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I find myself in the position of wanting to write many blog posts but not knowing where to start. But for now, I’ll bore you with some post-New York City Marathon thoughts. (This is Sunday, when people don’t seem to read as many blogs, anyway.)

For those non-running readers, yes, you may buy me this shirt and I will happily wear it.

First of all, I neglected to post race stats in my report.

• 708 of 3,068 in my division (females, ages 30-34). Top 23 percent.
• 3702 of 16,928 female finishers. Top 21.9 percent.
• 16194 of all 46,795 finishers. Top 34.6 percent.
• Fastest of the three Laylas in the race (second place finished four minutes behind me).

I honestly believe that, had I either not fallen two weeks before the marathon, OR if the crowding hadn’t been so intense, I would have broken 4 hours in the marathon. I’m not upset about this, because those are both significant factors. Despite everything, I ran a pretty solid race. I ran the first half in 2:01:51 and the second half in 2:00:29. This is the best way to run a marathon — try to run an even effort throughout, and if you have anything left, throw it all out there at the end. Otherwise, you’ll start out fast and burn out long before the end of the race.

The crowding was to be expected, since 47,000 people were running the marathon. However, it made me run 26.6 miles instead of 26.2 miles, because I was dodging around so many people.

My watch at the end of the race. If I'd instead run 26.2 miles at that 9:06 average pace, my time would have read 3:59 instead of 4:02.

There are three different start times to help ease the crowding, and runners are assigned to starts based on their own predicted finishing time. This is where some people ruin it for others, because they list unrealistic finish times in order to get closer to the front. They start out way too fast, slow down once the adrenaline has burned off, and then create a huge bottleneck for everyone else trying to run an even effort at a realistic pace. I got into a debate with someone on a message board about this: He runs marathons in about 4:15 to 4:45, but for New York he listed his expected finish time as 3:29. His half-marathon PR (personal record) is around 1:47; based on this time, there is almost no way he would finish in 3:29 — he’d have to run 26.2 miles at a significantly faster average pace than the fastest he’s ever run half that distance. So, he started near the front at NYCM, ran the half in 1:58, then ran the second half in 2:20. He even admitted that he started out way too fast (and yet, to actually run a 3:29, he would have had to reach the halfway point at no slower than 1:45). He should NOT be lying on registration forms for the New York City Marathon. Many people do this, though. I hate this, because it gives runners a bad name.

Even with the crowding, I believe I could have run 3:59 if I hadn’t fallen two weeks earlier. The day after that fall, I went out and ran 20 miles. At times it was very hard, but I finished that run faster than expected (9:20 pace, though this is a bit misleading because I stopped several times for such things as water, etc). I had no muscle soreness afterward — though maybe I just didn’t notice it because my knee wounds hurt so badly. I’d planned to get out on my bike at least twice during the next two weeks, but one hand had also been wounded and couldn’t hold the handlebars. Almost all stretching came to a stop, too, because every knee bend was excruciating. It was so hard to even get down on the floor, because I only had one hand to lift myself back up — and I couldn’t roll over on my knees to get up that way.

And then I went off to New York City, where everyone walks. It was too cold for bare knees, so I put on bandaids and pants. Every single step was torture, because those raw wounds rubbed against the bandages. I walked stiff-legged through the city, which is not the best thing to do in the days leading up to a 26.2-mile run. While there, I also completely neglected my daily vitamins. I’ve done pretty extensive testing and research over the past year, and have concluded that magnesium and stretching will keep almost all of my calf muscle cramps at bay. For the five days leading up to the marathon, I didn’t take magnesium, and I did almost no stretching in the two weeks prior to the marathon. Oops.

Regarding recovery, my quads (thigh muscles) weren’t too bad, considering we’d gone up and down five bridges, and such hills usually cause muscle soreness later. Instead, I had a new kind of pain: In the days after the marathon, my feet were in agony. The arches hurt. One arch wasn’t as bad, but the outside of the foot hurt because I’d unintentionally started walking on it in an effort to take the pressure off the sore spots.

Two weeks later, I still can’t wear the shoes in which I ran the marathon. I’m currently using two identical pairs, both have plenty of life left in them, and both of them make my feet scream as soon as I’ve run one-tenth of a mile. Twice, I’ve gone out for a run, only to turn around and change into other shoes. Then I go back out, and things are OK. I’m frustrated, because I love those shoes. They’re the best ones I’ve ever worn. I suspect the problem may be that I went up half a size after the Alaska marathon in June, where I got horrible blisters under my toenails and ultimately lost four toenails. My toes were completely unscathed after NYCM (a first!), but maybe the shoe arches don’t fit me properly. So, yesterday I went to the shoe store, plunked down a stupid amount of money on a different brand of shoes, and I’m going to try them out. It’s frustrating, to say the least.

