I’ll always remember the details of this day: the weather no one expected, the close one-of-a-kind friendships in action, the family who made me actually feel like a hero, the cheering New Yorkers in droves along the route, the smells of the different foods as we ran through the different communities, the leg cramps at Mile 23, the blue Gatorade, the delirium of finishing the longest run of my life—the list just keeps growing as I think over the day.
I heard many kinds of music as I ran: country, metal, salsa, pop. At one point, from up above, I heard the Beatles blasting—Come Together. I looked up to see a young man with dark skin, long hair, a big smile, and a 80s-style boom box, sitting in an open fifth story window. I caught his eye as I passed, and we exchanged a pair of these . We had not a thing in common but that moment and that gesture, and I continued along my path. It was a tiny window into the spirit of this endlessly diverse city, which finds great, irrepressible joy in the act of just coming together.
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