20 km came up, glanced at the clock: 1:42 minutes. Wow. This might actually become pretty good, I thought and carried on across the bridge to Manhattan. Or so I thought.
After a while I realized I was only in Queens and still had a long way to go.
It was after that things started going fuck. The bridge (that finally emerged from Queens to Manhattan) was by far the toughest thing I've ever conquered. Long (was too long) and from our side; only going upwards, and dead quiet. Not a single person cheering you on.
I never contemplated about quitting, but somewhere between 17-22 miles was really, really tough. Exhaustion, desperation and fatigue all kicked in. I just wanted the damn race to be finished.
Had somewhat a pretty decent check on the watch as we approched the park and the finish. Somewhat. Cause at 25 miles I noticed I was about to run a little late and speeded up. Too early cause I had to slow down again (it was by faaaaar the longest mile ever), and at 26 miles (0.2 left!) I saw the clock showed 3:59:00. Fuck. I knew I was fucked but accelerated and sprinted across the goal line at 4:00:50. Fifty fucking seconds from finishing under god damn four hours.
Didn't know if I was going to be happy or cry (somewhere I am somewhat pleased with four hours - somewhat) but I've never felt so empty like then. If it wasn't cause I had absolutely no emotions or anything at all - spent - in my body, I would probably had cried.
Maybe a fake happy Christian.
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