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Every runner has a story.
Five years ago, I would never have imagined using the word “marathoner” to describe myself; I could barely run around the block, much less 26.2 miles. But one autumn Sunday, I woke up to the sounds of cheering and live music; the New York City Marathon was passing right outside my apartment building, and, for the first time in years of living in Brooklyn, I decided to see what the fuss was about. As soon as I walked up to Bedford Avenue, one of the longer stretches of the race, there was an energy in the air unlike anything I’d ever felt. I locked eyes with my first runner, a woman into her early 80s with the largest smile I’d ever seen — she looked so happy and she was crossing into Mile 14. In that moment, beyond all logic and fear, I decided to…
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