“I’m dying of thirst but lack the strength to even drink water anymore. As these thoughts flit through my mind I gradually start to get angry. Angry at the sheep happily munching grass in an empty lot next to the road, angry at the photographer snapping photos from inside the van. The sound of the shutter grates on my nerves. Who needs this many sheep, anyway?”
— Haruki Murakami, What I Talk About When I Talk About Running
In my first year of grad school I called my friend’s sister on the phone and talked to her about whether or not I should drop out. She had graduated from her PhD a few years prior, gotten a prestigious tenure-track position, then left academia altogether. It was winter 2021. Light was scarce, my skin was acneic. Being 23 and doing math homework for a professor on my computer screen — this was the worst fate I could imagine, and I had hoped she would talk me out of it. Instead, the advice she gave me: You need to stay in grad school because it sucks. Sometimes being able to endure something you hate is a good thing.
This suggestion reinvigorated me, but the motivation lasted a week, maybe two. She argued the ability to get through shit is one of the foremost qualities companies look for, a la Angela Duckworth’s Grit. I thought it was good advice, then later found it dispiriting. In spite of our capitalistic indoctrination, misery is not inherently virtuous.
On the first Sunday of November I rolled out of my friend Nitya’s sofa bed and put on the outfit I had laid out on her living-room rug. It comprised a grey tank top, distinctly green hat, the shorts I own that chafe the least, and the bra I own that chafes the least. I threw on sweats I’d gotten from the thrift store for this day only, a grey sweatshirt from a bank or something of the sort. Vague logo. Who could be sure?
I’m trying to remember everything I saw so I can keep the sights as a souvenir. I took the train to the ferry to the bus to the start village, at Fort Wadsworth on Staten Island. You could tell who was running the marathon because we all looked stupid, holding a clear “start bag” with water and snacks on the 6 train at 7 AM. We somehow followed each other to climb onto the obscene orange ferry, blind faith in whoever was leading this information cascade. We mobbed our way through the terminal while volunteers rang cowbells and hooted. Wooooo! Smiles abound. In front of me, two white guys wearing bathrobes with Biggie Smalls embroidered on the backs. Weird, but we move.
On the ferry there was an air of light camaraderie. Everyone was bundled up in stupid clothes: bathrobes, blankets, or throw-away hoodies, like me. Three Frenchmen in front of me gazed off at the skyline, chirping among themselves. Two women donating a Ziploc of safety pins for the more forgetful among us. I checked my texts: Good luck from friends, from my parents, and from my advisor, which made me want to cry. A text from Emmie, which did make me cry, before I remembered I needed to ration all the water and salt inside my body. I had been keeping a list of motivational mantras I could tell myself (“Everyone wants to be a beast until it’s time to do what beasts do,” and “when they tired, that’s when the real champions come out”) when things got hard, which I was guaranteed they would. But somehow nothing stuck quite as much as what Emmie sent me that morning.
I will spare the details of the running, except that I have forgotten how it felt to run a marathon and have only remembered how I felt looking at everything and everyone around me. I remember being proud, effervescent, and happy, slapping rows of high fives and blowing kisses to my friends. I floated through the run like a dream — it was maybe the fastest 4.5 hours of my life. I started out faster than I had expected, but felt good. I kept feeling good, so I decided to let it rip.
I think New York is maybe the easiest marathon to run for this reason: There is so much to look at, and it’s almost all amazing. I was so distracted I forgot I was running — the whole affair was more like consumption. Glee as fuel, rage as fuel, passion as fuel. Tamales and pizza and bananas and dumplings (?) as fuel, handed out by strangers.1 Every time I saw a familiar face I got a boost. I kept thinking, wow, I have people here from every single stage of my life, giving me strength from Brooklyn to Manhattan. Victoria, Abby, Paula, Maame, Nitya, Priya, Samar, Jacque, Kiara, Rick, Regina, Nick, Dilip, Nihar, Jeevan. My parents, my brother. How could I not run fast with this kind of village alongside me?
To prepare for the race I had read Murakami’s memoir What I Talk About When I Talk About Running. The book, which follows the novelist’s experiences as both an amateur runner and a professional writer, is often called “a meditation,” and while it’s definitely ambling, it feels more similar to running in its form — parts frantic, parts steady, at times frustrated, but always honest. Written as a series of chapters that each focus on a specific race, you witness Murakami’s relationship to running evolve as he ages, from being focused on physical health and gradual self-improvement to a more settled sense of joy and achievement.
