Thirty-two seconds.
Why I'm headed back to NYC for a round 3 in November.
Humor me for a few minutes by time traveling back to January of this year, when I began drafting this NYC Marathon ‘25 recap. Let me help set the scene:
And so we begin…
On the topics of travel and marathon training, the frequency in which I’ve been told in recent months that I have lost my mind has increased exponentially. I am feeling the weight of the insanity, especially as I attempted to plot out last week’s training runs amidst a frigid cold snap during our stay in NYC. If you’re wondering to what lengths I will go to avoid treadmill running, here is the forecast from last Saturday’s morning run:
This was before Fern dropped a foot of snow in Manhattan, and I knew it would likely be the last run of the trip wherein I could avoid icy pathways. The desperation to run outside instead of on a treadmill consistently wins out. I bundled up in a pair of running tights that slide down with every step, a long sleeve hooded shirt with a built-in breathable face cover (Rabbit’s Cocoon 2.01), some light but relatively warm gloves, and an old lightweight winter puffer. It took less than a quarter mile for the puffer to wind up wrapped tightly around my waste (partly because it was too hot already, and mostly because I thought it may help keep my tights from falling).
On this trip, I managed to fit in a couple great runs around Central Park before finally acquiescing and retreating to a nearby treadmill for a few 7 and 8 milers. While the vibe around the park wasn’t quite the same infectious happiness that permeates every ounce of city air on marathon Sunday, falling into a steady tempo among the familiar sites brought my psyche right back to race day in the before times. It’s been almost three months since2, but this is the first moment I’ve had to sit down and actually reflect on the experience (and said reflection is happening in waves, which is why this timeline is out of whack!) — it feels like I’ve lived an entire lifetime in the liminal space between Nov. 2, 2025 and now.
NYC Marathon 2026—Take 2
These races are always more exciting when you have other friends who are also demented enough to sign up for them, and this year, I was fortunate to have two such demented friends!
The day after last year’s race, I met up for a morning coffee in Brooklyn with my friend Ari. I had my finisher jacket on, and my medal in my pocket (runners can go around the city acquiring all sorts of freebies like coffee and cookies and beer), and when Ari and I started chatting about the race, a guy at the table next to us chimed in with his experience running it several decades prior. Between the two of us, we somehow managed to convince Ari that he could easily turn his longest run of 6 miles into a cool 26.2. Maybe he was running on too little sleep, or maybe the state of the world caused so much inner turmoil that he needed a new goal to work toward, but in any case, Ari signed up to run the race with the same charity team as me (Shoe4Africa).
Additionally, I had the pleasure of running with Davide, who had also run Berlin six weeks prior, where he finally broke his 5-hour goal time. In NYC, we were both assigned the same starting wave and corral, which made it easy to run the race together.
Per Davide’s suggestion, I did things a little differently for my second jaunt through the five boroughs. Instead of taking the bus from midtown Manhattan to the start on Staten Island like I did last year, I took the Staten Island ferry. Despite tracking the AirTag Maddy and I encouraged Davide to carry with him to the start of the race (because he doesn’t run with his phone), we couldn’t find each other so I jumped on the next ferry. I lasted about five minutes on the windy and frigid outside deck, just enough time to snap a photo of Lady Liberty before retreating to the heated indoors.
Ari’s wave assignment had him starting the race about 30 minutes after me and Davide, but we managed to find each other inside the ferry and got to spend our time in the start village at Fort Wadsworth together asking each other repeatedly what we were thinking when we signed up for this thing, while also vibrating with caffeine-induced energy and race-day excitement.
Along for the journey was (big surprise!) a new friend, Anabelle, I had met on the subway down to the ferry station. Her father and brother were traveling with her in support of her getting to the start for her first marathon (and what an incredible race to start with!). It turns out we were both in the same starting wave and corral, with the same pace and goal times, so I invited her to join me in our adventure and shared what minor tidbits of wisdom I had gleaned from my first go at this race.
Last year, it felt like we had so much time to get the jitters out before starting, but this year felt a bit more rushed. When the three of us finally entered the start village, we bee-lined over to the New Balance tent, where two more running buddies were hanging out. I didn’t see Elise when I poked my head in, and Dan had to jet to his starting corral for Wave 2 before we arrived (but don’t worry, I caught them after the race at a bar, and again for a delicious bagel breakfast the next morning!).
The village felt like pure and utter chaos, with over 60,000 runners, most of whom were still milling about the Dunkin’ Donuts and bathroom lines. We took a little time to put on some sunscreen, slather our legs in BioFreeze, and do some stretching before hitting the lines for the rows of porta potties.
Pro tip: always race with friends so someone can hold your stuff outside because those porta potties are shockingly offensive (who shits on the seat?!).
