I sing the body electric on perfect day

NEW YORK MARATHON: IAN O'RIORDAN ran the New York Marathon yesterday supported by an Irish vest and a red-hot soundtrack

NEW YORK MARATHON: IAN O'RIORDANran the New York Marathon yesterday supported by an Irish vest and a red-hot soundtrack

I HAVE seen the best minds of my generation conquered by the madness of marathon running. Starving, hysterical, naked. I have run the five boroughs of New York City without stopping and without once wanting to.

I have heard two million people shouting at me.

“Come on Ireland!”

READ MORE

“Yeah Ireland! Kick some butt!”

I think now I have seen it all.

“Are you talkin’ to me? Cause I’m only one here.”

It feels like I’m the only one here.

As if. There are a couple of thousand runners ahead of me and about 40,000 behind me, all with exactly the same goal: to finish what is the 40th edition of the biggest and best marathon in the world. As sporting events go, this is mass participation on a massive scale. And somehow, every single one of us is made to feel this race is staged for the sole purposes of our finishing alone.

Standing on the edge of Central Park West, away from the finish-line, the constant shouting has died down for the first time since just after 9.30 this morning. Finally, some gathering of thoughts.

How was the marathon?

Where to begin?

On the heels of Bay Ridge to Sunset Park, from wide old streets of Williamsburg to Greenpoint, from leafy Brooklyn into even leafier Queens and across five bridges. Five long bridges.

From Spanish Harlem into the Bronx and the deceiving climb up Fifth Avenue, back down to Columbus Circle and finally, elatedly, amazingly, into Central Park South. We don’t go down to Hell’s Kitchen, but there are places along the route which make up for that. If they’d staged the thing out in Coney Island it wouldn’t feel any more like the best rollercoaster ride around.

My only goal is to beat two hours and 59 minutes, which is what Lance Armstrong ran here a few years ago, describing it as harder than anything he’d ever done on a bike. Lance is the same age as me. I look at the finishing clock: 2:47.50. That’ll do.

And New Yorkers us all.

At least for one day.

I don’t know exactly whose idea it was for me to wear an Irish vest, but I just figured it wouldn’t do me any harm (and thanks to Athletics Ireland for the kind donation). Without that vest, I don’t know if the race would have gone nearly as smoothly.

“Ireland. Looking good!”

“Alright Ireland nearly there, three more miles!”

The Irish have been coming here for years, but I can’t imagine they all got the welcome I’m getting along this race. Maybe things have changed since the Gangs days, but the blood runs so thick that any Irish connection is still a hugely proud one.

From mile one through mile 26, I could have been John Treacy in his prime, such were the roars of support. It feels sublime and at the same time a little ridiculous.

But this support is a dangerous thing, it lulls me into a sense of comfort far beyond my level of training. It’s a hopeless cause.

There’s little holding back in the New York marathon, partly because we’ve all been held in makeshift tents out in the start area on Staten Island since around 6am.

Buy the ticket, take the ride; with 42,000 starters, the biggest of any city marathon, the organisers can’t afford to take chances, and they get everyone to the start area well on time. Huge convoys of buses take us over the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge from downtown Manhattan. You’ve got to be there at 5.30. It’s like the closing scene of a science fiction movie. Evacuation, New York!

Soon, the entire start area resembles a refugee camp, bodies strewn all over place, trying desperately to get a little extra sleep. Dunkin’ Donuts start giving out coffee and bagels and that’s like a UN food drop.

Truth is, part of the New York challenge is surviving the start.

Or make that nine starts – three different waves, with three different sections. I force my way up to the front wave (the key is pretending you have a ferocious desire to urinate).

Con Fitz, my co-pilot on this reckless pursuit, is lost in the crowd. You may remember Con from an article just three months ago, describing his remarkable conversion from sex, drugs and rock ’n’ roll to full-blown running enthusiast. He wants to run at his own pace and we agree to meet at the finish (he debuts in an excellent 3:40).

Final check on three essential items – subway card (to get home, if I drop out), sunglasses (so one can see the full extent of the pain etched on my face), and two caffeine pills (to swallow at 21 miles).

At 9.40am Mayor Bloomberg gives the off, and we charge across the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge, both sides of the road, and both levels. This is madness. Is this bridge going uphill?

Into Brooklyn and through the single-digit miles and time is flying. It's a nice day, maybe a little windy. The crowds are staggering, a wall of people either side of the road. On top of that, live bands are playing at what seems like every mile.

Running 26.2 miles has strange effects on the mind. Songs you haven't thought about in years suddenly come thundering into your head. When they're coming at you live they're invigorating.

No Sleep Till Brooklyn, The Beastie Boys. Let's Go, The Ramones. And then one that I shouldn't recognise but I do: Goin' to New York. Jimmy Reed. "Goin' to New York, and I'm going there even if I have to walk . . ."

Into Queens, over the Pulaski Bridge, and there's the 13.1 mile-marker, exactly halfway!

"Come on Ireland. Come on Ian O'Riordan!" Was that my old cross county captain from college?

In any case, the legs are feeling extraordinarily good. That's what happens when millions of people are shouting at you. Walt Whitman described New York as the city of orgies, and some of the noise coming from the crowds gives that impression.

Then, into Manhattan, over the Queensboro Bridge, at 16 miles, and suddenly that feeling changes.

This is where Sonia O'Sullivan died a death in 2002, her first and last go to win this race. It's where Spiderman nearly met his end too. This bridge is definitely going uphill.

Is that five boroughs? That's a lie then. Six Boroughs. We're going to run through Manhattan twice, and that's playing tricks on the mind. Hot damn, this crawl up First Avenue is going on forever. From 59th Street all the way to 125th Street. You know what that means. Across 110th Street, Bobby Womack. The old informal boundary of Harlem.

Into the Bronx, briefly, mercifully. Mile 21, then back over Madison Avenue Bridge and back into Manhattan. Now I'm hurting.

The last great stretch is down Fifth Avenue. Dirty Boulevard, Lou Reed. The last few miles in and around Central Park are rough, but that Irish vest is still working its magic. I cross the line, just as Meb Keflezighi steps onto the victory podium, the first American winner since 1982.

The 40th edition of the New Marathon deserved nothing less.

Such a perfect day.

NEW YORK MARATHON DETAILS

MEB KEFLEZIGHI became the first American to win the New York marathon since 1982 when he took the men’s title in two hours, nine minutes and 15 seconds yesterday. Eritrean-born Keflezighi, who lives in San Diego, California, was one of six Americans in the top-10.

Ethiopia’s former world and Olympic 10,000 metres champion Derartu Tulu won the women’s event in 2:28.52 after pulling away from Russia’s Ludmila Petrova in the last mile.

Race favourite and world record holder Paula Radcliffe finished fourth behind France’s Christelle Daunay after setting the pace for much of the race.

MEN:1 M Keflezighi (US) 2:09:15; 2 R Cheruiyot (Ken) 2:09:56; 3 J Gharib (Mor) 2:10:25.

WOMEN:1 D Tulu (Eth) 2:28:02; 2. L Petrova (Rus) 2:29:00. 3 C Daunay (Fra) 2:29:16.