As I write this, I have six weeks to another marathon. I want so badly to see a 3 at the front of that finish time. I am SO CLOSE, and I know I can do it. I just need to stay healthy, avoid injuries and hope the feet like the new shoes. I should also lose some weight. Oh, and I hope the back strain goes away soon. (Yes, that’s right, I managed to strain my back. If it’s not one thing, it’s another!)

Another interesting stat from the NYCM web site: There were 666 female California finishers — how’s that for a wacky number? (1,489 total runners from California)

I usually don’t want to run the same race again, because there are so many interesting races and I know I’ll only be able to run so many of them in this lifetime. However, I’d love to run New York again. I would happily get on the subway before dawn, wait for hours before the marathon start and battle through the crowds. I loved the spectators, the race support, the atmosphere, the energy. I loved running through New York City. I would buy cross-country plane tickets and pay the outrageous entry fee just to do it all over again.

Pondering life while wearing my finisher's shirt and medal in Central Park, one day after the race.

And the best spectator sign of the day: “Worst Parade Ever!” I actually laughed when I saw that in Brooklyn.

There’s one problem with spending a week in New York and doing things like staying out past 3 a.m., seeing the High Line Park you desperately wanted to see, wandering through Central Park in gorgeous fall weather, and hanging out with your sister and a couple good friends. What’s that problem? You return home and have a lot to catch up on, to the point that it takes you days to write about the biggest event of the whole trip: the New York City Marathon.

I considered splitting this into three posts, but it’s just one massive novella. Get a drink if you plan to read the whole thing.

Two-word summary: Great day.

Six-word summary: I want to run it again.

One-sentence summary: Despite a bad fall that curtailed all cross-training and most stretching two weeks before the marathon, I had an enjoyable race that I will never forget, and I learned that I can truly dig deep in the last few miles.

I finished in 4:02:20, my second-fastest of the five marathons I’ve now completed. Considering my recent fall, that we crossed five bridges (hills), and I was weaving around people the whole way to run an extra 0.4 miles, I now know that I am capable of a faster marathon time than I have dreamed.

I arrived in New York the Wednesday morning before the race, after a red-eye flight in a seat that hurt my back and refused to recline. Including a nap on my sister’s bed, I slept about three hours total. We wandered around the Lower East Side, and I walked stiff-legged the whole time. You see, my knee wounds had finally gotten tolerable, but only when nothing was touching them. New York was too cold for skirts/shorts, so I had to bandage my wounds and put on pants. Those wounds rubbed the bandages with Every Single Step I took. It hurt.

Wednesday night we went out at midnight, had free booze that included Grey Goose by the bottle, then got home after 3 a.m. I was up and out the door at 9 a.m., where I proceeded to run out the rest of the alcohol. It was a glorious morning along the East River.

The snowstorm that hit the previous weekend? No sign of it!

Then I headed to the NYCM race expo, where I met up with Desiree, a friend from DailyMile and Twitter. We hadn’t met before, but I knew immediately that I liked her. We wandered through the expo, discovering that we both like to take our time and look at everything. More than once, I saw people giving my gait a second glance — they were clearly thinking, “She looks like she can barely walk; why is she thinking she can run the marathon?”

Friday involved more wandering/attempting to walk, and then I gathered my luggage and headed to the Upper East Side to stay with my friends Josh and Erin. Saturday morning we lazily ate Erin’s awesome raspberry pancakes, and then I went on my mandatory pre-race-day run. It’s good that’s my only pre-race requirement, because this run involved an errand: buying socks. Yes, that’s right, I had left my running socks at home on the drying rack, so I was going to buy and run in brand-new ones. They say to avoid doing anything differently on race day, especially trying new clothes. Oops. Along the way, I came across a bookstore and found that the new Runner’s World magazine had just hit the stands — one featuring me! I had this moment of pure bliss, photographing the display until a crazy guy tried to get in my picture and give me his number. The rest of Saturday involved hanging out, going to see a weird but good movie, and then going out for beer and pasta.

