CALL ME BY YOUR NAME
Mindset Coach Ameerah Omar running the Brooklyn Marathon by NYC Runs ©Keith Monteiro
My friend Aarathi likes to introduce me as a brilliant mind, only to backtrack immediately.
“Unfortunately,” she’d add, lashes fluttering, rippling the surface of a cocktail, “Eva runs marathons. All. The. Time.” She would rather endure daily bikini waxes.
“It’s a complete mystery why someone would enter a competition they know they cannot win.” Despite this, she often gets up early to cheer me on. “I’m so grateful I’m spared this abhorrent ordeal.”
Recently at a brunch where she introduced me in such a way to her vast circle of friends, I tried to downplay my commitment. I was only running a few half-marathons this Spring. The upcoming Brooklyn Half was the first by NYC Runs, I’d treat it as a training run. Besides, I’d won my bib in a raffle with one of the sponsors, Adidas.
“How long is this half-thingy again?” Aarathi asked.
13.1 miles, I said.
Aarathi knocked her rosemary and lavender-infused martini back and turned to another friend.
She called me the day before the race and reported she was down with Covid. I had to do without her. Coincidentally, she lived on Dumbo’s Front Street, next to the course. She promised to wave out of the window. I ironed my first name onto a new jersey to solicit personalized support from strangers.
Early morning at the start line in McCarren Park, temperatures were still chilly, so I’d brought an old long-sleeve. It was busy, crowded, security slow, and the runners faced the first-time organizer’s teething problems. As I became increasingly nervous, I recalled the words of Adidas Runners Coaches Jessie Zapo and Ameerah Omar, who kept repeating during our training: This is it! The training, the practice, the current mile you’re in. That's what counted. Not what came before or after, not the possibilities or maybes. I tried surrendering to the present, my thoughts, and my breath.
The streets of Greenpoint were still deserted. As we turned south, the Manhattan skyline, dull and gray, opened over the East River. I warmed up, took off my long-sleeved layer, and threw it on the sidewalk. Promptly, a few Orthodox Jews read the varsity letters on my shirt and screamed: Go, Eva! With those three letters now visible, I enjoyed personalized support.
I knew I'd covered three miles when I saw Williamsburg Bridge poke the sky. Ten to go.
On Front Street, I scanned the facade of the factory building where Aarathi lived, but I didn’t see her beautiful smile. I screamed as loud as I could: AARATHI! The young fitness-conscious audience in gentrified Dumbo chimed in, “Aaaar-thiii, Aaaarrr-thiiii, Aaaar-thiiii!” taking it for the name of a runner.
I welcomed the distraction now that I faced nasty Flatbush Avenue, an excruciating mile uphill. I filled up on a few rowdy Evas! and pushed ahead, looking forward to Adidas Runners’ cheer squat. At mile 8.5, the incomparable SheShe, armed with a megaphone, 1000-watt smile, ready to serve high-fives, bounced in anticipation as I approached. A confetti cannon exploded. Colorful metallic glitter flurried in the air, and a few landed in my laughing mouth, my community’s energy embracing me. This is it!
The remaining miles flew by like a spring breeze. As I entered Prospect Park, the emerging sun gave me a final energy boost. I sprinted across the finishing line, ducked into a medal’s ribbon, grabbed a bagel, and wrapped in a rescue foil, melted into the grass under a cherry tree. My phone rang.
“I fell asleep and missed you,” Aarathi said, sniveling. “I swear, in my fever dream, I was running with you. It was awful until I heard people calling my name! Aarathi, Aarathi, Aarathi! So strange!”
April 2022
