Fifty Percent Pain

MILE 11

Tall, graceful runners passed by me as I stumbled my way down the Ocean Parkway towards Coney Island. The morning’s ominous dark cloud cover finally came into fruition and a small pitter patter of rain dropped every few seconds onto my sweat-stained shoulders. Whatever form I had 11 miles ago when I took my first steps were gone and the muscles in my back worked overtime to keep my torso from dropping to the street. 

People stood on the sidewalks flanking us, cheering on the runners from the comfort of their smart life decisions of not paying $115 to run half of the distance of a runner’s ultimate goal. On the verge of tears, I struggled to block the cheers out, focusing on my feet. I had never felt this much pain before, and I had felt the unbridled rage of my friends’ little brother who decided to end my bloodline with one swift kick because I wouldn’t let him have any more of my chips. This was some sort of advanced pain that my eight weeks of training did not prepare me for.

I had run exactly eleven miles once before in my life, three weeks earlier when, on an equally wet Saturday afternoon, I ran from my Queens apartment around Roosevelt Island and back. When I got home, my partner, Liz, greeted me with two towels and a full water bottle to welcome me back from the land of insanity. No amount of rain or pain prevented me from feeling on top of the world, ready to run 2.1 miles more.

Yet, when the day had come and that distance laid ahead of me, my shoes gaining weight from water, my asthmatic lungs wishing for any kind of drug to make them feel alive again, and my head struggling to make the case for each foot to pick itself up, I questioned every decision that led me here. 

MILE 1

I exited Franklin Ave. subway stop to see a mass of bodies slowly inching their way towards the eight gates that event organizers set up for registration. Our watches ticked towards the 8 AM start time and the cluster of thousands of bodies made no progress towards the starting line. Before I could even run, I had to get through the toughest obstacle: organizational incompetence. Our feet avoided the pools of rainwater from the night prior, as I huddled closer to runners, some dressed for the chance of rain, others dressed more for a summer stroll. Myself, knowing I’d have two hours ahead of me with an unpredictable mother nature, opted for a long-sleeve shirt below a shimmering Nike tank top, with tights under my shorts. I blasted my warm-up music through my headphones, glancing at the numbers of the other runners, looking down at mine. L 9097: how they would identify my body when I dropped dead from lack of experience. 

The metal detectors and strict security made me question if the Brooklyn Half Marathon was something I should be afraid of running in, but by the time our watches hit 8 AM, they gave up and let us storm the gates. 

Once I was through the “security” tent, I made my way past the hundreds of abandoned jackets towards the starting line. The sun was nowhere to be seen, with dark clouds looming over us. I did some lousy stretches, waiting for the first hint of movement. Eventually, the runners ahead of me moved forward, their strides lunging into a short jog as we all started our watches. The theme from Rocky shuffled itself to my ears and pumped me up into an unusually fast jog. We turned left at the Brooklyn Museum and into Prospect Park. My first half marathon had begun. 

MILE 2

After a mile in, our dense pack of runners passed the first hydration station. Volunteers stood behind fold-up tables laying out hundreds of green paper cups with the three classic flavors of Gatorade: red, yellow, and orange. We all grabbed one, without thanking the nice people who took time out of their day, threw the liquid into our faces, and then threw the cups within a 20-yard radius of a single trashcan. With each step, we flattened the cups, their temporary use a stain of humanity. It was so wasteful we were better off running under one guy spraying a firefighter grade hose of fruit punch as we ran by. My momentary disgust at our practice wore off as I continued on. Running in a race is the one time it’s socially acceptable to be a selfish human being. Even better, as I round out the northwestern edge of Prospect Park, a bunch of strangers standing across from the Grand Army Plaza, New York’s knock-off Arc de Triomphe, cheered on our crime against nature. 

Yet, it was nice to see those who came out on a gloomy Saturday morning to watch their loved ones and give them that extra encouragement to keep going. It made me smile to think of looking out on those faces in a few miles and see my friends and partner. 

MILE 7

I swiveled my head from side to side, hoping to see my partner and friends cheering me on. Liz was still sound asleep when I kissed her goodbye before leaving before the sun even touched New York. Her plan was to see me at Mile 7 and then cheer me on at the end. 

As I struggled to pick up my feet between each step and my breathing grew more labored, I still couldn’t see her or my friends. My watch pinged at angry messages between them that subway traffic made them a few minutes late from the mile marker. I swallowed disappointment and continued running, keeping my focus forward, avoiding looking out at the abandoned construction projects lining the streets. 