Sunday morning, I was up before the proverbial crack of dawn. I walked to the nearest subway station and joined other runners for the trip to the southern tip of Manhattan, where we boarded the Staten Island Ferry. Desiree and I met up, and this was another good part of the day: We got on the ferry around 6:15, and spent the next four hours keeping each other company.

Sunrise view from the ferry.

We boarded buses that seemed to take us on a very long tour of Staten Island, but we finally arrived at the race start. This was a whole village, and it was huge. Come to think of it, 47,000 people were running the marathon, so this could actually be called a city. They provided bagels, coffee and water. I’d brought a travel packet of peanut butter, so my breakfast was set. The sun was up by this point, and Desiree and I found a place to sit in the sun. All around us, we heard multiple languages and saw shirts bearing country names from around the world. I’ve never been in such a diverse place. At one point, a runner was confused, and a volunteer with an accent asked what language she spoke. When she got an answer, she said, “Oh, no, I don’t speak Polish.” Eventually our starting corral opened, so Desiree and I headed over there. We took off our throw-away sweats (which are given to charity), and began moving toward the start, closer to the Verazanno-Narrows Bridge. This was happening.

A tiny fraction of the piles of discarded clothing. 47,000 runners, two items each = about 100,000 articles of clothing.

Our wave started at 10:10, the second of three waves. Each wave also has three different starting areas; we were on the upper level of the bridge, on the right. A boom sounded, the strains of “New York, New York” echoed across the crowd, and we were on our way, crossing the starting line and heading up the bridge. The view was amazing — the water and boats below, Manhattan in the distance, and a sea of runners wearing every color possible. I was running the New York City Marathon, and it was amazing. THIS was redemption.

I was supposed to run this marathon last year, but a stress fracture derailed everything for four months. I was able to defer NYC, so this year I figured it would be a victory comeback, and that I’d try for a PR (personal record) in January 2011. Then, in June I blew away all my expectations by running a 4-hour marathon on sub-par training. That changed my goals. I wanted to break four hours in New York. I had a knee get mad at me and throw off my training in September, but I rebounded. Then, the day I set out to run 20 miles two weeks before the marathon, I fell.

I still ran 20 miles the next day, but there went my plans of cross-training (couldn’t hold bike handlebars with my wounded hand). Stretching was very limited, because it just hurt far too much if I bent my knees. And then there was the whole “walking around New York stiff-legged” thing, which was taking a toll on my body. I had no idea what I might run in New York. I did know that, without the fall, I should be able to hit 4 hours. But the week before New York, I ran a mellow, slow-paced 12-miler and felt the bruising in my knees starting around mile 8. At the expo, I’d picked up pace bands for 4:00 and 4:05 finish times. However, I chose not to wear either one on race morning. I have a GPS watch and know those paces and times well enough that I didn’t need the added pressure. So I just set out to run as well of a race as I could, and to make sure I took in everything around me.

The race started straight up the bridge, and I knew this was an uphill to be given some slack. I also knew that what goes up must come back down, so I wasn’t worried.

Mile 1: 10:35 (up the bridge)
Mile 2: 8:24 (and down the bridge)
Mile 3: 9:05

The race goes through Brooklyn for a while, and I saw a funny sign reading, “Get out of Brooklyn.” People had all sorts of signs, and in Brooklyn they were really hamming it up.

Mile 4: 9:11
Mile 5: 9:05 (gel)

It was at this point that I got the same feeling I had in Alaska at the third mile: Things were feeling so good and easy, that I was getting scared. I still had 21 miles to go, and I knew a lot could change. But everything felt GOOD.

Mile 6: 9:18
Mile 7: 9:10
Mile 8: 9:11

I suddenly felt like I was on top of the world. I was having a ball, and I was loving all the spectators who lined the entire route. I don’t cheer and yell in races, in order not to expend energy, but I make sure I smile and give thumbs up to spectators. Here I also began giving a few high-fives to the kids. I was happy, and I wanted to share that happiness with them. This came at just the right time, because I’d felt some of the bruising in my knees. I put it out of my mind, and never thought of it again the rest of the day.

Mile 9: 9:28 (gel)
Mile 10: 9:13

Desiree and I hadn’t planned to run together, because we were each running our own race. Plus, we’d never met or run together before, so I think we both knew that we might either a) not hit it off, and/or b) run differently. But we found ourselves running together for miles. The course was very crowded, but we were using the same dodging techniques — try to conserve energy and not run extra steps, while still managing to get past people. We were wordlessly taking turns following each other, or sometimes taking different sides and meeting up after passing people. It was nice to have someone to run with, and we passed a big camera point together.

