There is, perhaps, no event in my home city of New York that better represents the unbelievable spirit of human beings than the New York City Marathon. Each year, I am moved nearly to tears by the amazing stories and images that emerge from this day.
What makes the marathon so incredible is the outpouring that occurs each year along the route. The race passes through all five boroughs, and the streets along the route are lined with well wishers of all stripes, who urge on the participants with everything from cheers, to music, to simple things like tissues or Gatorade.
For ten years (until one year ago) I lived in Sunset Park, Brooklyn, a Puerto Rican, Dominican, Chinese, and Mexican neighborhood which includes 4th Avenue, an early leg of the race. Sunset Park is a favorite part of the race for many participants each year. When they reach the neighborhood, the racers have passed over the Verrazano bridge from Staten Island and have been running uphill for a few miles. It is the first really difficult stretch and a reality check for many first time racers.
4th Avenue is lined with well-wishers, but also with the curious. Eleven years ago when I first moved there, Sunset Part was Chinese, Puerto Rican, and Polish. For a number of years now, Mexican immigrant have been pouring into the neighborhood and adding tremendously to the culture and vibrancy of the area. Unlike the traditional Chinese and Puerto Rican residents, most Mexicans in Sunset Park are new immigrants and first generation Americans. For many, far from home, this is their first marathon and they come down in large numbers to watch the spectacle. They bring their children, who overcome their initial shyness and begin to cheer and offer bottled water and encouragement to the runners. Shouts of "Andale!" and "Si se puede!" cascade down from open apartment windows, and bands play all styles of music to liven the atmosphere.
As the initial group of highly trained runners come into view, the crowds roar their delight and shout and cheer. It is after they have passed, however, that the real stories begin. Following that lead group is a stream of humanity -- each person with a different path in life, each person with different burdens to overcome.
Some are old, some are handicapped, some are semi-pro runners trying to beat their best times. Some are just silly -- like those who race in bizarre costumes like mascot outfits. Some have political or social messages. Some are cancer patients expressing their will to overcome their illness. Some are dressed colorfully to represent their home nation. No matter what, their personal struggles are there for all to see as they struggle through our fair city, racing against each other, but, most of all, racing against themselves.
This year 37,000 people ran the New York City marathon. It wasn't so long ago that it was 10,000. As the masses pass by, it becomes more and more touching. Especially late in the day, when the race officials and cops have all gone home, and just a few onlookers remain to urge on the slowest of the participants. Someone always has to be the last to finish, and bless that person, for their acheivement is no less than that of the winner.
The race route is lined with people of countless backgrounds, who shout encouragement in the languages of more than 100 countries. The marathon gives me pride in my city and its humanity. It gives me pleasure to watch thousands overcome their fears and physical limitations to complete the impossibly long race. Most of all, it gives me hope. Hope that we are a greater people than we might appear from the outside. Hope that the ties that bind us are greater than the things that divide. Hope that the spirit seen on this day -- the best day in our city every year -- will somehow transcend the pain in our lives and remind us that the human spirit is alive and well in the streets of America.