A memorable marathon

TAYLOR KRAUSS/YH Taylor snapped this picture when he passed the Frenchman-- for the second time.

It's funny how things work out. I remember sitting in the Davenport common room trying to convince Thomas Whitney, SM '02, that he and I would run the 1999 New York Marathon together. One year later, Thomas was ready to run, but I was sidelined with a stress fracture. So come race day, instead of putting on my running shoes, I took my camera in hand, ready to follow Thomas.

I arrived in New York on Sat., Nov. 6, the night before the race, hopped in a cab, and got out in the middle of Times Square. The shining lights and dancing signs, although not new to me, were once again hypnotic. I loved the city, but I was aware that I was just another tourist with a camera hanging at my side, staring up and snacking on warm chestnuts that I bought from a street vendor.

The next day, at 6 a.m., Thomas and I woke up, lubricated his nipples so they wouldn't rub raw, and discussed our plan. I would take him to the starting line in Staten Island, cross over the Verazzano Bridge into Brooklyn before the race, and meet his friends at mile seven. There, I would drop off my camera and jacket and then station myself at mile 12, where I could help keep him on pace for 10 miles.

We arrived in Staten Island amid balloons, port-a-potties, and an excited mass of 30,000 runners. When it came time for me to cross over to Brooklyn, I realized that the Verazzano Bridge was closed. Nevertheless, I was determined to cross it.

I tried to walk past several Green Berets who were guarding the bridge's entrance, but was stopped and told to consult the police. I went to speak with one in his car. "I'm sorry, you just can't go on the bridge," he told me. "It's closed, there's no way."

I waited until he drove off, gestured to the Green Berets that we had spoken, and sauntered onto the empty bridge. I was alone save for three photojournalists, and I was singing out loud. I stopped halfway across—wind howling, colorful crowds milling around below, helicopters flying overhead—and drank coffee with a photographer from the Associated Press.

The race began. I watched the leaders fly by, and then I sat on the median, overtaken by a rush of heads flooding both sides. The bridge bounced as the crowds passed. "Mr. Thomas Whitney!" I yelled when I spotted him. Then I ran with a Frenchman for a few miles, snapping away as I ran. Rows of spectators on the sides of the streets even cheered, "Go camera man!" The support at mile three was already amazing.

It was time to get to mile 12, so when I spotted a man with a movie camera I seized the opportunity. Before I knew it, some guy in the front seat of the van was telling me to get in. I hopped in the back of the van. Two beautiful Austrian women sat next to me, a big German man drove, and an Aussie navigated. I found out that they were a team from a German television station. "Where are we going?" I wondered aloud. "We go to mile 10...that's where the neighborhood is Jewishhh."

"Oy," I thought, "what did I get myself into?" But it was nothing of concern—I had only gotten into a car with a couple of friendly newscasters and had a great time talking.

At mile 11, I saw the same Frenchman running by, so I ran with him for another mile and chatted about Paris. The time was passing quickly and I had already missed Thomas at mile 12. There were no taxis around and the roads were blocked, but I had to make it to mile 24 somehow. I bumped into a couple who told me they'd drive me. It turned out that they were from my hometown—Phoenix, Ariz.

At mile 18, I sprinted to the other side of Central Park to get to mile 24. I cheered on the side of the road for no longer than two minutes, when I saw a very exhausted Thomas Whitney. I ran alongside Thomas for a few minutes in search of his cheering parents, then waited with them, proud of the triumphant runner who had split 3:21 in his first ever New York Marathon.

Both Thomas and I had an incredible day running through New York. Next time, I'll have to try the other side of the sideline.

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