I know it’s around here somewhere…

So I’ve been wanting to tell you this story from the marathon.

If  you didn’t read the recap of that day, you can read that here.

Since the Boston Marathon bombing, security measures at these big races have become pretty strict, and you can’t carry a backpack into the villages where you wait before the race starts.

What they do is give you a clear bag. You can put whatever you want to “check” into that. It has your bib number and name on the outside of it.

Before you start the race, there are dozens of UPS trucks marked with numbers, 1-999, 1000- 1999, etc. You give your bag to your designated truck, and then after the race, those UPS trucks are lined up in Central Park where you retrieve your bag.

Of course, being disorganized and rushing around, I wasn’t prepared that morning of the race. So I shoved all my stuff, including my clear plastic bag, into my backpack, and rushed to get on the bus that took me to the start of the race on Staten Island.

I figured once I got off the bus, I’d reorganize.

There are thousands of people at that initial check-in area.

The line is hundreds of yards long, and 15-20 people wide.

You are herded, and funneled into three or four security gates.

It’s pretty crazy.

So I walked off the bus, stopped, and started to change bags.

I was told by a bus driver that I couldn’t stay there and that I had to move. Now my stuff was all over the place, unpacked, and I started to stress.

I did my best to scoop it all up.

I had to cut through the huge line of people being heading toward the security checkpoint to get to the sidewalk on the other side.

As soon as I got there, this huge dude with a serious New York accent,

and a gun,

told me I couldn’t have the backpack.

I started sweating.

“I know. I’m just taking care of that now,” I told him.

Please don’t shoot me.

So now I was a little frantic.

I just started ramming shit into that bag.

I had brought my phone with me.

I don’t usually run with it, but I wanted it during the race to try and take pictures, plus, I wanted to be able to find my husband when I was done.

I had one of those armbands to hold it, but wasn’t used to wearing it really.

I also had the belt I usually wear to hold my water bottle, and then there was my ipod, and the four thousand articles of clothing I had brought to wear, plus power bars and extra water, and a peanut butter sandwich and trail mix.

I was a disaster.

I just started ramming shit into that bag like a lunatic.

In my panicked frenzy, I ripped a hole in the bag.

Shit.

I tried to calm down and took a deep breath.

I I finally managed to cram everything into my ripped plastic bag.

And then I realized I didn’t have my phone.

Fuck.

I had it on the bus, so I knew it was somewhere, but I couldn’t find it.

I took all my shit back out of the plastic bag.

Still couldn’t find it.

There was a guard rail next to the sidewalk with some long grass and weeds on the other side of it.

Had I dropped it in there?

I started searching on the other side of the guard rail in the weeds.

I got yelled at by the security guy again.

“YOU! YOU CAN’T BE OVER THERE!”

Shit.

I was really panicking now.

I couldn’t find my phone and I was now being targeted as a potential terrorist.

I started rifling through my stuff  like a psycho.

Again.

Still no phone.

Fuck.

Finally, I searched the crowd of slowly moving runners in line for someone who looked friendly.

And who spoke English.

You’d be surprised by how many foreigners there are who come to the race.

I’d ask them to call my phone.

Maybe it was on the bus.

Maybe I had dropped it and someone had picked it up.

Maybe they were holding it and waiting to bring it to some lost and found area.

The problem with asking someone to call your phone from theirs is that you are standing in this line and it’s only 7 a.m.

The earliest you are going to start is 9:30. Even if you run fast, you are still looking at 5-6 hours until you are done.

So nobody wants to turn on their phone because they want to conserve their batteries.

I finally found three people who appeared to be friends, who looked approachable.

“Could you please call my phone? I have no idea what happened to it and I’m kind of freaking out,” I said.

None of them really wanted to help.

“My phone is turned off,” one woman said.

“I’m not sure I can get to mine,” said the other.

The guy with them came to my rescue. He took out his phone. I told him my number. He dialed it in.

I went over to the guard rail.

I waited to maybe hear something.

I waited.

And I waited.

And then I heard my phone.

Thank. God.

Now I could hear it, but I still didn’t see it.

It didn’t seem to be coming from the weeds.

I picked up my plastic bag and put it to my ear.

It wasn’t in there.

Where the fuck was it?

And then… I looked down.

And I found it.

Strapped to my fucking arm.

It had been there the whole time.

“Oh. my. God.” I said to the guy.

“I am such an asshole. I’m so sorry,” I told him.

“Did you find it?” he asked.

I just pointed to my arm.

Well, that lightened up the group of three.

They had a good laugh at my expense, wished me good luck, and went slowly on their way.

And that was how I started off the New York City Marathon.

 

Look cute while you manage the chaos. Click here.

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