Hillbillies don't jog.
Let's get that out of the way right up front. There's not a lot of flat stretches of land to run along in the mountains of Appalachia. Quite frankly, I don't run unless chased.
So the concept of 37,000 people starting at Staten Island tomorrow morning and running across three bridges through Brooklyn, Queens, the Bronx and finishing up just four blocks from my apartment in Central Park is amusing and entertaining, but not anything with which I can emphathize.
My corner of Central Park has been a hubub of activity for the past 10 days preparing for Sunday morning's New York City Marathon. Bleachers and fences have gone up everywhere, and there's tons of medical tents and generators in the usual spots where the missus and I walk. The beagles have watched the organized chaos with canine bemusement, although they've been a bit miffed that the normal fields where they get to run around in the mornings unleashed have been fenced closed.
I'm going to head over in the morning and see if I can catch a glimpse of the finish. I suspect that access to the actual finish line area is restricted, so I guess I'll just have to move further south toward Columbus Circle and grab a spot along the route. It's unlikely I'll get to see the Chilean miner. John Lennon's birthday made the area a circus, so this ought to just make it a madhouse.
I keep hearing from all the runners I talk to that I'm missing out on the "runner's high" of endorphins they get throughout their runs. Everybody's got their way to get their jollies; Mine usually comes from a mason jar which saves me having to run 26.2 miles.
MORE BONUS: Time-lapse video of initial wave of runners crossing the Verrazano Narrows Bridge: