Top 10 Books of 2023 and Who Should Read Them

Another year, another top-books roundup.

I only read 48 books this year (vs 56 last year), but it has been super-busy year. For those interested, activities included breaking my foot (boo), vacationing in Mongolia (yay), extremely expensive gum surgery (more boo), and visiting friends around the country (more yay). It also included a huge variety of freelancing projects, from ghostwriting a nonfiction book to editing a multi-million-dollar grant. I'll say one thing for freelancing: it's never dull.

In between all of the work and life shenanigans, I read. So, from the 48 books I read in 2023, here — in no particular order — are my ten favorite.

	Romantic Comedy Curtis Sittenfeld This is: a romantic comedy about comedy. (The protagonist is a writer for an SNL-type show who falls for the musical guest star.) I liked it because: I love pretty much anything Sittenfeld writes. And this was the perfect romance book because it fulfilled all the genre expectations and tropes while being smart and genuinely fun to read. (Sadly, some romance books can be a real slog.) Read this if you like: romantic comedies. Duh.
	Piranesi Susanna Clarke This is: a strange, slim, dream-like book that takes its time and defies your expectations (whatever they may be). I liked it because: I have never read anything else like it. The world building takes a while, but if you can stay patient, the ride is worth it. Read this if you like: atmospheric books that aren't 12,000 pages long. And maybe Greek mythology (although I myself have no strong feelings for or against Greek mythology).
	Heavy Kiese Laymon This is: a memoir about being overweight, male, and Black in America. I liked it because: Laymon manages to tell his story in a way that is intensely personal while also shining a spotlight on larger issues facing our country and the people in it. Read this if you like: intense memoirs about difficult but important subjects like race, education, mental health, and more.
	Filthy Animals Brandon Taylor This is: a short story collection that includes a set of stories that intersect and further one another. Topics and themes include vulnerability, savagery, memory, sexuality, and things that we leave unsaid. I liked it because: each story is complete, except, of course, the ones that are connected. (This is rarer than you would think with short stories!) And it explored difficult themes in ways I found compelling and nuanced. Read this if you like: The Push and other novels and short stories that will make you occasionally wince or squirm a little.
	The Secret Lives of Church Ladies Deesha Philyaw This is: exactly what the title promises: a collection of stories depicting the secret lives of church ladies (as long as you interpret the "church ladies" part loosely, at times). I liked it because: it is clearly a collection of stories that belong together —  rare in many short story collections! — and the writing is excellent. Philyaw has incredible empathy for the characters she writes about. Read this if you like: writers like Toni Morrison, who address Black realities head-on with no holds barred, but with a more forthright and less ephemeral tone than Morrison often takes.
	Up to Speed: The Groundbreaking Science of Women Athletes Christine Yu This is: the one nonfiction entry on this year's list! I liked it because: it covers a topic that is extremely important to me — the research that exists (and does not) about female athletes — but which, to my knowledge, has never before been compiled in such a complete and approachable manner. Read this if you like: learning remarkable facts about the sports bra (it originated as two jock straps!), women's knees (and their considerably higher risk of ACL injuries!), and more.
	Notes on an Execution Danya Kukafka This is: a literary novel (not a thriller) about a serial killer that employs multiple perspectives and multiple timelines. I liked it because: it includes the killer's perspective, which helps build empathy for him without ever making him a sympathetic character. Read this if you like: multiple-perspective novels that deal with difficult topics. (Also you need to be ok with second-person POV, i.e., "you.")
	Demon Copperhead Barbara Kingsolver This is: a modern retelling of David Copperfield, set in opioid-riddled Appalachia. I liked it because: it's written by Barbara Kingsolver (a master) and examines heavy topics (trauma, foster care, poverty, abuse, drug addiction) through a realistic yet hopeful lens. Read this if you like: sprawling novels told by a complex yet likable character.
	Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow Gabrielle Zevin This is: a coming-of-age novel (where the characters keep coming of age all the way into their 30s) about friendship, love, and video games. I liked it because: it so perfectly demonstrates that humans are both knowable and unknowable, and there are many sides to every story. Read this if you like: Fates and Furies and other novels about complex characters struggling with the harsh realities of life and their relationships with one another. (Note: you don't have to be a gamer to enjoy this novel!)
	What Are You Going Through Sigrid Nunez This is: a short novel that somehow manages to fold in many challenging topics — climate change, terminal illness, failed relationships, and euthanasia to name a few. I liked it because: the writing is delicate yet tight, the topics are thought-provoking, and the narrator feels like someone I surely must know. Read this if you like: to sit with a character who feels like a real person as they go through a very difficult life experience.

Last year, the common features among my top-ten books were: translated, set outside the U.S., and dystopian. This year, many of the books I loved shared these commonalities:

1. Written by women (8 out of 10 titles!)
2. Follow children or young adults as they develop
3. Examine death

Hoping for another great collection of titles in 2024!

American Assholes in Mongolia

I didn’t go to Mongolia to be the American asshole.

I don’t think anyone goes abroad with the intention, right from the outset, to be a rude foreigner. However, if you’re like me, you are downright terrified of being perceived as such. You tiptoe around museums and slink into restaurants wondering how obvious it is that you don’t belong and whether you’re already doing something wrong. (Spoiler: If you’re white in Mongolia, it’s already clear you don’t belong.) You internally shudder every time you try to pronounce your tour guide’s name, imagining how many internal sighs she must be heaving. With your driver’s name, you don’t even make the attempt; you just smile, nod, and say thank-you, aka “bye-shla” (which you are 83% sure has a guttural, back-of-the-throat sound somewhere in there) a lot. You wonder if Mongolians assign bonus points for trying to pronounce their language, or if they’re more like the French and would prefer you to pry off their fingernails.

Needless to say, I spend a lot of my time abroad trying not to be the American asshole. Mongolia was no exception. And that’s why, when one of my merry band of friends started traipsing up the side of a very steep, grassy hill in Hustai National Park — on her way toward some very far-away wild horses that apparently had once been almost extinct — I had a few reservations. We’d arrived in a car, driven along one of the many, many dirt roads of the Mongolian countryside by the driver whose name I could not pronounce. We’d passed a few other cars and vans inside the park, but I’d seen none of their passengers go more than a few feet away from the vehicles. Clearly no one was here to police us; the entrance to the park was little more than a welcome banner and a very weathered-looking list of rules in spotty English. Still, was this something we were allowed to do?

So, I asked our tour guide — the Mongolian native whom we’d paid to tell us if we were about to do something stupid, dangerous, or just plain rude.

“No no, go ahead,” she said, waving at the hill. “It’s okay.”

With that reassurance, I high-tailed it up the hill after my friend. Soon all five of us tourists — four Americans and a Czech — were on the hill, closer but still craning our necks and squinting through camera lenses to see the horses, who, I will say, appeared entirely unbothered. One friend had brought a fancy camera with an even fancier telephoto lens, which he set up on a tripod and allowed us to look through. The only downside to this adventure (or so I thought at the time) took place when we traipsed back down the hill and I fell into a muddy creek. But that’s not the point of this story.

Our driver was the one who had spotted the horses, so it was no surprise that the next time he stopped our car, he had spotted more wildlife, this time animals called red deer. Like before, we all got out of the car and started up the hill (a new one) to get close enough to see the deer through our friend’s fancy camera lens. The deer were harder to spot than the horses, so after a few sub-par sightings, I decided to turn and head back to the cars. The others stayed a little longer, so I was ahead of them when I reached the bottom of the hill. There, I found another van parked behind our car and several older white people standing in front of it, staring up the hill. As I got closer, I heard a very distinct “assholes” enunciated, albeit with a European accent, from one of the men. Suddenly I was sure they were looking at me.

No sooner had I reached our car, when one of the women from their party stepped in front of me.

“Excuse me,” she said, frowning. “I must say something.”

They had been talking about us. My heart dropped.

“I come here every year, and I am just appalled. You all walk up there, bother the animals. It ruins things for everyone. Now the animals will not come closer. We will not see them maybe next year. It is ruined for everyone because you do what you like. This is very rude. It makes me very angry.”

She was glaring at me. Her voice was raised. Oh my god, she was mad at me. Me, the American. I was furthering the stereotype. She thought we were all assholes! I wanted to crawl under the car. But I didn’t.

“It makes me so angry. You all have made me angry,” the woman repeated, louder this time. 