Low-quality screenshot, but there we are. (Oh yeah, along with new socks, I wore a new visor, too.)

And then I lost Desiree. I saw her behind me, slowed a bit for her to catch up, and then saw that she was still behind me. Desiree was running this race after battling a cold-turned-into-bronchitis for 11 days, and she was still pretty bad on race day (including taking Robitussin near the start line). I knew it wouldn’t be good if I encouraged her to go faster than her lungs would allow, so I kept running. We’d planned to call each other at the finish line, anyway.

Mile 11: 9:19
Mile 12: 8:51
Mile 13: 8:54

I reached the halfway point at 2:01:51.

Mile 14: 9:04 (gel)
Mile 15: 9:17

At the Queensboro Bridge, we suddenly had a strong cross-wind. I tried to move over to the right to get some shelter from other runners, but I think everyone had the same idea. At this point I passed a runner in military fatigues, wearing a full backpack and wearing boots. I’ve heard of soldiers running in full combat gear, and I know it adds about 50 pounds of weight. “You rock,” I told him. He thanked me. I also saw a lot of Achilles Track Club members — disabled athletes who run with guides. They are amazing and have obviously overcome extreme obstacles just to reach the starting line of a marathon. They created bottlenecks because many of them were obviously placed in too fast of a starting position, but I didn’t fault them and was nothing but impressed.

Mile 16: 9:44 (bridge)
Mile 17: 7:50

Yes, that was a 7:50 mile. Yes, it was too fast for the middle of a marathon. Oh well. I actually couldn’t go as fast down the bridges as I normally go down hills, because the crowds of runners seemed to want to take it easy. After the Queensboro Bridge, though, we turned onto First Avenue, and the course got so much wider. I suddenly had room to run without being boxed in by other runners! I felt so free!

This mile also had the two biggest highlights of the day. At 71st Street, a friend of my grandmother was waiting for me. I’ve never met the woman, but she’s in NYC so her husband can undergo cancer treatment, and she offered to come outside and spectate. By the time I heard about it, she already had a sign ready. I knew to look for her, but the time estimate I’d given her was off because it took longer to start than I’d expected. But there she was, because who else would have a sign with “Layla” on it? I screamed her name in excitement and thanked her, and then I went bounding down the street, full of happiness.

Then the second highlight came nine (short) blocks later. Josh had to be out of town on race day, but Erin was around and wanted to come over and see me in the race. I was also late for the estimate I’d given her, but there she was, still looking for me. I was thrilled to see her, and then I saw that she was holding a bright yellow sign reading, “Go Layla!” It was such a great surprise and I shouted, “You have a sign!!” I slowed down to thank her again, and a guy said, “Don’t stop! Keep going!” I know he meant well, but hello, my friend had just stood outside waiting for me, and had made me a sign!

In the five marathons I’ve run, there has never been a sign in the crowds for me. That’s ok, and I don’t expect it. But on Sunday, there were two signs, and I loved them so much.

Mile 18: 8:43
Mile 19: 9:15 (gel)
Mile 20: 9:27 (stopped to fill my bottle so I wouldn’t have to slow for water stops)
Mile 21: 9:00

At mile 21, I did the math. Considering that my run was turning out to be longer than 26.2 miles, I needed to run faster than 9-minute miles until the finish if I wanted to hit 4 hours. I didn’t know how much over 26.2 I’d be, though, so I didn’t know if I needed 8:50s (doable) or 8:10s (not doable). I couldn’t quite do enough math at that point, so I just kept running.

Mile 22: 8:49 (caffeinated gel)
Mile 23: 8:57

And then I felt it in my right calf: a cramp. I’d felt it briefly a couple miles earlier, but I’d downed a bunch of Gatorade and made it go away. Now the cramp had returned, and it was all I could do to keep from falling over. I made it to the side of the road and stopped, trying to ease the cramp. I was fighting tears, because I’d been doing a little more math and knew that if I could run for all I was worth, I still had a shot at breaking 4 hours. But that was before this cramp had stopped me in my tracks.

