Why We Run: By Evan Farmer
Our latest "In Their Own Words" submissions were written by four members of "Team Autism Speaks", recounting their experiences with the NYC Marathon and telling why they run to promote autism awareness and fundraising.
Read more and view photos and video from the Marathon here.
Donate to "Team Autism Speaks" here.
Our latest "In Their Own Words" submissions were written by four members of "Team Autism Speaks", recounting their experiences with the NYC Marathon and telling why they run to promote autism awareness and fundraising.
Read more and view photos and video from the Marathon here.
Donate to "Team Autism Speaks" here.
For me, the NYC Marathon is a bittersweet experience. The past two years I have run the Marathon on the heels of great loss. In 2007, I lost my mother to cancer only a couple of months before running the Marathon, and this last year, a dear friend of mine lost his brother to suicide, a brother who had battled the social realities associated with Asperger's Syndrome. For the last two years I have run the NYC Marathon to raise money for Autism Speaks, an organization I came to support after many encounters with autism, primarily through my professional acquaintances. Unlike many other active Autism Speaks volunteers, I do not have an immediate family member directly affected by autism, but a calling nonetheless to help others. Perhaps it's in some way related to the fact that my own family has been directly affected by other tragic medical conditions. Perhaps by involving myself entirely selflessly to a cause that I myself am not directly affected by, I'm in some way “paying it forward” and thanking those who selflessly helped me in my own personal challenges. The “Bitter” explains the reasons and the motivation behind my signing up to run for Autism Speaks. Below is my experience of participating this year, which was entirely “sweet.”
From the start of this year's effort, I was in good company. I asked my friend Russell if it would be okay to run in honor of his brother Steven. With the tragedy so fresh, I did not want to be presumptuous, but felt it was an opportunity to offer a small moment of light, hope, and positivity from such darkness, something I am altogether too aware of. With his blessing and the tremendous support of the Fisher Family, I set out with an indescribable vigor to conquer the course this year. Heading to NYC from my new home in Nashville, I was blessed to be accompanied by my wife Andrea and, in her belly, my son-to-be, Garrison. Last year, due to a tragic loss in her own family (also cancer related), Andrea was unable to attend the marathon, so this year's run was that much more special to both of us. I think the best part of being a part of Team Autism Speaks is the family I've become a part of. Whether it's my great friends Lara and Jena, who welcomed me last year, or meeting new friends like Jenn and Matt and hearing their stories, I really feel as though I have an extended family of folks with whom I can share this journey.
I was very nervous this year as I had to stop training long before I was supposed to due to lingering injuries I had acquired as a likely result of being overly eager early on. Lining up in my corral and shedding my outer “disposable” layers, I looked around for fellow A-Speaks runners and realized I was alone. I picked a couple of good humored French runners and decided I'd just try and keep up with them and then made a mental note of Mile 7 for the A-Speaks cheering crew, mile 14 where my wife and friends would first meet me, and mile 24, which would be the last cheering spot before the finish line.
During the first portion of the run, you have a lot of time to think since there aren't any crowds lining the Verrazano Bridge. I thought about whether I'd make it all the way this year, about last year's experience, and about how Russell and his family were dealing with their loss and healing. It wasn't until we crossed into Brooklyn, though, that I remembered that I had “For Steven” emblazoned across my running jersey as I heard the first of many “Do it for Steven!” cheers as I ran by. I didn't see it coming and therefore didn't see my reaction coming as tears filled my eyes and I started running harder. That's when it really gelled why I was here.
To be honest, the rest of the race was sort of a blur as I'm fairly certain I was way under-trained and in a sort of state of shock most of the time, but I remember three more truly profound moments. They came, unsurprisingly, at mile 7 when I saw Lara and Jena on the side cheering loudly, and then as I rounded the corner just after mile 14 and saw my beautiful and glowing pregnant wife waiting for me. Apparently my friends were there too but I think I was too transfixed on my Baby Mama to notice. The look of pride on Andrea's face told me that I'd be pushing on, at least till I saw her again at mile 24.
With that deal with myself made, I did everything in my power to keep moving though I knew my pace was dramatically slower now. I had also resorted to more dramatic devices to keep moving. It may seem sick or twisted, but I started thinking of the way my mother had to fight just to breathe the last week of her life, and I imagined the way Steven must had suffered knowing that no matter what he did, and no matter how exceptional he was, he would never (at least in his own mind) be fully accepted. Those thoughts quickly humbled the temporary pain I was feeling and I trudged on toward miles 23 and 24 where I prayed I'd again see the smiling faces that were like oxygen to me at this point.
