are impressively kind. They give us directions we do not understand. We smile, nod, and climb back down. “Nice to meet you!” we tell one another. “Good luck!"

Other Side of Pulaski Bridge, 1:40 p.m.

I wuss out on joining the marathon and subway to the far side of the bridge. These people had to work to be here. Waltzing my three-mile self onto the track feels unfair. The stream of marathoners is thinner now, and the marathoners themselves are thicker, older, more valiant, and more tired. There are fewer people cheering, and to me this makes no sense—these are the runners who need the cheers. I walk past a family just as their runner passes. “Nana!” the kids call as an older woman--blonde, spandexed, and besneakered—stops. She grabs them, laughing, holds them close and smothers them with kisses. She dances them around, playing ring-around-the-rosy in the middle of the street.

21st and 44th, 2:19 p.m.

There’s more Spanish being spoken here, more Spanish-language music wafting from windows. The layout is odd, with a Citibank skyscraper sprouting abruptly from among three- and four-story stores. In honor of the marathon, a group of men on a corner mockingly cheers a friend as he crosses the street. “¡Venga!” they call, chuckling. “¡Bueno! ¡Bueno!” Another man is singing West Side Story in an exaggerated accent: “Ah like to leeve een Ah-may-ree-cah!”

Central Park, 4:28 p.m.

I enter Manhattan with Rima, who is completing the marathon tied to a tire to promote environmental awareness, and cut across towards the course’s end. I am at the 25-mile mark, and the marathoners are seven hours worth of tired. “One more mile!” chant the volunteers. “Almost there!” Even the shaky ones are straining forward; they want to be done. One has his name taped across his forehead—the spectators call it out, and he speeds up. “I swear,” says a man to the woman beside him, “the miles are longer this year.” I stand 100 yards from the finish line and watch for a full half hour as they trudge past me into the lights of the last arch, spreading their arms one after another in triumph.

163rd and Prospect, 6:21 p.m.

It’s beginning to get dark in the Bronx and I am unfamiliar with the area—I will just have dinner and come back. Problem: I am down to quarters. After an awkward conversation with the proprietors of El Despertar Restaurant, I discover that they don’t take debit cards. Colony Fried Chicken doesn’t either, but they are slightly cheaper. I order the special: two rolls and three wings. The boy behind the counter looks about my brother’s age, and as he hands me my bag he says conspiratorially, “I put four. I put an extra one in.” I thank him, and he smiles.

Southbound 3 Train, 6:39 p.m.

This is the best fried chicken I have had since I left North Carolina. The young man standing next to me, whose tattoos include two of the teardrops said to represent murder, is scrolling very seriously through a hot pink iPod nano. Our car has a moment of drama when the doors close on a woman attempting to leave; another man and I have to yank for a scarily long moment before they open again. She steps out and away, and our eyes catch in a flash of relief.

Staten Island Ferry, 10:36 a.m.

Having decided against trying to sightsee my last borough in the dark, I head for Staten Island in the morning. If I get there before 11:21 p.m., it’s the same day. To my surprise and delight, the ferry is both free and efficient. A couple near me wears marathon finisher medals. I stand on the back deck, mesmerized by the pattern the wake makes in the river. Three Australians wearing Statue of Liberty hats are talking to two Canadians beside me. “So, what do you think?” asks a Canadian. An Australian raises his eyebrows at his girlfriend. “Some of us like it.”

Central Ave., 11:23 a.m.

This neighborhood is good for wandering—the buildings are short, and the streets curve out in ways that pull me forward. There are moments of extreme quirk. I pass some sort of club whose walls include a huge painting of parakeets eating tiny people. On another wall below a playground, I find the following: “This mural was created by the children of Hospitality House and of this neighborhood. It is a celebration of nature and life! Please respect our wall!” The mural is not new, and yet I see only one piece of graffiti. It is a gang sign, and it is carefully centered in a pink cloud.

Staten Island Ferry, 12:41 p.m.

I am coasting back towards Manhattan, and the famous skyline is punctuated by garbage barges and other people’s cameras. What is the real city? I don’t think I can say. It is buildings and pigeons. It is tourists and lifers. It is closed bridges and crowded subways and the marathon finish line. We live here. Is it us?

Mary Kohlmann can be reached at news@columbiaspectator.com.