“Understood.” That was the best I could do, as far as responses go. I felt ashamed, and also mad about feeling ashamed, and I thought I might start crying. Thankfully, with one last glare, she turned back to her comrades, who all had expressions on their face that were a cross between sneers, frowns, and suppressed laughter. They’d be talking about this the rest of the night, most likely. Those asshole Americans.

After taking a while to compose myself, I finally shared the encounter on our ride out of the park. The reactions were what I’d expected: indignation, exasperation, a little defensiveness. Everyone was sure we had been in the right and that those bossy Europeans were out of line. Upon reflection, that’s what I thought, too. But isn’t that what Americans, or perhaps even humans, always think? How would we know if we’d been in the wrong? We weren’t children trying to “get away with” something; we wouldn’t have done anything we thought was actively harmful. Getting yelled at by a stranger didn’t change our minds one bit.

This encounter clearly sticks with me. Maybe it’s because of the aforementioned terror of being perceived as the American asshole. Maybe it’s because I have an extremely thin skin and can’t handle getting yelled at by anyone, even a complete stranger. But maybe it’s because I am never quite sure how money shifts power dynamics. We were paying a lot to be there. Did our tour guide tell us what she thought we wanted to hear? Rationally, I doubt it; I think she’d have made us follow the rules if such rules existed. But emotionally? Emotionally I’m still afraid we did the wrong thing, simply because someone told me so in a loud, angry voice. I don’t know what that says about me, but it doesn’t seem great.

This Is Not About Botox

Everyone I know has gotten Botox.

Okay okay, not everyone. Certainly no man in my life has gotten Botox (or if one has, he hasn’t admitted it). And there are a few women who I can pretty confidently say haven’t gotten any injections. But note the “pretty confidently” disclaimer—a few years ago, I would have made this declaration with certainty. “So-and-so is the last person who would get a bacterial toxin injected into their face,” I might have said. Well guess what? It turns out that the last person has been injected . . . multiple times. So, in my thirty-seventh year of life, as I look in the mirror and try not to be too mad at my teenage self—who cared nothing for cleansing or exfoliating or, honestly, sunscreen —I’m beginning to wonder whether I too am going to part with several hundred dollars every few months to have neurotoxins injected into my face. Is that the going price of female self-worth these days?

Because here’s the thing: my vanity—which comprises my many insecurities mixed with some baked-in, repressed misogyny—can weather someone else’s good genetics. I call this “luck.” The gal whose hair looks perfect in any condition, rain or shine? She’s lucky. The runner flaunting chiseled abs just three weeks after giving birth? Pure luck. The 45-year-old who has never had a wrinkle in her life? Well. I would have said she’s lucky, but now I’m not so sure. And if it’s not luck, it might be a competition—one that I am currently losing.

Don’t misunderstand; I’m not so neurotic as to think that having the Most Youthful Skin confers some sort of prize. I left that level neuroticism behind in my teenage years, along with my obsession with being Tannest of Them All. However, I’m not so naïve as to think that the appearance of aging, when no one else is aging, won’t have negative consequences.

Here in America, being old is bad, and being an old woman is worse. One of the only power cards women have to play is their sexuality, and they can only play that card while they’re young. Older women get less respect—and if you don’t want to admit this, you have to at least recognize that they get fewer favors. A nubile teenage girl barely has to smile to have men, perhaps several men, give up their seat for her on a crowded bus. A pregnant woman in her twenties or even thirties will have the same request fulfilled by someone without complaint. But a woman in her sixties wearing slightly smudged glasses and carrying a shopping bag? Senile, probably homeless; maybe if we ignore her she’ll stop asking. Don’t tell me this isn’t real; I’ve seen it.

Now, you might be thinking, “But Allison, men are not the only ones with power. Women could give up their bus seat, too.” And surely women don’t have these same biases, right?

As a sample size of one, I know I do. I am impressed by smooth, youthful, spotless skin just the way society has trained me to be impressed. Men claim they don’t notice things like skin or wrinkles, but the reality is that they are noticing; they just see whole face, the whole body—the forest. It’s us women who see the trees . . . and the branches on the trees and the leaves on the branches and the spines on the leaves. And then we dig down in the dirt to see what’s going on with the roots, because those leaves are so lush and green and perfectly shaped, how did they get like that? Nature? Yeah right.

