Marathon man

On the way out to the Staten Island starting point for the New York Marathon last Sunday, the firefighters called for a minute’s silence as our convoy trundled past the building site which is Ground Zero. Getting to the start of the marathon is as much an ordeal for the 45,000 participants as getting to the finish line itself, but it’s a bit of an advantage travelling with the police and fire department running clubs as they get to park closer to the starting line than anyone else.
Marathon day was also the first Sunday in yonks on which I’d gone to Mass — celebrated by Fr Brian Jordan, chaplain to the labour unions of New York. With the help of readers, I raised $2,100 for a Franciscan church in New York where Fr Jordan works with hard-pressed immigrant communities.
Fr Jordan has run 60 marathons in his time — and Belfast next May will make it 61.
He gathered the nervous marathoners round him in sub-zero temperatures for a Mass which was two-parts old-style kingdom hall and one-part new-age evangelism. In short, it was uplifting and inspirational — especially his promise that the Holy Spirit would intervene and ensure we didn’t stop even when we reached our lowest ebb.

Enthusiasm
And then we were off, over the two-mile bridge to the mainland and into a reception from the first wave of two million spectators.
In Brooklyn, my heart soared when I saw a man hold up a poster: ‘Beir bua. Maith Sibh go Léir.’ And with a Tricolour on my front, I was getting extra cheers from the Irish American onlookers. The extraordinary generosity of New Yorkers, their enthusiasm for this great race (contrast with Belfast where runners are consigned to the more barren stretches of the docks) makes it the world’s greatest marathon.
I had planned on a slow marathon pace but lost the run of myself (literally) when a four-hour pacemaker, holding aloft a stick with orange balloons so we could follow him, coasted past. I stayed on his tail for a full 23 miles before I blew up just short of Central Park and the finish line. The Holy Spirit and the dead were all called into commission to ensure I didn’t stop, however, and when I crossed the finish line after four hours and eight minutes, I whooped like a madman.
There is something special about completing a marathon — and anyone can do it as long as they train hard and remember that it’s a race of two halves: the first 20 and the last 6.2.