As we approached the overpass signage that read, “Run the next 5.2 as if the Wall is just a street downtown,” I started to wonder if I’d make it. Every half-mile, for about 50 yards, I would feel better, and I’d use those mini surges to straighten my posture and think about buoyancy. A person isn’t supposed to feel good after running 21 miles. Feeling bad is natural. Life is about endurance. Maybe the end of this race will symbolize the end of my unemployment, as I’ve so often compared this struggle to a race that goes much longer than I’m prepared for.

At this point, you tell yourself anything you need to hear.

Heading down Fifth Avenue, the sun in my eyes, the Manhattan blocks that always seem so short stretched out like a dessert. I anticipated contact with the Hash at 96th Street. It was on that corner, two years ago, shivering in borrowed gear because I’d not brought enough of my own, that I watched my first marathon and resolved to do it myself someday. When I saw the giant cardboard on-on foot, a smile replaced the grimace on my face. I passed them and high-fived as many as possible, and shortly thereafter, turned into the park.

It’s a special crowd that lines the last two miles. I’d swear some of them are masochists turned out just to watch their fellow man suffer. I passed a stalled runner yelling back to a cheerleader/heckler, “you try running 24 miles!” My body truly started to shut down. The pain was systemic; I yelped every few yards, and stopped a few times, sobbing, immediately attracting the attention of volunteers who asked if I needed a doctor. At some point I saw Todd again, though I’m not sure where. Later, he would tell me that I still looked strong at that point, but I felt as though I was barely picking up my feet.

Cruelly, in the last mile, I mistook Central Park South for Central Park West. It was only when I saw the landmark of Columbus Circle that I realized I had several more minutes to run than I’d thought. I passed a young man sprawled on his back, aids rushing to his side. The last half-mile and people all around me were slowing, walking, stopping all together. In sight of the finish line, I was nearly knocked down by army medics plunging into the race with a stretcher.

I thought I would feel joy passing the finish line, elation. I’d prepared to be emotionally overwhelmed. There was neither joy nor elation, however, and the tears were from pain. A volunteer hung the medal around my neck and draped me in a heat sheet, which clung disgustingly to my skin. She led me to celebrity family reunion where another volunteer kept close watch on me and, once she was satisfied that I didn’t need a doctor, fetched the bag that corresponded to my race number.

Half an hour later, Todd, originally misdirected to a reunion area a mile away, found me at the pedestrian path entrance on 69th. By then I could stand upright and talk; the first thing I said was, “I’m never doing that again.” But I probably will. God knows, I probably will.

For the record, I finished in 3:34:07, 3002 out of 36,513.