When New York Becomes Your Cheerleader
My experience running the NYC marathon, plus poetic reflections on beauty in troubled times, urban discoveries, and a giveaway!
I hadn’t slept well during the nights leading to the marathon. Many things were weighing on my mind—the election, the questions coming in from publishers (my book is currently on submission), a big forthcoming presentation, and concern that I hadn’t adequately trained. Would I even make it to mile 19, where the Resolve team would be waiting for me to cheer me on?
My plan was to walk a mile, run a mile, walk a mile. If my body hurt, I’d shift to walking only. If my body really hurt, and told me I had to stop, I’d permit myself to take the nearest subway home. My husband, Michael, was fully supportive. As silly as it may sound, knowing I would come home to someone who would be proud of me no matter what, mattered.
Someone once told me that the kids who do best in college are the ones who know that if something goes wrong for them, they can talk about it with their family—and if it simply isn’t getting better—they are always welcome back at home. I knew no matter if I completed six miles or twenty six miles, Michael and Carolina would celebrate my accomplishment, not say, “You should have tried harder.”
I began the day with that in the back of my mind and a commitment to myself to enjoy the experience and soak up every moment at the forefront.
Things started according to plan. Michael took a few photos of me in my Resolve shirt before I grabbed a bagel and a coffee from our local deli and headed to the subway.
On the subway platform, there was a group of runners—easy to identify because we each carried a clear plastic bag provided by the New York Road Runners organization—the only bag you could bring to the starting line. I began chatting with two women, Carrie and Steph and they became my mini-support group for the trip to the starting line.
Police with bomb-sniffing dogs were posted at the ferry turnstiles which simultaneously made me feels safe and nervous. I thought back to the Boston Marathon bombing, but quickly pushed the thought from my mind.
Together, Carrie, Steph and I boarded the Staten Island Ferry and squeezed through gaps between runners to make our way to the front just in time to catch a view of the Statue of Liberty.
Carrie, an actress, was distracted by the texts flooding her phone, Break a leg!
”I wish they just said, good luck!” she said. Break a leg wasn’t exactly the right sentiment for a marathon.
We disembarked to a sound I had never heard in the ferry terminal: cowbells. Ferry workers lined the path for runners, cheering, giving high-fives, and making my eyes water. The official slogan of the NYC Marathon is, “It will move you.” I was moved.
After a long line to board a bus and a short ride through Staten Island, we passed through security and said goodbye to each other. I was on my own.
“Where can I find water?” I asked a volunteer.
He scanned my bib and told me to follow signs to the Orange Village, the staging area for my wave of runners. I headed that way when I jumped out of my skin when a booming sound instantly followed by a visceral vibration moved through my body. I flinched and ducked, covering my head with my arms and bracing myself for the impact from the bomb I thought had just been detonated. I lifted my eyes to see that no one else seemed the least bit concerned.
“What was that?” I asked someone standing near me.
“A cannon to start the race,” they said.
Of all the question I asked, and all the information I gathered before race day, this cannon never came up! It turns out, the type of cannon used is a howitzer which is a mobile cannon. National Guards stuff it with a paper wad and pull a rope to detonate it causing the loud boom and a large plume of smoke. I learned after the race, that the tradition of firing a cannon goes back to the late 1970s.
Relieved, I found water and headed to the starting corral I was assigned to. I checked my phone and saw that I had already walked 2.4 miles and the race hadn't even begun. This would be an epic day for my step count!
The cannon fired again and Frank Sinatra’s “New York, New York” boomed over the loudspeakers. Runners started to move, and soon I found myself jogging over the Verrazano Bridge.
Entering Brooklyn, the crowds held signs that read, “Pace Yo’ Self,” and runners tapped posters with Super Mario Bros. mushrooms that read, “Power Up Here.” Sidewalk bands played music and inspired spontaneous sidewalk dance parties. Kids held out plastic Halloween pumpkins and offered their candy to fuel runners. Mile after mile, the cheers from the crowd was energizing.
Around mile eight, my knees began to feel achy and I dug into the pouch around my waist for Advil. Amazingly, by mile twelve, I was back on track!
Mile after mile, supporters on the sidelines called my name, gave me high-fives, and offered bananas, water, pretzels, and even beer! When I saw Michael and Carolina just before mile 18, I knew I could make it to the finish line. Carolina held a sign that read “Go Lia!” but she wanted to make sure I saw the little drawing on the sign that read, “I believe in you.”
