Marathon: Always run-ny in Philadelphia

Before Sunday, I had always imagined marathon courses as something analogous to gladiator arenas. I imagined the runners as the gladiators. I even pictured a crowd of riotous spectators and a Russell Crowe clone emerging victorious from battle. But running in the Philadelphia Marathon was not quite as I imagined.

Certainly, the two champions stood out. Ethiopian Folisho Tuko and Dutch Mariska Kramer crossed the finish line in two hours, 19 minutes and 2:35, respectively. Kramer beat the 12-year old course record for the female category by two minutes, which is not a lifetime over the span of 26.2 miles but an impressive difference.

Sadly, recaps of the race include two deaths. A 21-year-old Penn student named Jeffrey Lee died at the 13.1-mile mark and 40-year-old Chris Gleason collapsed at mile 25. The cardiologist who examined the two runners didn’t specify the cause of the deaths, but several others have speculated heart failure.

Dissimilarly, my own race was glorious, but not in the way I had hoped or imagined. I chose a time that was not entirely arbitrary for my average mile: 10 minutes per mile. The number certainly sounded nice, and I was confident I could pursue my goal after weeks of training. Ask almost anyone embarking on their first marathon, and they will likely tell you that the real goal is to cross the finish line.

I did finish the race, but about two hours behind schedule. I faced a little blip after mile 16. Until that point, I met my pacing goals and pranced along the course, laughing at the cleverly crafted signs. The reason for the delay was a crack in my hip almost immediately at the 16-mile marker. But just as I doubted the possibility of a 21-year-old suffering a heart attack, I doubted the seriousness of my own condition, so I continued. One word played on repeatedly in my mind and drowned out the Avicii on my iPod: Finish. Finish. Finish. I can’t tell you why I continued. But I can tell you how: through the spirit of communal altruism in Philadelphia that morning.

My roommate Heather Hammel ’13 and I woke up at 5 a.m. We flocked to the intersection of 22nd Street and Benjamin Franklin Parkway with over 25,000 other runners. After much effort, we spotted our respective color-coated corrals based on speed and marathon experience. The scene was exactly that: a scene, a rather lively one. People dressed up as Muhammad Ali doubles, twin fairies, Flying Scotsmen, Uncle Sam and more. One guy ran barefoot the entire way. I can confirm his completion of the race because I passed him around mile 1.5, but then he passed me at around 25.

The 60,000 spectators were, in fact, riotous but entirely encouraging. Several called out the strangers’ names printed on every runner’s bib. The observers held up cleverly crafted signs that entertained the runners or me, at least, over the 26.2 mile span. My favorites read “you’re a better running mate than Sarah Palin,” “hurry up, we’re cold/bored/hungry” and “on a scale of one to 10, you’re a 26.2.”

Several groups of spectators provided interesting handouts and displays. As we ran along Frat House Street (I don’t remember the actual name), the deliriously lively members passed out cold brews. An eccentric group of people stood at the 10-mile marker and dressed as if they had stepped out of a Deadmau5 rave. Young kids patiently waited and cheered for their parents as the adults passed. Dedicated friends like Margaret Shaw ’12 and Clarke Read ’12 traipsed along practically the entire course and scanned thousands of passing faces for a familiar one.

The spectators certainly made an otherwise excruciating race enjoyable, and so did my fellow runners. Several stopped to ask if I needed help and offered encouragement in the form of “you’re almost there,” even when I was miles away and walking. A running coach from Philadelphia walked with me for the final 0.8-mile stretch and told me she had a similar race to mine four years ago. She has since run four marathons.

The Philadelphia Marathon this year was anything but boring, a description some might use to describe the 26.2 mile race. The race also wasn’t an “every man for himself” scenario as I imagined. Run, or at least watch, a marathon, and you’ll see what I mean.