A Lesson in Humility

Bringing it Into Perspective With the Help of Olympic Runners

Like the student who graduates valedictorian yet finds herself as simply average once she arrives at Harvard, if you’ve ever run a marathon the size and prestige of the annual race in New York City, you know firsthand the contrast between the months of training and marking of personal achievements, and the humbling experience of race day among 38,000 runners just like, or even better, than you.

At your job as a nurse, a trader on Wall Street or math teacher in the public schools, among a circle of non-running friends and family, you stand out. People who know you are impressed by your discipline and commitment to fitness. On those dark, pre-dawn runs in rain and cold or after a long day of work facing the heat and humidity of summer in the city, you feel strong and proud, invincible even; you're a running warrior. You feel powerful and on top of the food chain.

But on race day, among the herd of other runners – men and women (even the occasional adolescent), of various shapes, sizes and walks of life, all of whom have run long miles and faced the same weather and suffering as you - suddenly you are not so singular or warrior-like.

You console yourself with the thought that you’ll finish hours before some of them, especially the ones who do more walking than running, but that consolation is, you realize, limited and embarrassing in its effort to soothe your ego when another large group of runners not only matches you but surges past before you’ve covered the 26.2 miles of the race. Face it: you are what the running community calls a middle of the pack runner. Not humiliating, but certainly not your proudest acknowledgment.

For those who run for a living, literally paying their bills off the quick pace of their steps, a race of the caliber of the New York City Marathon reinforces the experience of their countless hours of training. Unlike middle of the packers, the fleet-footed get a week’s stay in the official race hotel, the New York Hilton. The elite receive free meals, private tours of the Museum of Modern Art, free massage and personalized services.

Lest jealousy creeps in, feel assured that you too can share in this prize. You just have to be fast. Very fast.

If you can average sub-five-minute miles over the course of 26, you too can be shuttled on chartered bus to the race start and enjoy a ratio of 1 port-a-john to every five runners (as opposed to the rest of the pack, who suffer a ratio closer to 1:300 in the cold, anxious hours on Staten Island). If an elite woman, you get to start the race 35 minutes before everyone else, and if male, you line up at the front, separate from the general population, and actually race when the start gun fires.

Go ahead, log 125-plus mile weeks, all year long, make running the highest priority of your life, more important than obligations to family and friends, with the definition of “party” meaning going to bed at 10pm instead of 8. Then you can run on a course lined with hundreds of thousands of spectators cheering “Paula” or “Go Meb!” When you're a pro, your singularity extends to the name emblazoned on your race bib, replacing the five-digit numbers the anonymous thousands wear.

And when you break the tape in 2:09 or, if a woman, 2:23, you, too, can take a victory job back across the finish line cloaked in the flag of your country that has been draped across your shoulders by admiring fans.

Even if you place second and your name is Gete Wami, you can celebrate in the knowledge that in clinching the inaugural World Marathon Majors you have a cool half-million to take back home with you. Mayor Bloomberg will meet you at the winner’s podium where you’ll be handed keys to your latest prize of German engineering (Benz, BMW) or a Prius while wearing a crown of ivy and Tiffany trophy held high you smile for the one hundred reporters and photographers.

The shimmering space-blanket, distributed to keep runners warm after their race, is one of the few things you share in common with the other 38,000; only yours is perfunctory as you quickly re-suit in your sponsor’s (Nike, Adidas, Brooks, Asics) branded uniform, are handed a snack bag and quickly chauffeured back to the Hilton.

You have no time to catch a chill or stiffen up, for the next few hours include a shower, nap and massage. If not elite, you and the other 38,000 hug your space blanket close to your shivering body as you shuffle through yet more corrals to find your New York Road Runner-supplied plastic drawstring bags labeled with that same anonymous number that matches your bib. If you’re lucky, you’ll not have stiffened so much that you can still navigate the stairs at Columbus Circle down to your subway track, where hundreds of other pedestrians are also wearing a medal necklace and silver blanket, equally exultant.

Those who have traveled from various states or points on the globe (this is one of the most international fields in the entire sport, with runners representing more than 50 countries) will gratefully order room service when they finally get in from the cold. Locals might find a home-cooked meal waiting for them back in Brooklyn or Queens, prepared by their adoring I-could-never-have-done-what-you-did fan club.

Meanwhile, the elite, many of whom were not only invited but were also paid to show up on the start line, will attend a private award ceremony (more Tiffany plates in the iconic blue boxes) and then be chauffeured, yet again, to the VIP dinner on the waterfront in Chelsea.

At table with fellow Olympians, dining on caviar (try explaining the appeal and expense of caviar to an African) and filet mignon, a handful of marathoners with body fat percentages lower than the number of fingers on one hand, take a few sips of wine and a few bites of chocolate cake to celebrate another day on the job.

In the flickering light of candles around an elegantly laid table, a mere eight hours after racing through the streets of the five boroughs, the elite have one thought in common: “Tomorrow I’ll jog easy for a couple of hours, and maybe the next day too, but then it’s back to work. I’ve got another marathon to do.” And so continues the humble but gifted life of an elite long-distance runner.