As I bent over and stretched my leg, I thought of just jogging to the finish, since I’d still have a decent time considering the hills, the crowds and my knees. But that thought didn’t last long, because I’d been thinking of Chrissie Wellington throughout the race. Before the marathon, I wrote that I was going to “channel Chrissie.” She crashed two weeks before Ironman Kona, then won the race. So I could also fall two weeks before New York and go run my best. I was a few yards away from Chrissie when she crossed that finish line, and I saw her sheer joy. She hadn’t given up.

And so I lifted my head, determined to keep fighting. There, only a few yards ahead, were volunteers with bananas. I didn’t want to eat, but I knew the potassium might just save the day. So I took half a banana, pulled the skin off, and made myself basically inhale it while walking. I took several swigs of Gatorade, then tried running. The cramp vanished!

Mile 24: 10:33

When I crossed the next mile marker, I knew there was no way I would break 4 hours. But, as I thought of Chrissie, I decided to give it my all. I didn’t care that I wouldn’t have a PR. I was going to run as fast and as hard as I could, because I was not going to give up. Assuming the cramp didn’t return, I was going to see just how fast I could run at the end of a marathon. I would leave everything out there. (Plus, I saw a runner dressed in a bright pink sasquatch costume, and I decided there was no way in hell a pink sasquatch would beat me. I zipped past him and never saw him again.)

Mile 25: 8:35
Mile 26: 8:16
Mile 26.6: 4:56 (8:18 pace)

The finish was one big blur, though the video shows me pumping my arms in happiness and apparent coherence. But I was so much more dazed than I appeared. The next day I wandered back through Central Park near the finish, and I was stunned to discover that, yes, it finished at a gradual incline and then a short, steep uphill. That incline and that hill never fazed me on race day. I never noticed them, and I didn’t feel them. That’s what adrenaline and sheer determination will do.

I have no memory of running up this hill in Central Park.

I crossed the finish line and someone gave me a medal.

The bling.

Someone else gave me a mylar heat sheet, which I wrapped around my shoulders. Someone else taped it, which was a great idea and should be done at all races so that runners don’t have to hold heat sheets around their rapidly chilling bodies. We had to keep walking, since there were so many runners finishing. I couldn’t stop and pose for the official photos because it was so crowded that the race directors had the photographers stop shooting.

That guy's face sums up most feelings: "I just ran 26.2 miles and now I'm stuck in this mess?"

We kept slowly shuffling, and I knew that I desperately needed water. Things were starting to get hazy, though I desperately tried to just keep moving with the crowd. Then I noticed that people were carrying orange bags and drinking out of water bottles. Somewhere I had missed those finisher bags. I took a few more steps, and it was all I could do to stay upright. I could barely see (that happens to me), and I had just enough coherence left to know that I was about to black out. I found myself at the side, leaning against a barricade, and volunteers with megaphones were telling everyone to keep moving. I couldn’t, because I was holding onto that barricade for dear life. A volunteer told me to keep walking, and I gasped out that I needed water. I bent over; some part of me knew that I needed blood flowing back to my head. I heard volunteers saying to keep walking, and then I head someone shout, “Medical!” and something about an ambulance coming. NO! I did not want medical. I did not want to be taken somewhere on a stretcher. I didn’t want to be kept somewhere against my will. I would be OK if I could keep my head down a little longer and get water. I certainly didn’t need to take attention away from people who truly needed medical help.

I kept saying “water,” and finally a female volunteer listened to me. I’d had my head down long enough that a little blood was circulating again, and I managed to tell her that I’d missed the finisher bags and that I just needed water, not medical. Someone went and got me a finisher bag while I kept clinging to that barricade. The female volunteer opened the bottle of water and handed it to me. Suddenly my face was numb and tingling, but the black haze was lifting. I could see her, which was a big improvement. She opened a bag of pretzels and held them out, and I began eating them. The haze lifted. The tingling sensation was still strong, but that angel of a woman stayed with me. She got me talking, and I remember mumbling about Chrissie Wellington. She asked if I’d done other marathons. I told her this was my fifth marathon, despite the childhood doctors who said I’d never do much running.

I don’t know that woman’s name, but because she actually listened, got me water, and stayed with me for a couple minutes, I didn’t wind up in the medical tent. I was able to continue walking on my own two legs — past the ambulance that had arrived.

We kept walking forever, and I finally got to the UPS truck that had my bag. The man there was good: He had seen me coming, glimpsed the race number on my bib, found my bag, and was handing it to me before I could even stop. I moved a bit more to a sunny spot and stopped to pull off my soaking wet shirt and put on a dry sweatshirt. I’d had no cell phone signal, but now I finally got one, and text messages came tumbling in. I called a couple people, sent a couple texts, and before too long Desiree was calling me. She was coughing almost uncontrollably, but she’d done it.