Thus far I’m a holdout. I have not gotten Botox. Or a chemical peel. Or a laser facial. But I did buy some serums and creams. I’ve worn a drugstore facemask or two. I’m very aware of the crow’s feet blooming at the corners of my eyes and the sun spots appearing on my cheeks and the acne scars that no longer fade after I’ve lost the battle and picked that pimple open. I think what bothers me most is the fact that I wouldn’t hate these features if I saw them on everyone else. If the playing field felt even (despite a few lucky genetic anomalies) and we were all aging, if not gracefully, at least together, it would feel acceptable or at least inevitable that wrinkles are coming, gray hairs are coming, a few extra pounds are coming, and it’s okay. It means we’re lucky to still be alive.

But other people have turned this into a contest—to see who can profit off the appearance of youth for longer. And I really, really hate losing.

Top 10 Books of 2022 - And Who Should Read Them

 Apologies to all who come here for running content—or content at all. I've neglected this blog for over a year now, much to my dismay. I have been busy writing, but nearly exclusively for other people (the exception being—sort of—my articles in Runner's World).

I've also been busy reading. I read a whopping 55 books this year, probably 56 by the time the year is done . . . and that's not counting the unpublished manuscripts I read as part of my local writing group. I love discussing books and recommending them to others, so when a friend asked me for my "top 10 of 2022" I thought, You know, I should write this as a blog post. After all, book recommendations are personal! I can't just blindly recommend books with no context.

Therefore, I've created this quick recap of my favorite 10 books I read in 2022. It includes "what" the book is about, why I liked it, and who I think would most enjoy reading it. The books are listed roughly in the chronological order I read them. (Apologies for any typos; I'm done editing for the day.)

	But You Seemed So Happy: A Marriage, in Pieces and Bits Kimberly Harrington This is: a memoir, written more like a collection of essays. The topic is the author, Harrington's divorce. I liked it because: while I am not divorced, I related to much of what she had to say about the imbalances (and frustrations) of a heterosexual relationship. It's also funny without poking fun, and poignant without being saccharine. Read this if you like: books about feminism, especially essay collections like Jia Tolentino's Trick Mirror; mother/wife memoirs
	The Anthropocene Reviewed John Green This is: an essay collection about the most random assortment of things, each of which turns into a commentary on society and on the author himself. I liked it because: I was impressed by Green's ability to start with what felt like a random "thing" (Scratch 'N Sniff Stickers! Piggly Wiggly!) and then somehow weave his personal experiences, historical anecdotes, and cultural/societal observations into a coherent, fully self-contained essay. Read this if you like: essay collections; memoirs; self-deprecating writer dads.
	If I Had Your Face Frances Cha This is: a novel about four South Korea women navigating impossible beauty standards and harsh economic realities. I liked it because: it's not only a compelling story, but I learned a lot about South Korean society without feeling like I was being "taught." Read this if you like: novels told from multiple points of view; women-centric novels; learning about life outside the US.
	My Brilliant Friend Elena Ferrante, Translated by Ann Goldstein This is: a novel set in the 1950s about two female friends and their poor, close-knit community in Naples, Italy. I liked it because: it's rare to read a book told in first person that is actually about another character. This book is narrated by Elena, but it is really about her friend Lila. The friendship is complicated, just as all real friendships are. Read this if you like: character studies; coming-of-age novels; books about female friendships. (One Goodreads review perfectly described it as, "Anne of Green Gables if it was set in a rough Italian neighborhood and written by Donna Tartt.")
	The Candy House Jennifer Egan This is: a slightly futuristic novel, told from multiple interlinking perspectives, where social media has evolved to capture and preserve one's memories and, in turn, allow access to others' memories. I liked it because: the premise itself is interesting (and raises all sorts of questions around privacy!), but the fact that it is merely the glue that holds all of the intricate character stories together is even more remarkable. Read this if you like: A Visit From the Goon Squad (its precursor); novels told from multiple points of view; George Saunders's Tenth of December; Lily King (writing style); thinking about the moral/ethical/social implications of social media.
	Lessons in Chemistry Bonnie Garmus This is: a novel set in the 1960s about a female chemist who struggles against the sexism of her time. Oh, and she falls in love. With another chemist. I liked it because: it's lighthearted and feel-good while having substance. Yes, there is a romance, but the real meat of the book is the protagonist, Elizabeth's efforts to fully be herself in a world that wants to put women in boxes. Read this if you like: Gail Honeyman's Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely Fine; Maria Semple's Where'd You Go, Bernadette; "chick lit" that doesn't make you want to claw your eyes out.
	Humankind: A Hopeful History Rutger Bregman, Translated by Elizabeth Manton and Erica Moore This is: a nonfiction book that argues that humans can, in fact, save ourselves because we are inherently good. I liked it because: it is the first book I've read that acknowledges that we humans have made a mess of things but doesn't self-flagellate or blame some "foreign other" for our woes. Instead, it offers a sense of origin for all our doom and gloom, clears up some misconceptions, and offers a nice fresh breath of hope and optimism.  Read this if you like: nonfiction that doesn't make you feel like the world is about to end.
	A Swim in a Pond in the Rain: In Which Four Russians Give a Master Class on Writing, Reading, and Life George Saunders This is: an MFA writing class, as taught by Saunders, but in book form. He "teaches" seven short stories by bigshot Russian authors, namely Tolstoy, Chekhov, Turgenev, and Gogol. I liked it because: I've always wanted to get my MFA! Also, I like Saunders's writing, and I like to discuss and analyze literature with other readers. This hit every point. Read this if you like: Russian literature; George Saunders; learning about the craft of writing.
	What Strange Paradise Omar El Akkad This is: a slim novel about a nine-year-old Syrian boy who washes ashore a small, insular island, and the teenage girl Vanna who attempts to rescue him. I liked it because: El Akkad has made a topic that we would like to ignore (refugees and their plight) the subject of a beautifully written book about children. It is a book that stuck with me. Read this if you like: Chris Cleave's Little Bee; books set on islands or in very small worlds; books about immigrants and refugees.
	The Memory Police Yōko Ogawa, Translated by Stephen Snyder This is: a dystopian novel about an island where items are disappearing, along with any memories of them. But a few people can still remember, and this is not allowed. I liked it because: it's gorgeously yet tightly written and extremely thought-provoking. Read this if you like: Japanese writers like Kazuo Ishiguro and Haruki Murakami; dystopia; magical realism.

