I’d rather fail trying.

Saturday, May 2, 2026, 6:45 a.m.

The whole thing was pretty surreal. Correction: it is surreal. It’s still ahead of me. All of it. The day is here and so it feels like one part of it is done. The anticipation part. The preemptive anxiety that comes just before the thing. Thoughts of what I can’t do and won’t do and shouldn’t do. People will tell you that you chose a thing. They will remind you that you selected this path on your journey. Of course, the implication is that since it was your choice, you can’t express anything except for excitement and joy.

I get it, well, except that it defies the rules that typically apply to human emotion and engagement. What is it that saying more intelligent people use? Courage isn’t the absence of fear, but rather, pushing through fear to do the thing.

That sounds noble and all, but mostly, I feel like someone has turned my insides, out. It’s daunting, the notion of doing this thing I opted into. The greatest irony is that there are no stakes, not really. Whether I finish or not, it doesn’t really matter in the greater scheme of things. Few humans outside of me will know of my failure, and those few will not have anything incredibly negative to share. Rather, I imagine they will tell me that I did my best and should be proud of my efforts, regardless of the outcome.

I don’t even think that I’ll be hard on myself if I can’t finish one or more of the activities that I’ve chosen to participate in this weekend. I’ll know that it wasn’t meant to be, and that is that.

And still, I want it. I want to be able to finish. I want to get myself across not one, but two finish lines. I want to emerge sore and tired, but intact.

I’m walking towards the start to The Great Saunter and I find myself wondering about the other humans who are gathering around 55 Water Street. Have they attempted this before? Have they trained? Do they expect to finish? I unclip the front of my bag and swing it around, unzipping both compartments to check, again. Two KIND apple cinnamon protein breakfast bars. Two packs of blue-raspberry Gatorade chews.  Handkerchief. Portable battery with cable. Hand sanitizer. Travel toilet paper. Hydration tablets. Chapstick. Credit card, a twenty-dollar bill, and my license. An extra shirt and a pair of socks. My cell phone.

It’s New York City and there is an abundance of options, including the promise of on-course volunteers, but I’m hesitant to rely on searching. I don’t want to wander, not even for a moment, if avoidable.  I recognize this notion as mildly nonsensical and still, I’m so subscribed, that to divert feels impossible. I was tired after work last night, but I did my thirty-minute shake out run because it was on the plan. There is this fear of juju that I grapple with when it comes to these self-imposed challenges-this absurd but profound fear of making a choice to move away from the plan and having that be the factor that turns everything upside down.

First, there’s the dream. And then, there’s the work. The planning, the practice, the dedication, adherence to the technical bits. And then, there’s hope. The wants, the wishes, the what-ifs. There is so much that can’t be controlled. Weather, illness, and a plethora of other possibilities. And so, the ritual, the devotion to the plan, feels critical. Necessary.

I zip my bag up again, walk to collect my commemorative cap and paper map, take a deep breath, and begin.

Saturday, May 2, 2026, 1:35 p.m.

I’m done. I’ve finished. I look up at the Fraunces Tavern sign and feel tears filling my throat. 32.81 miles around the perimeter of Manhattan. A love letter to the city I’ve known for my forty-five years on this planet.

It was still quiet in a good number of neighborhoods when I jogged through. I had an opportunity to observe in a different way. Opted out of music or a podcast in favor of the sounds of the city. Cars honking, music playing, people yelling and talking and laughing. There were men playing cards at folding tables and groups smoking weed on stoops. Little ones running and shrieking with delight. Bodegas, food carts and every other kind of restaurant. Delis, fine dining, and chains, galore. Women pushing baby strollers and men with infants strapped to their chests, and kids bumping around in carts affixed to bicycles.

Grass, trees, asphalt, cement.

Pigeons, stray cats, leashed dogs.

Young people, faces riddled with hormonal acne, brandishing recognizable branded sweatshirts and clutching Starbucks cups or cans of Celsius.

Middle-aged women wearing matching athleisurewear sets from Alo or Splits59, copious bangles jangling on their thin wrists, and lips chemically plumped and shiny.

Older people, shoulders rounded, canes clutched and faces lined with history and skepticism.

The mentally intact, the sadly unwell, and everything in between.

Brows frozen with Botox and lifted in surprise and furrowed with worry.

Scuffed converse, filthy work boots, and the latest neutral toned sneaker, miraculously free from city dirt and grime.

English, Spanish, Russian, Hebrew, and languages that sounded vaguely familiar to my well-traveled ear, but still, just out of the realm of identification.

People of every shape, size, color, and age. First generation, eighth generation, and all the transplants. Easy to forget about the division and hatred when moving through. People are just people. New Yorkers. Visitors. People in New York City.

Quiet and still- So. Many. People.

My legs are sore, but my heart feels filled with affection for this place that I thought I knew and got to know all over again. This big, beautiful, wondrous place.

I need to eat. I need to drink. I need to go home.

Sunday, May 3, 2026, 4:49 a.m.

I wake just moments before my alarm, stretching my legs out under the coverlet, testing for, something. Pain? Achiness?

I’m alive. I’m awake. I’m intact.

I swing my legs out, allowing mildly tender toes to touch the floor.

My thought is to eat the remainder of the Leo’s gluten free bagel with peanut butter this morning. Normally I’d be queasy this early, but I find myself oddly wanting and so, it feels easy. No. It feels necessary. My body needs it, and I’m listening.

I walk quietly through my routine, the second morning in a row. Lubricant for often chafed body parts, deodorant, sunscreen, lip balm, hair tie, Garmin watch. Another running shirt, another affixed bib. Less nervous and yet, more, simultaneously.

Sunday, May 3, 2026, 9:39 a.m.

I put my hand up in the universal sign of no-thank you. No, thank you, I don’t want a metallic warming cape. No, thank you, I don’t want a banana or an apple or water. Yes, I’ll take the medal. No, I don’t want anything else.

I’m done.

I finished.

Both.

Forty-six miles of movement in twenty-seven hours.

Over thirty-seven miles of jogging. Running.

I was not fast, but I was paced. Measured. Purposeful in my movement.

My intention was to finish, and I finished.

And I feel relieved and elated and surprised and disbelieving.

I walk through strangers, mostly tuned out. Mostly tuned in to my guts and nothing else. My heart, beating in my chest. My brain, sparkling with the effort of processing. My stomach, finally unclenched. My legs, fatigued.

Dedication to training.

A commitment to myself.

An undercurrent of sometimes wavering but ever-present faith.

Determination.

Grit.

The deepest desire to do the thing.

Age is just a number.

Boundaries live mostly in our heads.

The world is boundless.

Abundance is a state of mind.

I’d rather fail trying than fail to try.

X

L.