February 16, 2011
By Staff Reporter
Not only did I finish in under four hours in my first ever marathon, but I was a good 18 minutes ahead of the hip-hop star formerly known as Puff Daddy, who was also running for the first time. But when I tried to relay the significance of this fact to my father, it didn’t really register. I guess the shooting incident that precipitated the abrupt name change a couple of years ago wasn’t quite enough to make him a household name across the pond, or at least to register on the radar for Irish people in the 65-plus age bracket.
Despite the hoopla surrounding his participation in the race, I never saw P. Diddy. I did see an entourage of security guards and TV cameras hurry somebody through the marathon village before the start, but it could have been anybody.
But his presence dogged my marathon experience. For one thing, several people who came out to cheer me on completely missed me, but they all saw P. Diddy. A couple of friends who traveled all the way to the Bronx from the East Village missed me by minutes but saw Mr. Combs, only to spot him again at 59th Street after they hurried to try to catch me there, missing me again. Several co-workers braved the throngs on the Upper East Side and completely missed me but caught him. The list goes on.
Throughout the race the streets were lined with people waving signs supporting his run for charity and at several stages I actually thought I heard people calling his name behind me, but in my exhaustion-induced delirium I decided they were shouting for the NYPD. Now thanks to modern technology (a computer program that allows you simulate your race against any other entrant) I know that P. Diddy and I were neck and neck for several miles — how could I have not seen his large security detail? — but I took him at 13 miles. Sorry, Diddy.
With all their cheering for P. Diddy nobody called out my name. I guess nobody could read the crudely written phonetic version I had scrawled on my shirt, “NEVE,” in the vain hope somebody would call it out. Not a chance. Though I would like to think that a man in Harlem cheering for someone called Nina might actually have been rooting for me. I would also like to believe that some people in Brooklyn yelling for someone called NV were on my side.
Maybe I should have worn a fancy-dress costume, like the guy dressed as a cell phone or the woman in a tutu. Or I could simply have dressed for my day-job, like the soldiers wearing full-battle fatigues and carrying 40-pound packs, and the English policeman in his full London bobby’s uniform. To be fair to the latter, he was remarkably cheerful and though at mile 20 he admitted his helmet was digging into his head a bit, he was still able to banter with the crowd.
Despite my lack of novel attire, miraculously some friends did spot me among the 34,662-plus participants. Though my friend Chip, who had gone to the trouble of getting up early to make me a personalized sign, said I went by too fast for him to unfurl the thing. Unfortunately, I didn’t spot him. My friend Matthew was less lucky. I saw him at mile seven and stopped to give him a hug, covering him in sweat. Sorry, Matthew.
I should admit that my reasons for running were somewhat more selfish than Mr. Combs, though he seems to have garnered a lot of publicity for himself as well as the money for charity. I ran because I wanted to prove something to myself. And I did. I proved that I can do it and that it’s quite likely I won’t be doing it again, at least not anytime soon. That’s despite being assured by several type-A personalities before the race that I would be rushing to sign up for next one as soon as I crossed the finish line.
I didn’t. Somewhere around mile 12 I made a promise to myself that if I finished I would never put myself though it again. Not that I was fading particularly badly. I wasn’t. Or that the whole experience when viewed broadly wasn’t utterly amazing and uplifting. In fact, it was awesome. But running 26.2 miles is a hell of an endurance test and at times the experience was unbelievably brutal.
They say the memory of childbirth pangs fade pretty quickly thus allowing women to go through it again, if it didn’t the human race would be in jeopardy. Right? Is that true? Some mothers wholeheartedly disagree, but they still go on to have more kids. Maybe running a marathon is the same. I guess I would have to do it again to find out. I wonder if P. Diddy will be running next year?