And now that I've written all of these mini-reviews, I've recognized a few trends. In 2022, I tended to most enjoy books that were:

1. Translated
2. Set somewhere outside the U.S. (and/or on an unnamed island)
3. Dystopian

I'll have to do this little review annually moving forward to see if I discover more trends in my own preferences!

NYC Marathon - 50th Anniversary Edition

This marathon was meant to be an experiment.

Photo credit: John Tran

Eight weeks ago, I raced the Survival of the Shawangunks (SOS) Triathlon. It was my "A" race of the season, which means it was the race where I cared most about doing my best. I put all of my physical and emotional energy into preparing for it, which for me meant that the fallout after the big day was significant. It always is.

I know full well that fitness doesn't just "vanish" after a few days (or a few weeks) off. Yet somehow, perhaps because I put so much mental and emotional energy into these races, when I try to return to training, it is an uphill battle. I say all of this because after SOS, I took a week to recover (and heal the mega-blisters on my feet), a week to ease back into bodily movement, and the next thing I knew, I had six weeks until the NYC Marathon—and it felt like I was starting from square one. This was, of course, untrue; I had built plenty of fitness over the course of triathlon training. It just wasn't the "durability" fitness forged from twelve-mile workouts or twenty-mile long runs.

So the experiment was this: How well could I translate my "overall" fitness into marathon-specific fitness in six weeks? And really, I only had four weeks, because tapering for a marathon is a two-week affair. You have to let the body really heal and stock up on glycogen before you push it for 26.2 miles!

To make this endeavor even more complex, my work life was really becoming an issue. Big projects were ramping up, and every client seemed to need increasing amounts of time and attention. Ultimately this meant I sacrificed the "little things" in training. I continued to do my pre-run warmup routine (getting older comes to demand this) and did push-ups and planks two or three times a week, but over those six weeks, I failed to lift a single weight, and I committed maybe half an hour in total to drill/form work. I did a brief recovery routine most nights before bed, but I no longer counted the hours of sleep I would get before a workout or stressed over what I was eating.