One thing that struck me was how much the signs people held were a reflection of the times. From NYC’s Rat Czar to subway troubles, to the election, Taylor Swift and Glennon Doyle, the crowd was on-trend.
“Rats don’t run this city, you do!”
“You run faster than the MTA.”
“You run this city better than the mayor!”
”In your marathon Era.”
“You can do hard things.”
“Run like JD Vance is behind you.”
“Due to inflation, you will be running 28.9 miles today.”
It was amazing to see friends on the sidelines cheering me on. Thank you to my race-day cheerleaders, Amy, Pam, Dana, Nicole, Jane, Michael, Carolina, Katherine, Alexandra, Mike, Annie, Barb, Cindy, Kathleen, Wai, Katherine, Ling, Mitch, Jude and Pierce (holding a sign made by Indigo). You really kept me going. I’m proud to report that I made it all the way to the finish line!
During the race, there were many spectators cheering me on and celebrating the Kamala hat I had made for the race. It read I’m Voting For KAMALA. During all 26.2 miles, I only saw one spectator for Trump—a woman—standing alone, holding a Trump sign and waving a flag. I wish I had taken a moment to talk to her to understand her passion for a candidate who so obviously disrespects women. And now, in the aftermath of the election, I’m trying to make sense of factors that drove women—especially the 53% of white women—to vote for Trump.
No matter which party won the election, it was going to be an uphill battle to protect reproductive rights. With Trump in office, it’ll be even harder. I’m proud to have supported Resolve for the Marathon and so grateful to every one of you who donated to my marathon fundraiser. I’ll continue to advocate with Resolve every chance I can, but it’s not what I do full time. Every single day, the team at Resolve is fighting for access to infertility care. If you’d like to support them and their mission, they have an active campaign called the Fight for Families campaign to raise funds to meet the demands and protect the availability of IVF across the country. If you’d like to donate to the cause you can do so via my Fight for Families fundraising page.
Thank you!
Words of the Week
Good Bones by Maggie Smith
Life is short, though I keep this from my children.
Life is short, and I’ve shortened mine
in a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways,
I’ll keep from my children. The world is at least
fifty percent terrible, and that’s a conservative
estimate, though I keep this from my children.
For every bird there is a stone thrown at a bird.
For every loved child, a child broken, bagged,
sunk in a lake. Life is short and the world
is at least half terrible, and for every kind
stranger, there is one who would break you,
though I keep this from my children. I am trying
to sell them the world. Any decent realtor,
walking you through a real shithole, chirps on
about good bones: This place could be beautiful,
right? You could make this place beautiful.” —Maggie Smith
Photo of the Week
I've been paying extra attention to my surroundings this week. After the election results, I've become concerned about our country's future. The reminders of the beauty around me each day provide the little bits of hope I need to keep my spirits up.
This week, I passed by a beautifully preserved vault light stoop on White Street in Tribeca. If you've been reading my newsletters for a while, you likely know that I am fascinated with manhole covers, and J.B. & J.M. Cornell manufactured some of the oldest ones.
This sidewalk is marked with B. & W.W. Cornell Ironworks at 139 Centre Street. I can’t tell the exact date of its installation, but historical records show that by 1885, the company had begun working under the name J.B. & J.M Cornell, making this structure more than 139 years old!
Here’s a blurb and image from a technical report from the U.S. Parks Service Department of the Interior Technical Preservation Services that describes vault lights well:
Beginning in the 1850s, sidewalk vault lights became a common feature amidst the burgeoning manufacturing districts of America's urban streetscapes. These cast-iron panels, fitted with clear glass lenses, were set into the sidewalk in front of building storefronts. They permitted daylight to reach otherwise dark basements (or "vaults") that extended out beneath the sidewalks, creating more useable or rentable space for building owners. Each panel was screwed to a castiron saddle and the iron framework that spanned the basement vault. They were cast with molded iron knobs around each lens to protect the glass and improve the footing of passers-by.
You can read the full report, which outlines the restoration of vault lights on Broadway in Soho, and contains great visuals, here.
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I am once again in awe of you and everything you have accomplished in the last few weeks. I am so glad you have you as a friend and cheerleader
Congratulations!!! That's such an accomplishment. I am so inspired by all the wonderful things you do! 👏🏽👏🏽👏🏽