THE MARATHON THAT NEARLY WRECKED ME: A LOVE LETTER

DEAR NEW YORK CITY

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Probably the most excruciating breath I've taken in my life was in Lenox Hill Hospital on East 77th Street. It was my first breath on Earth, and my lungs must have wondered what had hit them. Forty-three years later, it seemed fitting that I'd come back to you for another challenge to my lungs and body: my first marathon.

I have lots of memories of you, starting from those early years on Manhattan's Upper East Side.

Then there were holiday visits and sleepovers with my grandmother in Stuyvesant Town, special days in Dad's office in Washington Heights, Mom's gallery openings in the Village. There were the fits and starts of my early professional career when I lived in Brooklyn and then Alphabet City, using most of my paycheck for rent, the rest for food. And of course, after I moved away in my late 20s, when I'd see you a couple of times a month for work.

If I'm being honest, you've always been a bit of a headache and a challenge. Back when I was just starting out, I couldn't tolerate your high prices and abrasive attitude, and your tendency to “never sleep.” Which is why I ditched you for a less exhausting life in the country. Even today, I stress out just thinking about seeing you.

But on an unseasonably warm November Sunday, NYC Marathon day, you challenged me more than ever before—and revealed a level of grit I didn’t know was in me.