Photo by @baklinerunning
“Are you runner #35?,” he asked, straining to see my hip numbers through both the blinding lights and distinct darkness of the Manhattan Bridge.
“Yep,” I nodded quickly. I had already been through the wringer of emotions to a point where the self-pity had lifted, and I knew there was no time for mumbling. At this moment, I had been out on “the course” for over 45 minutes, distinctly aware that I would be finishing this race in last place, with a much slower time than the rest of the field. Waves of regret, disappointment, and bright, red embarrassment flooded my brain miles before, where my first wrong turn in Manhattan sent me on a wild goose chase for the characteristic, Take The Bridge checkpoint. That goose chase continued with a few additional wrong turns, including a too-close-for-comfort encounter with the Williamsburg Bridge, an actual third bridge completed (the footbridge near Delancey Street), and the eventual reroute back on the track I’d been so desperately searching for what was likely ~15 minutes, but felt like hours.