Dear New York City,<\/p>\n
Probably the most excruciating breath I\u2019ve taken in my life was in Lenox Hill Hospital on East 77th Street. It was my first breath on Earth, and my lungs must have wondered what had hit them. Forty-three years later, it seemed fitting that I\u2019d come back to you for another challenge to my lungs and body: my first marathon<\/a>. <\/p>\n I have lots of memories of you, starting from those early years on Manhattan\u2019s Upper East Side. Then there were holiday visits and sleepovers with my grandmother in Stuyvesant Town, special days in Dad\u2019s office in Washington Heights, Mom\u2019s gallery openings in the Village. There were the fits and starts of my early professional career when I lived in Brooklyn and then Alphabet City, using most of my paycheck for rent, the rest for food. And of course, after I moved away in my late 20s, when I\u2019d see you a couple of times a month for work. <\/p>\n Related Story<\/p>\n If I\u2019m being honest, you\u2019ve always been a bit of a headache<\/a> and a challenge. Back when I was just starting out, I couldn\u2019t tolerate your high prices and abrasive attitude, and your tendency to \u201cnever sleep.\u201d Which is why I ditched you for a less exhausting life in the country. Even today, I stress out just thinking about seeing you.<\/p>\n But on an unseasonably warm November Sunday, NYC Marathon<\/a> day, you challenged me more than ever before\u2014and revealed a level of grit<\/a> I didn\u2019t know was in me.<\/p>\n On the Verrazzano Bridge, I was overcome with emotion at having made it to the starting line. Surrounded by scores of runners from all over the world, with the open waterway below and the iconic skyline in the distance, I felt like a part of something huge and meaningful. It literally brought tears to my eyes.<\/p>\n Running through Brooklyn, I was in a zone. I was able to stay on pace<\/a> and hit the halfway mark in decent shape, so I forced a smile at the throngs of cheering spectators. I\u2019ve never been one to smile during races, and even your generous Brooklynites couldn\u2019t get me to light up a genuine grin. <\/p>\n Then came the 59th Street Bridge. Long Island City, with its dull stretches of low-slung warehouses, is perhaps one of your most charmless neighborhoods. Nothing against the spectators who did their best in the streets leading up to the bridge, but that endless, gradual incline in the eerie quiet with the wind blowing up off the East River is where I started to unravel.<\/p>\n The screaming wall of people on First Avenue did nothing to energize me. This is where I began to feel like perhaps a marathon is just too long a run to be considered a wise choice. <\/p>\n And, sorry. Even if the Bronx had welcomed me with confetti and a marching band, it wouldn\u2019t have mattered. Once I got to the Willis Avenue Bridge, I regretted not bringing money or a MetroCard so I could duck out and just go home. With every step, my feet<\/a>, my quads<\/a>, my knees<\/a> threatened imminent shutdown. Worse was the shivering that seemed to consume my whole body, like when you lie feverish in bed, begging for the Tylenol to kick in. <\/p>\n Harlem was a fleeting boost, lifting me up ever so briefly at Mile 22 with its gospel choir, its Jamaican ska, its salsa beat. New York, here is where you started to shine and where I started to believe in myself. Your Harlem spectators literally reached out their hands and told me, \u201cYou can do this\u201d and \u201cYou look strong.\u201d They warmed me with their smiles when my body was wracked with chills. They let me pet their Bernese Mountain Dog, a wagging gift of comfort when all I wanted was to curl up on the sidewalk. They watched me cry tears that were a strange mixture of homesickness, pride, and self-pity. And they saw me smile a genuine smile for the first time all day.<\/p>\n