Why I Run, and Other Stories

Why I Run, and Other Stories

First, listen.

To start, I was never very good at running. I could run from homeplate to first sometimes second base pretty quickly when I played softball as a kid. I never ran quickly or effortlessly enough to play any sort of offensive position in lacrosse. I collapsed mid-court on a quick break during a PAL basketball game. I had to drop out of running track because of a stress fracture in my shin. My high school fitness test required running a mile and I think it took me a cool 20 minutes to walk the mile.

Running, at first, was a workout I could do for free. I didn’t need a gym membership. This was ideal for a 20-something paying Williamsburg rent.

Then, about three years ago, it became something more. Suddenly, I (along with Amanda teehee) was paying to run races. I became obsessed with the idea of medals. I wanted to live like Scrooge McDuck, diving into a huge pile of my running medals. (In hindsight, a huge pile of gold is a way, waaaay better goal.)


5 miler



I always knew I wanted to run a marathon at some point, I just never knew when. To jump back to the first paragraph, I was never very good at running. But in the midst of a conversation with a guy I liked, talking about a marathon he ran, I thought, I can do that, too. And I wanted to run in New York, so I quickly signed up with a charity that means something to me.

Anyway, you know this story if you looked at my fundraising page for the Michael J. Fox Foundation, so I won’t bore you with it here. The point is, I was so excited to run my first marathon. I like structure, I like to have a plan, I like lists and to-dos and being able to check items off as done. So I had a run plan and I ordered a whiteboard calendar to hang next to my bed and it was primed and ready for the first month of my running plan.

For the first two weeks of training, my feet were in excruciating pain. To the point where my runs cut short and I had to walk back to my car. Dr. Google is my first stop on the medical train, and so I was consulting with the internet and finding that maybe I had Plantar Fasciitis. And maybe my gait was messed up. And maybe I had shin splints. And maybe I needed new sneakers. And maybe I should just quit while I’m ahead.

I was struggling physically, feeling like my body wasn’t quite cooperating with me and my plans. A little voice in the back of my head was waving a Rascal Scooter flag at me saying, Remind you of anyone? My grandfather suffered with Parkinson’s Disease for almost the entire time I knew him, when he passed away 11 years ago. Before Parkinson’s, he bowled, he swam, he danced, he drove. For the first 10 or so years of my life, he was still doing some of these things. But then he couldn’t anymore. The tremors, the uncooperative nature of the way he walked, his need for a cane, a walker, a Rascal Scooter became too much.

And here I am, 30 years old, wondering why an 8 mile run feels like the end of the world.

But, let’s flash forward.

It’s November 1st. In the last 4 months, I: left my job, totaled my car, moved 1600 miles across the country from Denver back to Long Island, max out at only 14 miles, have an ongoing battle with curved hips and a tight IT band on my left side, have a muscle strain in my thigh (from stepping over a doggy gate on Halloween night, damn it Scout), have been personally attacked by Miley Cyrus and “The Climb” playing on the radio causing me to ugly cry.

See, the thing is, running became therapy for me over the years. People think I’m weird for running to podcasts and audiobooks, but to me it’s the most freeing thing in the world. And for the majority of August and September, I was debilitated by a dark and gloomy cloud. It had been years since I’d dealt with a depression so heavy. I’d sleep til 10 or 11am, which is incredibly late for me, and I’d be meant to go for a short run. I’d turn over, look at my sneakers, and burst into tears. It had become a bit of a quandary: running was therapy, running made me feel better, I was extremely depressed, I should go running to feel better, the last thing I wanted to do was go running, I continued to feel terrible.

Whenever I was able to lace up my sneakers and head out for a run, I always felt so much lighter. I’d call my dad to check in and he’d note that I sounded better. And I’d say, “Oh, I feel better.” And I wasn’t lying. I really did. But just like a 20 mile run can feel great and the next day a 5k can feel impossible, I never knew if I’d wake up ready for a run or stay coccooned in my blankets.

All this is to say I didn’t train as thoroughly as I had wanted to. And so, this is the progression of my marathon goals over time:

4.5 hours

5.5 hours

5.5-6 hours

BEAT AL ROKER (7.5ish hours)

Just finish

Everyone I had talked to about running the New York City marathon spoke the truth when they said this was a marathon unlike any other. New York City and all of its boroughs were amazing. AMAZING. I cried and cried and cried from the second I stepped into the expo to the moment I crossed the finish line (and for a few hours after, if I’m honest).

