1. I arrived in Philadelphia on Saturday with high hopes: for once, the forecast for the marathon was perfect (high thirties, no rain), the course was relatively flat, and I felt like I was in pretty good shape after dealing with some foot issues over the summer.
2. I spent the afternoon wandering around the museum area, where I admired the young gays stretching out before the race.
3. Meanwhile, runners like me in the ‘masters’ category were afflicted with the usual doubts: what had we gotten ourselves into?
4. The next morning, I made it to the starting line, on the Ben Franklin Parkway in front of the art museum. The gun went off and I settled in a little ahead of the 3:10 pacers, which I thought was conservative after running a similar time last April in Boston during an 'epic nor'easter.'
5. The first five miles were perfect. There were classic rock bands, deejays, and a gospel choir. There were enough people watching and cheering and holding goofy signs ('toenails are overrated') to make it feel like a (runner-geek) party. But my favorite stretch, when we were looping back through Center City, was relatively quiet. I listened to pounding feet and the quiet conversation of the pacers, who not being at all taxed by the run were debating the merits of Second Empire architecture as we passed City Hall. We stampeded like a herd of wildebeests through the canyons of the city. It was just after seven in the morning and the eastern horizon still glowed; as I caught a deep breath, the utter pointlessness of the venture was for a few flickering moments transformed into something sublime and almost artistic, but in a way that no art I’ve encountered (except for Terrace House) has ever captured.
6. I knew it wouldn’t last; marathons are almost by definition painful, especially the last six miles. What I didn’t expect, because I was focusing on my form and pace -- and my left foot, right knee, and right hamstring -- was to feel a little twinge in my left leg that over the course of about a half mile became a stabbing pain in my left hamstring. It was sort of a disaster; I had to stop for a bit to get my bearings. Approximately ten thousand runners passed me. After an internal debate and a few tender steps, I decided to keep going; the pain became (somewhat) number and (somewhat) more tolerable, and so I went a bit more and then a bit longer after that, and so on. While it was excruciating to run 20 more miles with this kind of distraction -- my form was Not Good -- I soldiered through to the end. My time (3:20) was disappointing but I was relieved to have made it, and maybe a little proud given the struggle (and notwithstanding my preference not to struggle, at least to that degree). Most of all, I knew I would never forget that golden, hazy stretch through the canyons, when life had seemed magical.
7. Stephen and I spent the next few days exploring parts of Philadelphia that we had never seen.
8. We went to the Rail Park, which is Philadelphia’s version of the High Line. Though it’s only in Phase One, it felt like a perfect secret, the way the High Line did for a few months back when it opened.
9. I’d bet that the Philadelphia version will remain relatively sane, however, even as the next phases are completed. It’s in a depopulated industrial area, meaning it’s not overrun with r>g investors and tourists that have become the downtown hallmark/bane of Amazon HQ2 cities like New York.
10. We ate lunch at the Reading Terminal Market, which is a combination food court and grocery store. It’s a little touristy but in a way that feels charming, mostly because you can get a decent meal here for $10. It reminded me of certain parts of the Financial District in Manhattan, where tourists mix with city employees and construction workers. (It didn't remind me of West Chelsea or the West Village or the East Village or Nolita or Tribeca or Soho or the Lower East Side or Murray Hill.)
11. I spent some time comparing prices and wishing that my supermarket had deals like this. Even the Whole Foods in Philadelphia was cheaper than anywhere I could shop in New York City. Maybe, I thought for the ten billionth time since moving to New York almost thirty years ago, it was time to consider leaving. If so, Philadelphia seemed like a good option.
12. Back near the art museum, we were walking through the Spring Garden historic district when a real estate agent asked if we wanted to see a house she was showing. We told her that we weren’t planning to move anytime soon, but she said we might change our mind if we saw the garden.
13. She was right and wrong about the garden: it was beautiful, but in a way that made us more thankful for our own.