Wednesday, November 8, 2017

26.2 Quatrains of Doggerel: NYC Marathon (11/5/17)

Cool Medal with my middling pumpkin beer at Baker Street

Race: New York City Marathon
Goal Time: 3:12:00
Actual Time: 3:29: something

Upon the black asphalt road we huddled,
As first elite women ran t’ward Brooklyn.

We waited in the rain for our turn in,
Dressed in matching yellow, me and Tuttle.

Then camouflage clad sent a cannon boom,
While Frank aloud sang: “Start spreading the news,”
And up the Verrazano Bridge we flew
Finding our own area, pace and room.

Descending America’s longest bridge
I was running easy but way too fast;
This pace could not continue nor long last,
Down the easy steep pitch into Bay Ridge.

Into the borough of trolley dodgers
I ran first into high fives from Declan
Then further on those of papa Brendan.
Someone was flying the Jolly Roger.

And now us Or-ange joined with Green and Blue
The first hill we would climb was here on Third
Unhuman crowd like a wildebeest herd
Migrating en masse up Fourth Avenue.

My pace was still keeping an even keel
No trouble yet from the humidity
My stomach had yet shown acidity
Indeed this may have been the best I’d feel.

Somewhere in Brooklyn was lost in the mix
Another sixteen hundred meters flat
Where there was either or both this and that
But I cannot recall mile number six.

Suddenly I heard someone yell my name
Then to the left I was forced to swervey
For there was Kathy and my wife – Urvi
For a moment I was the Run of Fame.

I slid across the road from Left to Right
But on the left I heard some cheers: Who Dat?
Jumping up and down were Megan and Matt,
Raised arms as if victory was in sight.

Tuttle and I at the start

In Flatbush a band played a song catchy
With its bongo break it had made hip hop
Carrying me briefly from start to stop
Ran with my mind thinking of “Apache.”

Up the road as narrow as Tourmalet
Thru wild crowds to left turn in Clinton Hill
With another look and shout ‘nother thrill
Seeing Jason cheer where Jeremy stays.

These cheers took and lifted my spirits high
This may have led me to run too quickly
For my stomach turned and I felt sickly
There in Williamsburg I puked on the side.

Cheers dulled to quiet in Hasidic ‘hood
Ignoring race going about the day
They allowed the runners on their own way
Ne’er looking up from their phones tho they could

And into the last section of Brooklyn
Before the Newtown Creek that makes the joint
We ran by the cheers of Poles in Greenpoint
Past the flags toward Queens I kept pushing.

Over the Creek to Long Island City
Is carried by the bridge named Pulaski
(Not as famous as Dave’s New Jersey)
But upon the halfway point is pretty.

Mile 7 in Brooklyn

Off the Pulaski another borough
Down into the town of Shea and Bunker
For only a mile in Queens we hunker
Another trip must to be more thorough

Over Roosevelt on the Bridge of Sighs
Quiet as church mice alone and desert
The day’s humidity had soaked my shirt
I felt that tell tale burn within my thighs.

Off the quiet of Queensboro’s skid
And onto First in the center of town.
The Bronx is up and the Battery’s down.
As if: “Springfield’s that away!” “Thanks kid!”

Into the East Eighties, First carried me.
I had to keep working and not relax
But then I heard a roar behind from Max
Sadly wife was there but I did not see.

When I thought it was time to run faster
It was exhaustion I began to know
Thru the cheers of East Harlem barrio
Alas of marathons, I’m no master.

Over the Willis Ave into the Bronx
I heard my name, just like cherry cola
It was SRR’s first chair viola
That dragged me through an early round of bonks

Once away the djs sounds faded
My queasy stomach turned and growled again
I hurled on the side finding no trash bin
And onward I continued unaided

Back into Manhattan on Fifth I ran,
Circumnavigating the Garvey Square
Developing dreaded hundred-yard stare
Hoping I could stop as soon as I can.

At Mile 17 with point of approval from Max

The park was lovely and fearful sight
I cannot say that I was not forewarned
That this hill is a bull and I’d be horned
But I tried to put up a mighty fight

But farther South into the Ninety streets
Was the mountain I had not been apprised
Its steepness and length became my demise
I had been bullied and I had been beat.

The next to last mile to myself I talked
Per Mark whom I had not seen nor heard.
Of what rabble I know not what the words
But ‘round the boat house I began to walk.

Out on fifty ninth and cutting back in
To Central Park I fought myself to run
It was not fast and no it was not fun
That final mile I took on the chin.

So, Three and a half hours was my mark,
Have to walk miles out of Central Park.

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