Suffice to say, it was an imperfect buildup. I knew I didn't have enough miles in my legs. I felt lucky to have squeezed in a single twenty-mile run, whereas before other marathons of late, I've done at least three runs of that length. When someone would ask me, "What finishing time are you hoping for?" I replied that I would be satisfied with breaking three hours. Yes, I was hoping to run a bit faster, but what I absolutely did not want to do was feel pressured (by myself) to go out at a pace I could not sustain and have a miserable race. I ran this marathon back in 2013 in a time of 3:18:53, and all I remember is the struggle-fest that was Fifth Avenue. I wanted some new memories.

Back in 2013, I rode the 5am Staten Island ferry to the start, wore as many warm throwaway clothes as I owned, and sat alone in the dirt on top of a black trash bag. This is what tens of thousands of runners do before every NYC Marathon, and it's what I've done before most of my 11 marathons. This year, however, I qualified to be part of the sub-elite starting group. It meant I received much of the same treatment as the professionals did: I got to ride a charter bus from midtown Manhattan to Staten Island. I got to spend the hour leading up to the race indoors at the Ocean Breeze athletic complex, where there were free bagels and bananas and Gatorade, and a track where you could jog to warm up. I got to put my warm clothes back into a bag that someone would drive to the finish line for me. And I got to be very close to the starting line when the national anthem played, the starting cannon (yes cannon) went off, and Frank Sinatra's "New York, New York" filled the air. All in all, it was pretty cushy. 10/10 would recommend.

And then there was the race.

For starters, I forgot how steep the Verrazzano Bridge is. My first mile was 7:15. The second was 6:08. I'll let you guess which was "up" and which was "down."

Coming into Brooklyn, I felt a wave disappointment. Where were the crowds? A few people were scattered on street corners here and there, but it felt nothing like the bedlam I recalled from 2013. (Fortunately, happy chaos was awaiting just a few miles down the road.)

After the first 5k, my nerves calmed down and I settled in with E___ and V___. E___ is my teammate; she had just run the Boston marathon and was hoping to improve her time from that race. I figured if I could help get her within striking distance, that would be a good use of my run. I had no idea what time V___, who I'd encountered at other NYC races, was intending to run, but the fact that she came back to us in the third mile and announced that she needed to rein in the pace seemed like a good sign. We became a pack of three.

Shortly after our pack formed, a tall, overenthusiastic guy named K___ pulled up alongside us and  announced that he was hoping to "set the world record" for the number of high-fives on the course. This may sound sweet, and in another context we might have humored him, but then he continued to try and make conversation ("What are your names? Where are you from?") while proceeding to veer in front of us so we had to stutter-step to keep from tripping over him. I could read the same thoughts behind each of our polite, strained smiles: Go away. Eventually he did.

Around the 10k mark, my left foot started to throb. This is a familiar sensation I've battled for several years. After doctor's visits, x-rays, MRIs, and physical therapy, the long and short of it is that I have a neuroma (an inflamed nerve), and the best I can hope to do is "manage it." This summer gave me the longest pain-free reprieve I've had, but in those few weeks of marathon training, the neuroma reared its ugly head. I had been hoping I could get through a good chunk of the race before it became a problem, but alas, here we were. Luckily (or not), I have experience mentally preparing for this pain—I've had to learn how to expect and accept it in every one of my last three marathons (the Olympic trials and my qualifying marathon included). And so when it started to feel like I had a golf ball emerging from the underside of my foot, I heaved an inward sigh and began the process of diverting my attention.

Photo credit: Ben Gross

Smiling and engaging with the thickening crowds was one way to distract myself. I read hand-drawn signs, made eye contact with children, and gave a "thumbs up" to anyone who looked like they were directing cheers my way. I also kept my eyes peeled for people I might know. Most of the people I was expecting to see were waiting for me on First Avenue, but I did see a few friends in Queens. This is the home-court advantage of the NYC Marathon: There's no energy boost quite like seeing someone you know rooting for you.

The Queensboro Bridge was also longer than I remembered.