Also: always carry your own toilet paper—there is never enough.
In what felt like a flash, the loud speaker announced that it was time for our wave of runners to head to the starting corrals, so we said our goodbyes and good lucks to Ari and began the 15-minute trek across Fort Wadsworth. When we decided the night prior that Davide should sport that AirTag, we also made a backup plan that if we couldn’t find each other before or on the ferry, we would meet at the corral entrance—and there he was!
Like cattle, runners are ushered forward as corral A leads the pack toward the highway on ramp. This is the moment reality sets in, and with it comes a transient wave of nausea. However, I found it comforting to know what to expect as the three of us meandered to the start line on the Verrazano.
I’ve tried to put into words what the energy feels like as tens of thousands of runners pace and jump about, shaking off the jitters, trying to keep warm, but I’m not sure the English language could possibly encapsulate that vibe. It buzzes and sings, it’s anxious and happy, and there’s also a sinking feeling that rolls over the crowd with the realization that this thing we’ve been thinking about for months, that we’ve woken up early every weekend to train for, is about to begin, which also means it’s about to end.
In just a few hours, a kind stranger will be draping us in neon orange fleece-lined ponchos and another will be ceremoniously adorning our necks with the heaviest bling known to mankind.
I think I anticipated that this year’s race would mirror last year’s, and not just because the course is the same. Last year, I tracked my race progress by the friends I got to see along the way at different milestones, and many of the same friends were going to be spectating again this year. But by mile 6, I had somehow passed by Dana in Park Slope without seeing her, and the same happened with Jillian on 1st Ave. and Daniel (x2) later in the race.
With our goal to beat five hours in mind, Davide and I kept surging forward without looking back. We had darted out of Staten Island as fast as the crowds would allow on the bridge, then meandered our way through Brooklyn by way of Bay Ridge, Williamsburg, and Greenpoint. Next was Long Island City, Queens straight to the Queensboro Bridge, and then into the roaring crowds of Manhattan.
Most of the race is a blur by this point, and it’s hard for my brain to distinguish between the first and second iteration. The section of Williamsburg between North 3rd and McCarren Park was equally loud and jovial, and again felt like a homecoming for me. The Queensboro bridge still felt like a scene out of every Zombie apocalypse movie. Manhattan was as boisterous as expected.
It wasn’t until mile 16-ish that we ran into our first spectators: My mom was visiting a friend on Long Island so they ventured into the city for the race, and brought with them some cute signs. In quick succession were some friends only a few blocks north. I owe Maddy my weight in gratitude for that Gatorade she held for me to guzzle at mile 17!
And then we hit the wall.
Anabelle was maintaining a steady pace and kept at it when Davide and I started walking more. In his slower moments, I was the cheerleader. In mine, he shouldered that load. We switched off for miles, attempting to motivate each other to meet our goal time. By the time we entered the Bronx, that five-hour window was slipping from us faster and faster, but the energy on the Last Damn Bridge carried us back into Manhattan and helped us close the gap. Up ahead, the same friends and family we had seen about five miles prior had made their way from 1st Ave over to 5th so we could get one last dose of love before venturing into Central Park for the finish.
And this is where things got interesting.
Around the 22.5 mark, Davide and I were feeling depleted and defeated, forcing a smile— a painful job—for the sole purpose of giving the professional photographers a decent subject. Up ahead I watched a young man begin to sway and stumble, until he hit the pavement. We were by his side within seconds, along with a couple other runners. I offered him water and electrolytes and salt tabs and a gel and gummies and KT Tape—whatever he needed to be able to get back up and finish out the last 5k. He settled on needing salt chews and once he was back on his feet, his color returned and he seemed fit to hobble forward.
At mile 23-ish, just before the Central Park entrance, stood Caty, my running buddy who got me to the finish in Berlin, along with a slew of her friends. Seeing her face and hearing them all cheering for me was the perfect fuel to light my fire and snag that PR.
Three steps later, we were offered a shot of Fireball. I declined, but I’m pretty sure Davide downed it before breaking back into a jog to the finish.
Once you enter Central Park, the vibe changes entirely. There’s greenery and shade, the course narrows, and every small hill feels like an insurmountable obstacle. The spectators in the park are relentlessly encouraging, chanting every name they see on a shirt, banging cowbells around and offering all sorts of fuel like Coke and…well…coke (I declined both). Davide was still struggling to climb his mental wall, but I somehow mustered the energy to fall back into some kind of “running” cadence. With his encouragement and a quick wave, I took off.