MILE 3

The race had traded in the bustling streets of Brooklyn for the wooden paths of Prospect Park. The pack of runners dissipated enough as the people who were on their third half-marathon of the week already made it to Coney Island, while the inexperienced dummies (me) who didn’t know what they were doing (me) started to get passed by the second wave of runners.

Amongst the darkened paths caked with wet leaves, the city rolled back into silence. While I spent my training running around Northern Queens, stopping at red lights, and sprinting as fast as I could through the underpasses with the surprising aroma of 300 pigeons emptying their bowels at once, it felt peaceful to be running through something that resembled serenity. I

A few weekends before, I took the subway in to train in Central Park. After 6 miles of running through the open air of the park below 90th street, I followed the zig-zag trails into the woods, a twisting expanse of leaves that led me to a waterfall. An actual waterfall on the island of Manhattan. Though Manhattan bears its name from the original Lenape for “hilly island,” the flat starkness of the city makes it impossible to feel nature creeping in anywhere. Though the waterfall was only about 5 feet tall, I was struck by the beauty of it amongst the concrete jungle. I paused my music to listen to the babbling brook as the water continued east back into the streets. 

As I ran through Prospect Park with less and less of the 19,000 runners flying by me, making me feel bad for having asthma and starting my training only 8 weeks earlier, I felt content to be taking in the small wonders of the expansive city. And better yet, content to feel as fine as I did after three miles.

MILE 10

This is the worst thing ever. I promise I’ll never voluntarily run again.

MILE 4

My breathing started to get heavy while I ran along the serene lake. 

The first time I ran an organized race was more of an accident. My mom’s library hosted a “5K Fun Run” in our community park to raise money and my boy scout troop volunteered in setting it up. It was the middle of soccer season, so I decided to run for fun without having explicitly trained. I finished second in my age group and got a medal while my mom’s coworkers cheered at the announcement of my name. I smiled as we took down the tents and packed up the vans at the end of a successful event.  

Staring out on Prospect Park Lake, as the sweat started to trickle down my forehead, I watched a Dollar Tree Spiderman sprint past me, and knew today wouldn’t feel as glamorous. 

MILE 6

Nearing the halfway point of the halfway race, they granted us a treat for making it this far. Lucky for us, it was the foulest texture of “food” I’ve ever put into my mouth in my life, and I’ve eaten pizza cheese off the floor in a Mall Food Court. Gatorade graciously donated their curdled energy drinks they left out in the hot sun for too long that had a slight flavor of orange and an overwhelming texture of silly putty. The poor alligators that died for their production were lost only in vain. I guess whatever unsuspecting interns they tested their product on gave them enough belief in the product to trick us into running another 6.5 miles. 

I washed it down with the liquid form of its predecessor, sloshing more sugary mix into my stomach as the trees of Prospect Park grew smaller behind me and the closed off street of Ocean Parkway became my battleground for the next six miles. 

MILE 5

When I had twisted my ankle four months earlier, forcing me to limp off the soccer field of my recreational league, I was afraid that I wouldn’t be able to run the half-marathon. The check had cleared (metaphorically, of course; I just racked up more credit card debt) and it was either run or lose that money. Eight weeks prior to the race, I began my training, ankle pain be damned. 

As I ran up the final hills of Prospect Park, I felt a slight twinge of pain in my right foot. Had I pushed myself too early? Would my desire to run this single race end my goals of all future races? Was running even worth it?

MILE 9

The Peanuts creator, Charles Schulz, said of running that “it’s good for your legs and your feet. It's also very good for the ground. It makes it feel needed." 

Running had always been a solitary exercise for me. I would put on my headphones and enter my own world, releasing all the emotions built inside me. But, as I ran alongside the 19,000 other runners, I felt this act as more unifying, as a collective push for people to achieve their goals. 

In the year leading up to the race day, I worked as a tutor, making extra money to pay rent and save up after graduation grad school. With my elementary and middle school students, we worked on goal setting with them, whether it was to get good grades in school or to learn their multiplication tables. We’d preached with the acronym “SUPER,” standing for Specific, Uplifting, Practical, Episodic, Reviewed. My goal was to run a full marathon. But that’s vague and frankly unachievable with my genetic stature. Instead, it was better to say, “I will run a half-marathon on May 20, 2023, in Brooklyn and then assess my training to run a marathon later.” 

While I took the advice I gave to my tutoring students, I wondered if I had misidentified the “P”. Was it practical of me to run today? Each step began to feel like my last, with the ounces of Gatorade filling up my digestive tract instead of my muscles. I felt like I could not make it, that at any second, I could hit the ground. Those 19,000 people would reach their dreams, while I’d fall short, only giving the ground the justification of its existence instead of me.