We were both cold, Desiree was coughing, and my arches were hurting badly, something I hadn’t experienced previously. We were in no shape to walk as we’d previously planned, so we followed a cop’s directions to head further west where cabs would be easier to find. This was awful advice. We spent the next hour in a slight daze, trying to hail cabs that were full. (I have since heard that the best thing is to get on a subway any direction just to get away from the race finish, then get out a couple stops later and find a cab. Now I know.) Eventually we decided that we’d have to walk. Desiree headed south, and I had to head north and then west. We both wound up adding three miles to the day. It didn’t help that my phone battery said it had 31% left, but then it went dead. This was a recurring theme throughout the week, and a strike against Apple.

The walk was long, but I must say that New Yorkers eschewed the haughty stereotype that day: Complete strangers saw my finisher’s heat sheet and congratulated me. At one point, a crowd of young people burst into applause and cheers, and I almost cried in gratitude, since I’d been walking for a very long time by then. I finally got back to Josh and Erin’s apartment, took a wonderful shower, put on compression socks, and we went out for pizza and wine. The next day we walked all over Central and High Line parks, and the latter will have to be its own photo-filled blog post. My feet hurt so badly, but the walking was good for the rest of my legs.

The day after the marathon, before the finish line vanished. Of course I wore my hard-earned medal and finisher's shirt.

New York was my fifth marathon, and it capped a year of comeback. Last year I fractured my leg, quit my career, severed some personal ties and went on a 16-day roadtrip. This year, I’m at a new job, living in a new place and meeting more people. I ran two marathons in one year — a first for me, due to my injury-prone self. I beat my previous records at the marathon and half-marathon. I am doing my best to live life.

Thank you, New York, for teaching me lessons, for welcoming me, and for giving me a great race.

New York City was full of marathon-related ads. I saw this one while hobbling around the day after the race, and it resonated.

Update: I subsequently blogged more post-marathon thoughts here. And mentioned another NYCM runner here.

When I took a nasty fall two weeks before the New York City Marathon, I was certainly less than happy. I was supposed to run 20 miles that day, but when you’re bloody and battered by mile 1.5, that’s not the ideal time to keep running another 18.5 miles. Fortunately that was a Saturday, which meant I could attempt it the next day, bleeding knees included.

I ran those 20 miles, feeling the pain in my knees every step of the way. I came home and wrote, “I overcame yesterday’s fall. I pushed through the pain. I reminded myself that Chrissie Wellington crashed on her bike and then won the Kona Ironman World Championships two weeks later.” The rest of my week was very rough. My knees got worse, despite prescription ointment. The pain brought me to tears more than once (the one advantage was that the arm pain from the tetanus shot was minor in comparison). My running gait suffered, which gave me shin splints, and I wondered what would happen in New York. I accepted that my dream of beating my own time was not realistic.

One week later, I again thought of Chrissie Wellington while I ran four miles on Saturday. Earlier that month, I got to be there in person to see her win the Kona Ironman World Championships. The day before the race, I was driving along Ali’i Drive and passed her as she was out for a run. She’s famous for her smile, but she wasn’t smiling at that point. She looked like she was focused and determined. During the race, I saw her start the run and she wasn’t smiling then, either. She needed to make up a lot of ground, and she knew it.

Chrissie did it. Two weeks after a bad fall on her bike, she won the most prestigious triathlon in the world. I didn’t know the extent of her injuries until this week, when I read her blog post about winning. She was in pain all day, but she pushed through it. She hadn’t been able to compete last year, and she was hell-bent on doing it this year.

I was supposed to run the New York City Marathon last year. I’d gotten into the lottery and was beyond excited. Then I suffered a stress fracture, and I entered a world of gloom, canceled races and doom. I was able to defer New York, so this year I was cautious but more determined than ever to make it to the starting line. I suffered a brief setback in September when a knee went nuts, but I rebounded. Then I went to Hawaii, where 11 days of running, relaxing and going to the beach seemed to work wonders. I returned home to find myself running fast and strong.

Then came the fall. The agony. The second-guessing. The memories of last year’s New-York-that-wasn’t. And then I thought of Chrissie.