Because I was running with E___ and V___, my attention was consumed by making sure we all had enough space. It takes no small amount of coordination to dodge NYC's numerous potholes and snatch tiny sloshing paper cups out of volunteers' hands, all while speeding up or slowing down to make room for your running companions. All in all, we did a fairly good job, right up until we reached First Avenue. That's the point in the race when the crowds get insane. The noise is pressing and constant, and it's virtually impossible not to get swept up, at least a little bit. I know better and I still dropped a 6:30 mile heading into the Bronx. This is when I lost E___.  Someone hopped in to run with her, and I thought, Well, I guess she has what she needs now. This would be our point of departure: she'd run her race, and I'd run mine.

V___ and I stayed together until we hit the Williams Avenue Bridge. (Yes, another bridge. There are five of them in total.) By the time I was in the Bronx, I was alone.

It was not the best part of the course to run alone, because I knew the pain was coming for me on Fifth Avenue, and I was still wondering if I'd gone out a tad fast. I had intended to take the race out in 6:50/mile pace, cut down a bit at the halfway point, and then try to hammer home the last 10k. By mile 20, I knew there was going to be no "hammering home." If I could sustain the pace I was going, that would be a success.

Photo credit: Kiersten Johnston

Fifth Avenue is painful because it is uphill. If you were to look at it, you'd barely notice, and if you were to stroll down the sidewalk, you'd be hard-pressed to call it a hill. At mile 23 of a marathon as challenging as New York, however, that slight incline makes you want to chop your legs off and beat someone with them. It hurts. And I was hurting good when I saw a woman up ahead of me in a backwards baseball cap. She looks fast, I thought. I probably won't catch her.

She also didn't look like she was hurting the way I was. As we ran down the street, she kept lifting her arms, trying to get the crowds—which were irritatingly quiet—to pump us up. I found myself joining the effort, giving a double thumbs-up as I ran in the hopes that these people would give us some energy. Why were they standing there if they weren't going to cheer?!

When we turned into Central Park, I felt a wash of relief. This was familiar territory. I knew this road. I had run it many, many times. I knew its dips and its divots, and the fact that it would eventually veer downhill. I was very much looking forward to that.

Photo credit: Emilia Benton's husband

And then I heard a scream—a literal scream—of excitement. My teammate C___ had leapt out from the sidelines and was sprinting alongside me, shouting her head off. She was supposed to have run this race but had held off for health reasons. She had every reason not to be here, and yet here she was, running alongside me, telling me how strong I looked and to go, go, go. I reached out for her gloved hand. Her enthusiasm and energy renewed my gratitude for everyone I had seen along the course: so many former teammates and current teammates and running partners and running friends and friend-friends, and even my partner R___, who was feeling under the weather. I was so grateful to be here, doing this thing.

This thing that f-ing hurt.

Those miles in Central Park feel like the end of the race. It feels like because you know where you are, and because you know where the finish line is in relation to where you are, you're nearly done. But you are not. You have to leave the park and go back onto Fifth Avenue for a little more uphill agony before going back into the park for one final, proper hill. I forgot about that part.

It felt like I was running so slowly I was moving backwards, and yet I'd left baseball-cap girl behind in the park. Turning onto Fifth Avenue, I came up alongside another girl. I fully expected her to surge, yet somehow my leaden legs carried me past her. I saw another one up ahead. Get behind her, I told myself. Get closer. I passed her, too.

I had wanted to race the end of this marathon, and here I was, racing it. But it didn't feel like racing. It felt like "surviving better." As I entered the final stretch, I survived better than a man I had seen at the beginning of the race, who had asked whether it was okay to cross to the other side of the street to see his family. (I'd said yes, so apparently I'd been right!). I survived better than a tall man with a weird gait and a short man sweating profusely. I tried with all my might to lift my knees, because the finish line was right there. I came up alongside a man in a neon green shirt, but there were still too many yards left, I'd kicked too soon. Right at the finish line, Mr. Neon Green Shirt shouldered past me.

"Good job," I grunted as I catapulted over the finish line, wobbled to a stop, and put my hands on my knees.

Didn't want to get chicked, I thought. And I smiled wide for the camera.

2021 New York Marathon Marathon Race Results

Race Length	Finishing Time	Average Pace	Overall Place	Gender Place	W35-39 Place
26.2 mi	2:53:44	6:38/mile	351 / 24,944	43 / 11,394	10 / 1,603