I met a crew of amazing people who were also running with Team Fox who really took my nerves away. By the time we reached the starting line, I had no nerves at all. And this is after multiple nights of anxiety dreams including but not limited to: being cast as Alexander Hamilton in the Broadway production and not remembering ANY OF THE WORDS. I’d also spent a number of nights listening to sleep meditations, and prayed (I do not pray) to my grandfather, explaining, “Hey Gramps, listen, I know you’re not a fairy grandfather or anything, but…” and I proceeded to ask him to just give me strength when I needed it most.

So the cannon booms and we take off across the Verrazzano Bridge. And everyone said to take it slow. And I did. I DID, I swear I did. At mile 2, the tape with my name across my chest flies off. Oh, whatever. (But in retrospect, A SIGN OF THINGS TO COME?!) In Bay Ridge, I round a corner into a residential area and they’re blasting “Born to Run” by Springsteen. Do I cry? Of course I cry. I’m comfortable, nothing hurts, my breathing is on point, I’m basking in the awesomeness of this experience.

Mile 9 comes along and suddenly I put pressure on my right knee and I get a sick feeling in my stomach. So I slow down and it’s pounding and pinching and it feels like my knee is about to just evaporate from my leg. But I can keep running and I’m so close to seeing my brother and Megan in our old neighborhood so I truck on. I run. And then I realize I missed them. Simultaneously, I realize that I cannot run on my right knee anymore. I’m not even out of Brooklyn yet and I can’t run anymore. This is when I intermittently cry for the rest of the marathon. But it’s most important to note what I don’t do: I don’t quit.

From mile 9 to 26.2, aside from a couple of attempts at running again, I walk. I walk, when all my brain wants to do is run, when I see everyone passing me by, when the cameras are on me and I know I really just want some fucking pictures of me running this marathon. By the time I got to the upper east side, I cried into my best friends arms (sorry Erin and Kerri, and also Allie and Lauren), was surprised to see an old friend and her husband (thank you Janine and Brian), and visited a medic tent. At this point, I was blasting Hanson on my Spotify to keep my spirits up. It worked. But, Hanson always works.

Again, I’m reminded of why I’m running: for Parkinson’s Disease, a tireless disease that takes away a person’s autonomy. I know my grandfather was, specifically, trapped in his body and would have done anything to fix it. And I kept thinking of quitting. Once I reached the park, I kept looking out at the rolling green hills of Central Park, thinking about perhaps just walking into the grass, laying face down and dying of shame there. It’d be easier than THIS. This painful limpy walk. And just when I needed it, at mile 24, I saw another friendly face and a dog. Once again, I threw my arms around Caitlin and burst into tears. “I’m in so much pain,” I told her. And she effortlessly combatted me with words of kindness and encouragement. (There’s a youtube somewhere of our encounter, because it brought a stranger to tears and I guess I’m his hero now.)

If you’ve never run a marathon, let me tell you this: there is nothing longer than the 800 meter distance to the finish line. Especially when your knee feels like it might bend the wrong way and you might fall on your face.

Luckily, around mile 26 I had another face to comfort me. Raising her sign over her head, screaming her face off with a bunch of strangers in the dark evening streets of Columbus Circle: Allie. My date, my roommate, my mom for the weekend. I hugged her so tight, I cried one more time (jk I cried a bunch of other times after this, ok), and told her I’d see her after the finish line.

I trudged on. Hiding my crying eyes behind sunglasses.

The last friendly face I would see is my cousin Dorrian, a police officer on duty right before the bend to the finish line. “BRUNO!” she screamed, and I looked over and threw my arms up and screamed. It was less out of excitement and more the scream of a mad woman who just needed to cross the finish.

Time: 6 hours 34 minutes.

Average mile pace: 15min.

Crossing the finish line was extremely bittersweet. I wanted to run across, even if it was just for .001 miles. But I couldn’t even do that. I crossed the line with my peace signs thrown up, like I was feeling way cooler than I was. I received my medal, I held it tightly, I took a few pictures, and then I did the death march to my poncho.

I finished. I beat Al Roker. I had a phone flooded with messages from everyone I saw along the route, the family and friends following along on the app, fellow runners. I’d compare my emotional state to coming out of anesthesia when I had my wisdom teeth removed: hysterical laughing to hysterical crying in the matter of seconds. I was extremely fragile.