If you don’t know who she is, Chrissie Wellington is arguably one of the fittest women in the world. Triathletes don’t get as much recognition as most sports, though they work out harder than just about any other athletes. Chrissie can swim 2.4 miles in an hour, hop on a bike and ride 112 miles in less than five hours, then go run 26.2 miles at a pace of 6:35 per mile — and that’s in Hawaii with temperatures of at least 90 degrees.

On that Sunday in October, she never gave up. As she wrote on her blog, “So yes, life threw me curve ball. I could either be crushed by that ball or I could throw it right back.” And she did throw it back. Her blog has photos of her amazingly muscled body, of her joyous victory. Those photos also show her injuries. She had open wounds down her left leg, and her elbow must have hurt. She also told of the internal pain. I now have a greater appreciation of what she went through — and I know her wounds were worse than mine. It’s probably been a blessing that both of my knees took a beating, or I’d be favoring one side, which would really affect my gait. Chrissie experienced that.

Chrissie Wellington is an amazing athlete and a sweet, sincere person. She fought with every fiber in her being, and she conquered the demons. I don’t know what New York holds for me, but when things get tough, I will think of her. I will remember the look of raw determination I saw as she ran past me. I will remember seeing her tears of joy at the finish line.

In her blog post, Chrissie said she always writes a couple words on her wristband and water bottles. One is “smile” and the other was “never ever give up.” I’d planned to carry my water bottle in New York, and now it actually has a message on it: The lid is scuffed where it hit the pavement that Saturday morning, but it’s none the worse for the wear. At some point Sunday, things will get rough in New York – I know they will, because it’s not an easy course. But things were so much rougher for Chrissie, and she never gave up.

It’s taken me a long time to get here. Next month will mark three years since my first marathon. On Sunday, I will set out to conquer my fifth marathon. I’m running through all five boroughs of New York City — one for each marathon. That last borough, Manhattan, will be the toughest. My knees may or may not be feeling bruised by then, as they were during last weekend’s mellow 12-miler. But if Chrissie Wellington can push through the pain and finish with a smile, I can do my best, too.

One week ago, I awoke well before most people do on a Saturday morning, and long before the sun rose. I forced myself to eat a little breakfast, I put on my running clothes, I grabbed my water bottle, and I set out into the cool morning air. I was going to run 20 miles, get home just in time to change into dry clothes, then go see my friend Katie finish a race, with the likelihood of taking home prize money. This would be my longest run before the New York Marathon two weeks later.

At mile 1.6, I suddenly tripped on an uneven part of the sidewalk. Tree roots have pushed it up, and I’ve actually tripped there twice before and remained on my feet. (One time I went staggering/running/leaping for half a dozen steps before regaining control.)

The scene of the crime (taken the next day). It was just my luck to land on concrete that is rough and made of lots of tiny rocks.

This time, I found myself skidding along the sidewalk, coming to rest flat on my chest. I got up and realized my knees were bloody messes, as was part of my left hand. My water bottle had protected most of my dominant right hand, thankfully.

I gathered up the various possessions that had gone flying. I walked around to see if I’d broken/damaged anything. Nothing felt out of place, so I ran home. It was a good way to test the limbs, and I certainly didn’t want to take the time to walk a mile and a half. By the time I got home, I had bloody streaks down my legs and my shoes needed to be washed. (I debated for days whether to post pictures of the carnage. I decided not to, but if you want to see the gore, I can email you a photo.) I was done for the day.

It turned out that Katie had to pull out of her race, so we met at a Starbucks and commiserated for a while. We were both bummed and in pain, and it was such a relief to see and hug a close friend. She understood. Many people say that running 20 miles is insane, but Katie runs that amount many days and doesn’t think I’m crazy. We eventually parted ways and I went off to buy the biggest band-aids I could find for my knees that were getting more painful by the minute. Of course I happened to drive down the parking lot lane where the world’s slowest, biggest customer was trudging slowly down the middle of it while I inched along behind her.

But of course that wasn’t all. On my way to meet Katie, I was minding my own business when a large turkey came flying over a sound wall. It landed ungracefully in front of my car, and I braked just in time to avoid an early Thanksgiving slaughter. So, while that was at least amusing, it clearly was not my day. I skipped going to a bowling party that evening, since I wouldn’t have actually bowled and wasn’t sure I’d survive the drive, at the rate I was going.

I did note, though, that the morning’s distrastrous run put my year’s total miles at 1,000.19. It’s the first time I’ve ever run more than 1,000 miles in a year.