It made me consider: Why am I doing this in the first place? I started running because my friend told me we could probably run faster than the other girls in 8th grade. I kept it up later because my friends convinced me, because I wanted to seem like an athlete, because I had crushes on boys on the track team, because I wanted to be thin. And years later, finally, because it felt really good. But you can reap that particular benefit without spending hundreds of dollars on the entry fee to the New York City Marathon. So why the fuck was I doing this? Maybe I wanted attention. Though that wasn’t quite right. The attention made it easier, but the true reason must have been something else.
In addition to the quippy signs and New York landmarks, it’s easy to distract yourself by looking at other runners. In particular, I would study the backs of the runners in front of me, reading whatever they had printed on their shirts. Runners commonly wore the faces of their loved ones, memorializing them through the act of running 26.2 miles. Seeing those faces, god, it made me lose it, makes me start to lose it even now. Young little smiles, with photos pasted above two dates too close to one another. Lost parents, brothers, sisters, friends. It makes such little sense. Why would you run 26+ miles for someone, especially someone dead? In some cases, people were raising money for a cause, maybe the cause that killed that person they loved. But others weren’t running for a cause, just running for someone. And what was that?
What that was: Doing absolutely anything with all the love you had for someone. How absurd! Doing a big, difficult thing — a thing that benefits neither of you, not really. But just showing you did it. Doing this thing, showing what you would endure for someone. Well, isn’t that actually lovely? A pure gesture, proof.
“On the day of the race, as I run those very streets, will I be able to fully enjoy this autumn in New York? Or will I be too preoccupied? I won’t know until I actually start running. If there’s one hard and fast rule about marathons, it’s that.”
— Murakami, WITAWITAR
This is what Emmie had sent me the morning of the marathon, which I rolled around in my head the whole day.
I don’t mean to sound obnoxious when I say in hindsight running the race felt oddly easy. I was buoyant. Maybe it was because of Emmie’s reminders: Have fun, take in every minute. Training is the hard part; the race is just the victory lap!
I feel like I got duped, a little bit. The marathon itself was a challenge, of course, but it was the getting-there that chipped at my resolve. I was tricked into running hundreds of miles. The toughest thing being the preparation, which was piecemeal and thankless. The preparation, in which there was no applause, except maybe through Strava kudos and my parents’ incredulity. In preparing there were few high fives, if any. I had on the trails seen countless dead animals. Dead mice, dead birds, dead deer. I had stood alongside a few other runners on a hot day to shade a fallen biker from the sun as we waited for the ambulance to finally arrive. I had thrown up, once, sitting on the bench outside the restaurant near my apartment, to the horror of diners nearby. It was hot; I was sweating so much that I forgot.
So as I ran, I thought to myself, take in every minute. Though it’s hard, enjoy it. The hardest part is over. Maybe you always need something to trick you into doing the hardest part. Wow, is this so simple after all? That the marathon is just reward? A victory lap?
I wanted to run the race after I saw Emmie run it last year — That day, I couldn’t stop grinning. When I was debating whether or not to bite the bullet, my friend Michelle told me it was the most empowering thing she had ever done, and that I should do it, so I did.
Do I feel empowered? I think so. More so, I feel proud of myself. Really, really proud of myself. I think back to seeing my family, awkward and confused, in the crowd of cheerers. My mom had been telling everyone I was running the marathon, to my horror. She asked me how long I ran after every single long run. I would roll my eyes a bit — she was my mom, after all. She would be impressed regardless. But when I saw her cheering, it was rare. She was so proud, and I didn’t know why.
But I think I am grasping it now, something similar. It stood for other things, that I would try to do something hard. Like wearing the face of someone you love on your shirt, letting them know: I love you, and I would do such hard things for you.
“Competing against time isn’t important. What’s going to be much more meaningful to me now is how much I can enjoy myself, whether I can finish twenty-six miles with a feeling of contentment. I’ll enjoy and value things that can’t be expressed in numbers, and I’ll grope for a feeling of pride that comes from a slightly different place.”
— Murakami, WITAWITAR
no ‘some things’ this week — it’s my bedtime. just a big thank you to everyone: for reading, for being my friend, for donating to my UNHCR fundraiser (we blew the goal out of the water!). there are friends and loved ones at every point in this story: people i ran with, people who called me on my long and dreary runs, people who cheered me on and texted me and got me out of bed in the morning. sorry if i sound so annoying talking about this, guys. i didn’t wanna be one of those people but I am now <3
happy trails,
PM
… PS:
I did not eat these things fwiw. just the dates & sugar cubes I brought + a half banana from the crowd
Woohoo! Congratulations. 🫶
"Light was scarce, my skin was acneic." Woah Pegah, why are you describing my new grad school experience and thoughts of dropping out every single day (my skin is rebelling!!!). The idea of the gesture of running itself being complete is such a poignant idea to mull over; I'll be thinking of that all night. Thank you for that, and for also reading one of my fave memoirs on running.