Hours earlier, after my knee went bad, I had vowed that I’d be running the marathon again next year. You can hold me to it.


Thoughts On My Journey Westward

Thoughts On My Journey Westward

First, a song.

I told a story a little over five months ago about my Lyft ride to Denver International Airport. It was at the end of my ten day trip to Colorado that involved a lot of hiking, margaritas, cousin time, dog-walking, fresh air, slowed lifestyle, mountain ranges, live music, and solo exploration. The story is simply this: at the conclusion of my adventures in Colorado, I was overwhelmed. I was holding back tears until I wasn’t. Until the tears were leaking down my face in the backseat of the car, as I tried to hide the sobs that were bubbling up at the back of my throat. My driver was looking at me in his rearview mirror, likely wondering what kind of person he had picked up that afternoon.

So, when people ask me Why Denver? That’s where I usually begin.

If you want me to go further, I can do that, too.

Red Rocks Amphitheatre. The fact that I was drinking a can of beer in the parking lot before a show at Red Rocks and saw a fucking deer just hanging around. The stranger on the light rail who stopped to have a ten minute conversation with me about Alexander Hamilton because I was reading his biography. The light rail in general. The short distance to a real hike. Hiking above treeline. Hiking above 10,000 feet elevation. The effort it took for me to breathe properly even just walking around the city (sounds terrible, kind of was). Wash Park and the paddle boats and the massive pack of ducks I watched descend out of the water and walk across my foot path. Illegal Pete’s and their $4 margaritas and the punch they pack (hoo boy). The 16th street mall and its free bus ride. The friendliness of every one of my Uber/Lyft drivers. Breweries. Dispensaries (and that’s coming from someone who doesn’t even smoke pot). The amazing view of mountains you get from sitting in the nosebleeds at Coors Field. When it shows rain in the forecast but that just means it will drizzle for 15 minutes and then be perfectly sunny and reasonable again.

After ten days, I had all of those reasons. After ten days, I came back with a plan. I was going back for good. The first course of action? Telling everyone I knew. The tough part of the plan was that I had done this before. I’d wanted to move to Ireland (for a boy), I wanted to move to Virginia (for a friend), you could say that I might have cried wolf a few times but I always meant it in the moment. In past scenarios, I went so far as job and apartment hunting, renewing my passport. But there was something very real and tangible about the decision I made when I got back from Denver. It wasn’t that anyone believed me any more this time around than they had in the past, but perhaps all it took was for me to finally believe in myself.

I kept subtle reminders laced into my every day so I never lost sight. There was the Colorado keychain that I looked at every time I unlocked my door or went to the gym. There were the turquoise earrings I bought on my trip that I have barely taken out of my ears except for (some) special occasions and cleanings that reminded me every time I looked in the mirror that I had somewhere else to be. And over my desk at work were three polaroids of my time in the mountains, because I needed the ambition, the reminder that change is scary but often times worth it.

On the eve of my departure, none of this feels real, and I’m not sure when it will. I’ve already signed a lease for an apartment and my truck is packed and ready to make the drive and I’m about 3.5 hours away from needing to wake up and be ready to go. I’ve cried and cried and cried saying my goodbyes to friends and family and pets alike but it still feels fake. It feels like something I’d never do. Because I’ve always been a planner and not all of this is exactly planned. Spontaneity was interesting to me, and seemed like a good time, but I’d much rather get my ducks in a row before it all blows up in my face because there’s always a good chance it will blow up in my face.

For the last month or so, I have taken the time to marvel at the life I have built in New York. I was born and raised on Long Island, I went to college in the Bronx, and I’ve lived in Manhattan and Brooklyn respectively. I’ve built a strong foundation on the shoulders of amazing people, who have been able to lift me up and challenge me to be a better person than I was yesterday. I have spent so much time reflecting on the people I have known over the last 29 years that I had a few moments where I questioned why the hell I was leaving in the first place. But I’m lucky to be surrounded by people who gently nudged me in the right direction, knowing too well that this move is something that I’ve needed to do.

And just because others say things far better than I ever could, take it from Winnie the Pooh: “How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.”

(YYyyyyeah, that just happened.)

Hey, New York? I love you. I’ll see you soon.