There is nothing so momentary as a sporting achievement, and nothing so lasting as the memory of it.
~Greg Dening
A New York City Marathon banner flapped overhead, beckoning runners to the starting line on the Staten Island side of New York’s Verrazzano Bridge. On a crisp November morning, I waited to tour the city’s five boroughs by running 26.2 miles with more than 45,000 other runners.
I have run marathons in a variety of states and countries, but on this particular morning my usual pre-race jitters were different. I was serving as a guide for a disabled athlete, a 41-year-old blind runner.
Physically, I felt in shape, having trained at local parks and nearby running trails. But as we waited for the official start, I suddenly had the sinking feeling of being ill-prepared. My running partner for the next 26.2 miles was totally blind and completely in my care. I had to rise to the occasion.
So here we were, his muscular five-foot, nine-inch frame next to my slight five feet. A rope connected our wrists, his right to my left. As I triple-checked his shoelaces, I asked him if he was ready to “rock New York City.”
He responded with an enthusiastic shout, “Let’s do it!”
As we began to run, I worried about potholes, uneven road grades and clothing — a hat here, a sweatshirt there, all discarded by fellow runners as they warmed up.
Running together was difficult. We needed to find a mutually comfortable pace. I felt like we were two preteens at our very first dance.
My running partner was donned in a bright neon yellow shirt denoting his first name followed by the words “Blind Runner.” He smiled graciously as spectators continuously screamed his name and cheered for him.
As we logged the miles, I explained in vivid detail certain landmarks that were integral to the running course: famous streets in Brooklyn, the 59th Street Bridge, and First Avenue in Manhattan. As we entered Central Park at mile 24, I tried my very best to describe the beautiful foliage. When I saw the finish sign and clock, I told my running partner just how close he was to attaining his goal.
Somewhere along the way, our awkward first dance became a synchronized waltz. At the finish line, we raised our wrists in triumph. I realized that our shared determination was our real tether.
My partner turned to me and said, “Hey, same time next year. What do you think?”
I was exhausted, more mentally than physically, but I answered, “Yes, definitely.”
And so we danced again the following November — and many more.
— Patricia Ann Rossi —