Sunday morning was Take Two. I went through the same routine as Saturday, this time leaving two hours later and with hurting knees that had disrupted my sleep. I even took the same route, stopping to take pictures of the offending sidewalk. For 20 miles, I felt my knee wounds at every step. Every bend and straighten of my legs upset my wounds. I’m not following much of a training plan (see this post about my “plan,” and this one about how it worked for me — though I don’t actually advise anyone to do it). I only scheduled two runs on my calendar for New York training, and this weekend was the most crucial one. It was “do or die” for New York, and this was my only chance to do that long run. As it was, I’d lost almost two weeks of training in September due to a knee issue.

So I ran. I had told myself not to go too fast, because a long training run isn’t supposed to be fast. The purpose is to get time on your feet and train your body to keep going. Earlier in the month I’d run on hills and in humidity for 11 days in Hawaii. That really helped my training, and I’d done some rather fast runs when I returned home. This 20-miler was NOT to be run fast, and I told myself that no mile time would start with an 8. I stuck to it, having to force myself to slow down sometimes during the first 10 miles.

Danville.

Part of the route was new to me, and I absolutely loved running through Danville. Then it began to get harder. At mile 13, I turned on my music to help distract myself. I reached the Iron Horse bike trail that would take me back home, took one look at it and said, “No.” I don’t really like the trail, since it just seems to go on forever (and was the scene of my stress fracture last year). So, instead of running the trail on Sunday, I took a different parallel road. That was a smart move, because it was more shady and by then I was getting hot.

By mile 16 I was taking a couple walk breaks. My wounds were hurting, I was hot, and I was cranky. Katie happened to text me to see how I was, so that was a nice pick-me-up. (She’d just come in second place in a 5k!)  Then I reached one of my favorite roads, because one side of it goes up and down along grassy hills. Across the four lanes of traffic, the sidewalk is flat. But I love the hilly side, because I want the hill workout, and I like to conquer a little hill and then zoom down the backside. That was the one mile that came in under 9 minutes — 8:57, so not too bad.

The last two miles were torture. I was so ready to be done. If I could have, I would have called someone for a ride. After all, 18 miles is still a good long run. But I had to get home, so I had to run two more miles. I wasn’t actually injured, so I had no excuse. My watch beeped 20 miles as I entered my parking lot. I. Was. Done.

The toll had been taken on my knees. I showered and slathered on Neosporin, my go-to for most skin troubles. I have sensitive skin that gets infected easily, and I was taking no chances. And then my knees felt like they were on fire. Neosporin had let me down and I was in utter agony.

Then I got chills. Oh no. This could be a sign of infection. Both knees were very red, another sign. After another night of bad sleep, this time involving a lot of tears, I got up Monday and called a doctor.

Those who know me will understand the significance of Layla calling a doctor. I don’t have good luck with doctors. At all. After all, doctors were the ones who told me years ago that I’d never be able to do much running. Four marathons later, I’m still proving them wrong.

Monday afternoon found me at a new doctor’s office. They were changing computer systems, resulting in a long line at registration — I wasn’t surprised, given my track record with doctors. I was finally called into a room where a very nice medical assistant began going over basic medical stuff. As always, my low blood pressure impressed her. Then she discovered that the staff hadn’t given me forms to fill out my medical history. She began entering the basic ones on her computer, and then realized the questions were wrong.

According to the computer system, I was a male. And they couldn’t fix it. I’d later get paperwork addressed to “Mr.” When the doctor came in to see me, she’d heard about the error, and apparently it was becoming the talk of the office.

The doctor was actually really nice. At one point she bent down and winced, then apologized because her quads were sore from a workout. In my book, that gives a doctor brownie points. (If a doctor tells me running is bad, I will never again return to that doctor.) She talked me into getting a tetanus shot, prescribed some ointment that’s given to people with second and third-degree burns, and then got a Sharpie to draw a permanent line around the damage on one of my knees. If the redness passed that line, it would mean infection had spread and I needed to be seen again.

I hobbled out of the doctor’s office to the elevators, where a very cute little girl said, “What happened to your knees?” and used the toe of her Ugg boot to point at them. She missed kicking me in the knee by about an inch. I gasped in relief, and her horrified mother apologized profusely. Since nothing actually touched my knees, everybody lived.

Then I hobbled to my car and called the pharmacy to see if my prescription was ready. Yes, it was, but they wanted to know why a “Mr.” was named Layla.