MILE 8

Some lady held out a poster board with a red mushroom from Mario Kart as a “power-up” for us to tap. I’ve never liked mushrooms. I’ll eat truffle fires if they’re on the appetizer menu, but always thought they were too fancy for my palette. While it would’ve been more beneficial to get the golden mushroom which gives racers unlimited speed boosts for a time, or even a mushroom just to chuck at another runner to improve my finishing position, I appreciated the effort made to cheer us up. For the first time in a mile, I smiled as I taped the sign. 

MILE 12

Each step I took was one more than I ever had while running. And each step hurt more than the last. I thought I couldn’t go on any longer. Gatorade and water stations repulsed me as the ounces I had been chugging down for the past two hours sloshed around my stomach with each step, making me lose my balance. 

The droplets of rain picked up pace. I began to resent my shoes and socks and almost threw them off to continue running like a Hobbit. I was already the size of one.

I also hated every single runner who passed me. They threw their superior fitness in my face with their perfect calves and running form. They only look so good at running because I’m back here running with the grace and elegance of a seventh grader forced to run two laps around the track in Phys Ed class. 

The Ocean Parkway took one final descent before flattening out for the rest of its stride. I couldn’t do it anymore. I stopped on my right leg, my knee no longer bending. As the runners sped on, I put my hands on my hips and let out a deep sigh, both my feet touching the ground at the same time since I started my timer. I looked down the parkway. With the clouds it was impossible to see where the final mile would take me. I imagined my friends and partner waiting for me, their eyes searching for the person they kept reassuring “got this” all week long. 

I also imagined myself, jumping through that finish line, with a smile on my face. The eight weeks of training, the years of soccer, the lifetime of playing in the backyard with my brothers, culminating in a moment of the SUPER goal that I set out for myself. It was one mile away. I just had to keep going. 

I shook my head, releasing the doubt from my body. My shoulders leaned forward, dragging my feet off the ground, with an extra oomph that nothing, even a painted mushroom on a poster board, except myself could give.

MILE 13 PLUS 528 FEET

Like me, the clouds released everything they had in them. Twelve miles of humid fog turned into a downpour. The screams of fans on the boardwalk mixed with an inaudible audio system reached my ears. 

I was beyond pain. Exhaustion came and went, and adrenaline took its place. My pace was the fastest yet, as the prospect of the end inspired each muscle to give everything it had. From my toes to my triceps, swinging my arms, uppercutting the rain out of the way. The waterlogged clothes hugged tight to my body, but I was passing more and more runners, proud of how far each of us had come. 

The cheers grew louder as the parkway turned into sidewalk turned into boardwalk on the Atlantic. The soft cushion of moist wood felt smooth. Fears of my legs slipping out from beneath me were nonexistent, as I had all the power. 

I could finally see it. In front of the Cyclone rollercoaster loomed the giant red and black arch. I had broken out into a sprint towards the finish, passing the wet heads of others giving it all they had left. My headphone alerted me to my time at 13 miles. Just 528 feet to go. 

I was going to make it. Yet, I kept my head cocked to the right, my searching eyes looking for the familiar features of my friends hiding underneath umbrellas. I was worried that I would finish the race and not hear them yell my name. 

In a second, I met eyes with Connor, his face lighting up in the same instance of recognition as mine.

“Go Rob!” Connor yelled, with Courtney and Leah joining him.

“Let’s go!” I yelled back, directed at them, but mirrored back at myself, the drive I needed to give myself to pump myself up for the final 100 feet. I sprinted harder, my eyes searching each face for Liz. Fifty feet left, no sign. Twenty-five feet. I look back at the finish line, putting everything I had. The main theme from Jerry Goldsmith’s score for Rudy triumphantly pounding into my ears. Ten feet. I catch the recognizable green jacket, her hair darkened with rain. My friends Christine and Tyler stood next to her, their eyes wandering as I yelled out to them for one final cheer. I passed under the arch, sticking my chest out, breaking the imaginary tape.

My legs immediately felt useless as I walked the slowest I ever could to melt into Liz’s arms and see my friends, who, like all the other support for the 19,000 runners who came out for their own goals, braved the rain to show love and support to me on my journey. 

I had finished half my job, half my goal. I soaked in the enjoyment of the tiny step forward, knowing that there was more pain waiting ahead of me. 

ROBERT ENGLISH is a writer, essayist, film critic, and sports enthusiast based in New York City. An MFA graduate of Columbia University, Robert has been published in Entertainment Weekly, Necessary Fiction, and FrameRated.