And, of course, you know I mentioned Anabelle’s impeccable pacing earlier for a reason: guess who I caught up with 800 meters from the finish?! She was still going strong, and while I was sweaty and haggard and red and disgusting, she was cruising like an effortless beautiful angel—even her hair still looked as perfect as it did when we met on the subway many hours prior! And honestly? I couldn’t keep up with her at that point. She absolutely slayed her first marathon and it was a joy and privilege to get to watch her cross that finish line a few meters ahead of me.
Right after she faded into the distant crowd of finishers, I glanced at my watch and realized I was about to miss my self-imposed time cutoff, and simultaneously realized there was nothing I could do to change it.
Thirty-two seconds.
That’s how much I missed it by. And after I managed to not vomit after sprinting to the finish, my neurotic brain immediately started questioning if I could have run faster or harder at any point (of course, and also: of course not). In hanging out with Dana (whom I had missed at mile 6) a couple days later, she told me that when she saw my finish time, she knew it would drive me a little (a lot?) insane. Thirty-two seconds!
But: I can’t even be upset about it. I somehow had a wonderful time running through my favorite city again, and I’m glad I stopped to say hi to people along the way. And I would never second-guess stopping to aid a struggling runner because, while we each are running our own race, we are also each other’s support and community. I’d sacrifice all the seconds again and again, and if you know me at all, you know that’s the truth.
While I had said this race would be my Berlin redemption run (which it was—I shaved over half an hour off my finish time from six weeks prior), I also have the insatiable urge to return this year for round three. I already broke five hours (by a long shot) in Tokyo on March 1, so my goal for NYC 2026 is being fast enough to make it into the NY Times—the last runner who made the cutoff in 2025 ran in 4:39:03, less than two minutes faster than my Tokyo time!
I don’t think I’ve spent any time talking about the medals runners receive upon completion of the race, probably because all of Dave and my combined medals sit in a giant Ziploc bag in our shed. In fact, I hadn’t spent much time at all inspecting our medals until this race. When the medal design was released in the week leading up to race day, the good ol’ folks of the internet went a little nuts about the “stripes”. But it didn’t take long for the powers that be to explain the design, and what looked like stripes on the surface were actually far more meaningful markings to commemorate this momentous achievement of finishing the NYC Marathon.
Along the edge of the medal is the elevation profile of the race. Those stripes? Raised ridges representing each bridge, hill, and incline we had to climb, each obstacle we had to overcome to get to the finish. My touch of ‘tism has found great comfort in the tactile nature of this stupidly heavy bling.
The Post-Race Blues
In the shittiest twist of fate, the inevitable post-race blues were exacerbated by the untimely death of my incredible father-in-law, Jerry. Earlier in the weekend, I almost bailed out of the race to get down to Florida to spend time with Jerry and help Dave and Sheila, but they all insisted I stay, a decision that felt to me both lonely and liberating.
I felt equally helpless and unmoored in the days following the race as I meandered the city and saw a couple shows with friends. I felt even worse having a good time when I knew how much the rest of my family was struggling hundreds of miles away, but we had decided it wasn’t safe for me to bring all the NYC germs down to Florida to be with them, and there was only so much support I could provide from afar.
The blues morphed into grief, and the helplessness I felt in the city quickly morphed into doing when I arrived in Florida on Saturday morning: there were hugs and tears and phone calls; an endless train of company and food seemed to make its way through the house. We told stories, we cried, I washed dishes. I ordered shorts, a new running pack, and a few items I didn’t come prepared with because I had packed for fall in NY, not the endless summer days of FL. I went shopping for an appropriate funeral dress in Sheila’s closet, we ate babka I brought down from Zabar’s, we wrote eulogies, and we cried some more.
Everything was turmoil, yet everything was calm.
In what I imagine was an attempt to distract or normalize the situation, many friends and family shifted the topic of conversation to my race. How was it? How did you do? What was the best part? It felt impossible to allow my brain to time travel back to race day, a day I’ve come to learn is the happiest in New York City. I didn’t want to talk about the race, or how I passed my time in New York afterward. Truthfully, despite the sound reasoning for me to not get down to Florida sooner, I just felt guilty that I wasn’t there with and for my family in those final days, and I wanted to scream this isn’t about me to everyone who shifted focus away from Jerry and our family.
With everything around me in flux and entirely out of my control, I did what I do best: I returned to my training plan, to structure and predictability. In the blistering heat of the Florida sun, I ran for hours. I ran before guests arrived for the shiva, and I ran after the meal deliveries slowed. I ran to clear my head, and to remember how it feels to be alive even when —especially when—it’s immeasurably painful. I ran because each run builds mental fortitude and physical strength; they bolster my resilience, encourage self reflection, and serve as an evergreen reminder that I can always do more, be better, get faster.
Highly recommend, worth every penny.
At the time of publishing, it’s actually been more than six months.