I went to bed early last night because I knew I had to be up by 6am to run in my first NYC organized fundraiser run. This particular run happened to be the Susan G. Komen Race For The Cure 5K in Central Park; but that’s inconsequential because I’m just in it for the exercise and chance to share in the experience with a community of runners.
Running in organized runs such as Turkey Trots on Thanksgiving, or Super Bowl Runs in Redondo Beach have been a favorite of mine for the past few years because it allows me to get together with friends way to early in the morning, bitch about the weather, run the race, and then justifiably pig out after at breakfast. It’s somewhat of a tradition back home and I look forward to making it a tradition in my new city.
Well, I must have been really anxious to start this tradition because I woke up at 5am, an hour before Kevin was supposed to come in and wake me. With my newfound time, I decided to hit up Starbucks then head down to the registration booth, which opened at 7am. As I jogged along the park on Central Park West towards the booth, I started to realize today’s race wasn’t going to be just a race; it was going to be bigger than that…an occasion really, which I hadn’t anticipated.
I first noticed all of the volunteers that were gathering and figuring out their particular piece in this puzzle. Hundreds of volunteers were changing into their recognizable blue shirts, ready to make this day as smooth as possible for all the participants and donors. I passed by the start line, which included a speakers platform, balloon arch, and of course news vans eager not to miss the action.
I filled out my paper work, grabbed my jogging number, and took my souvenir t-shirt. All of which took less than 5 minutes because the other participants hadn’t arrived yet.
Time: 7:05; race start time 9:25. Now what? Starbucks? Nope, already did that. Go back home? Nope, 30 blocks is a little far. Luckily, I happened to notice a map of the race route through the park. On it showed different stations like the “Sponsors Expo” and the “Survivor’s Village” in the middle of the park so I decided to go check it out.
On the way over I watched even more volunteers doing much more than required. They seemed to be inspired by something much bigger than the act of volunteering in itself. I also started to see participants filter in; some were alone and some came in groups. Some in regular running attire, some with themed shirts that had the name of the person they were there to support. If they were lucky, that person was with them and wearing pink…the symbolic color of a cancer survivor. If they weren’t as fortunate to have that person wearing pink next to them, they carried that person in their hearts and memory.
This is what I wasn’t prepared for; I wasn’t prepared to feel instantly united with a group of people, both as a runner, but more so for the cause. I found myself putting my souvenir shirt on, which is abnormal, because they usually never make it on my body before becoming just another rag. But this, this was different; this was bigger than the races before. I suddenly wasn’t here for exercise or for comradery, I was here for all of my family and friends who have been taken or touched by cancer. I was here for those who weren’t. I was overwhelmed. I found myself walking—wandering really; fighting back the tears because it hurt and I didn’t want to go there… not now.
I ended up at a street bridge overlooking Bethesda Fountain, the famous Angel fountain; it seemed fitting. There, supported by the rail, I let myself go. I started to cry, and let myself feel this moment. It oddly felt good to hurt. It took me back to mile 17 of the marathon I completed a few years back. Again, to raise money for cancer, but specifically I ran in remembrance of my grandma. Somewhere around mile 17, still 9 miles to go, my mind tired and body hurt, I read a sign held up by a lady on the sidelines that read, “You’re running because we can’t…god bless you.” I ran that next mile sobbing and pain free. It was the most heartfelt thank you I ever received and I can only hope she’s wearing a pink shirt wherever she is.
Although not embarrassed by my tears because I was with people who knew what each tear meant, I waited at that bridge until I had some sense of composure before leaving. I headed over to “Survivor Village” and hung out on the edge to listen to the guest speakers and hear the voice of honored survivors and co-survivors (those who went through the ordeal as a partner of the survivor with cancer). It was inspiring to hear their stories and accomplishments. It was a club you’d never want to be in, but a club more emotionally powerful than any other in the world.
The statistics were amazing as well; 25,000 participants were expected on this morning. 20 years ago $15,000 was raised at this event, last year over $4 million on this one day. 20 years ago, breast cancer survival rates were at 74%, today 98%. Susan G. Komen is well on their way to putting themselves out of business with a cure, and they couldn’t be happier. I was proud to be a part of it.
The race started with pink shirts in front and then 5 minutes later the rest of us started. Central Park West was shutdown with runners, celebrities, and politicians, but more importantly, moms, daughters, sisters, friends; some in pink, some in spirit, but still very present. I jogged and had very few episodes along the way. I felt more pride than anything.
I finished the race and began my walk home. Because home was 30 blocks from the finish, I had time reflect on the morning. I started to cry again. I couldn’t help but mourn the time stolen from me and my loved ones, who were taken from me too soon. Too many pivotal moments in my life were lessened because their smile was taken by this quite monster. My focus soon shifted to the ones I love who have survived; the ones in my life that can rightfully wear that pink shirt and I’m just so goddamn grateful they are still here and their smiles aren’t missing from my life.
On my last block it started to rain. I didn’t mind. It merely reminded me that those smiles I do miss continue to walk with me. It let me know my they were crying too, but just tears of joy because those of us down here are making a difference.
I run because I can.