At mile 24, when I saw Russell off to my left, pointing to me from the side of the road, I all at once got the biggest rush of support as I realized they were all there, including my wife. Tempted as I was to run over and hug them, I knew that if I stopped at all, I was doomed to cramp up so bad that moving again would be unlikely. From that point on to the finish line, it was like a slow motion movie of crowd sounds and blurry faces made even more surreal by running directly into the sun.
The finish line was like the bookend to a chapter of my life that exceeded the primary and obvious purpose for being there. It was turning a page on the past, its shadows of tragedy, its struggles, and became the start of a fresh canvas for my growing family and me. I prayed it, too, would act as another step of healing for the Fisher family as I hoped my effort proved that Steven's life and loss was not in vain and would not be forgotten. Steven's legacy lives on in everyone who comes together to fight for a cure and a better understanding of autism.
From the start of this year's effort, I was in good company. I asked my friend Russell if it would be okay to run in honor of his brother Steven. With the tragedy so fresh, I did not want to be presumptuous, but felt it was an opportunity to offer a small moment of light, hope, and positivity from such darkness, something I am altogether too aware of. With his blessing and the tremendous support of the Fisher Family, I set out with an indescribable vigor to conquer the course this year. Heading to NYC from my new home in Nashville, I was blessed to be accompanied by my wife Andrea and, in her belly, my son-to-be, Garrison. Last year, due to a tragic loss in her own family (also cancer related), Andrea was unable to attend the marathon, so this year's run was that much more special to both of us. I think the best part of being a part of Team Autism Speaks is the family I've become a part of. Whether it's my great friends Lara and Jena, who welcomed me last year, or meeting new friends like Jenn and Matt and hearing their stories, I really feel as though I have an extended family of folks with whom I can share this journey.
I was very nervous this year as I had to stop training long before I was supposed to due to lingering injuries I had acquired as a likely result of being overly eager early on. Lining up in my corral and shedding my outer “disposable” layers, I looked around for fellow A-Speaks runners and realized I was alone. I picked a couple of good humored French runners and decided I'd just try and keep up with them and then made a mental note of Mile 7 for the A-Speaks cheering crew, mile 14 where my wife and friends would first meet me, and mile 24, which would be the last cheering spot before the finish line.
During the first portion of the run, you have a lot of time to think since there aren't any crowds lining the Verrazano Bridge. I thought about whether I'd make it all the way this year, about last year's experience, and about how Russell and his family were dealing with their loss and healing. It wasn't until we crossed into Brooklyn, though, that I remembered that I had “For Steven” emblazoned across my running jersey as I heard the first of many “Do it for Steven!” cheers as I ran by. I didn't see it coming and therefore didn't see my reaction coming as tears filled my eyes and I started running harder. That's when it really gelled why I was here.
To be honest, the rest of the race was sort of a blur as I'm fairly certain I was way under-trained and in a sort of state of shock most of the time, but I remember three more truly profound moments. They came, unsurprisingly, at mile 7 when I saw Lara and Jena on the side cheering loudly, and then as I rounded the corner just after mile 14 and saw my beautiful and glowing pregnant wife waiting for me. Apparently my friends were there too but I think I was too transfixed on my Baby Mama to notice. The look of pride on Andrea's face told me that I'd be pushing on, at least till I saw her again at mile 24.
With that deal with myself made, I did everything in my power to keep moving though I knew my pace was dramatically slower now. I had also resorted to more dramatic devices to keep moving. It may seem sick or twisted, but I started thinking of the way my mother had to fight just to breathe the last week of her life, and I imagined the way Steven must had suffered knowing that no matter what he did, and no matter how exceptional he was, he would never (at least in his own mind) be fully accepted. Those thoughts quickly humbled the temporary pain I was feeling and I trudged on toward miles 23 and 24 where I prayed I'd again see the smiling faces that were like oxygen to me at this point.
At mile 24, when I saw Russell off to my left, pointing to me from the side of the road, I all at once got the biggest rush of support as I realized they were all there, including my wife. Tempted as I was to run over and hug them, I knew that if I stopped at all, I was doomed to cramp up so bad that moving again would be unlikely. From that point on to the finish line, it was like a slow motion movie of crowd sounds and blurry faces made even more surreal by running directly into the sun.
The finish line was like the bookend to a chapter of my life that exceeded the primary and obvious purpose for being there. It was turning a page on the past, its shadows of tragedy, its struggles, and became the start of a fresh canvas for my growing family and me. I prayed it, too, would act as another step of healing for the Fisher family as I hoped my effort proved that Steven's life and loss was not in vain and would not be forgotten. Steven's legacy lives on in everyone who comes together to fight for a cure and a better understanding of autism.
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