Mileage May Vary: Belonging at the Marathon

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If I could tell my 15-year-old self—who barely survived the gym class mile—that I’d someday run marathons, she probably would have thought it was a cruel punishment. Like many women, I found running in my 30s. I ran my first marathon when I was 34 and just ran my fastest so far at age 37. Far from feeling like I’m past my physical prime, distance running has shown me that I can again and again surprise myself by how far and how fast I can go.

I am in good company. Marathons, it turns out, are inclusive in ways I didn’t expect them to be. Many of my running heroes have run their career-defining races in their mid-30s and beyond. Des Linden was 34 when she won the 2018 Boston Marathon, making her the first American woman to win the event in 33 years. Shalane Flanagan was 36 when she won the New York City Marathon in 2017. Kiera D’Amato set the American half marathon record in 2023 at 39. In 2023, Courtney Dauwalter, referred to by many as the greatest ultramarathoner of all time, was the first person to win three major ultra races: Western States 100, Hardrock 100, and the Ultra-Trail du Mont-Blanc, in the same year, at 38.

Many of these women continue to dominate and improve as they enter their 40s. This is in stark contrast to the ageism that runs so rampant in many competitive sports. This is not just the trend among elites. The average age of female marathoners is 37.91. And more and more older runners are running marathons. In the New York Marathon for example, in 2013, 20.6% of runners were 50+; in 2023, this rose to 24.4%.

There are still barriers to entry into distance running, including physical and financial limitations. There is also a racial disparity that various organizations, individuals, brands, and run clubs are making more and more efforts to address. In spite of these areas for improvement, marathon day in New York feels warm, supportive, and inclusive beyond measure.

So many different kinds of people with different goals and abilities show up on race day. Most of the people you see on the course are racing only against themselves–trying to beat a personal record, or happy to celebrate covering the distance. And the crowd gathered on New York City’s streets cheers them all on for hours on end. Spectators do more than encourage runners. They offer tissues and bandaids, snacks and sunscreen. They bring their children and their dogs and their homemade signs and costumes, staying out after dark. NYRR, the organization that runs the marathon, makes an effort to celebrate the marathon’s final finishers, who come in after the sun has set. Achilles International helps to empower people with disabilities to make it across the finish line. Every marathon day, I am moved to tears by the runners, walkers, and wheelchair athletes, in addition to the people who cheer for them.

It’s no longer clear to me whether I couldn’t run the mile in high school or if I just didn’t want to. I was a rebellious teenager. I didn’t follow directions or hand my assignments in on time. My attendance was dismal. So of course I would dismiss the directions of my gym teacher. But I was also convinced that I was deeply unathletic. Aside from a few weeks playing softball in grade school, during which my mother recalls another parent leaning over to her and saying, “that Sam Paul just can’t keep her eye on the ball,” I never took part in an organized sport.

I worked at a dry cleaning outlet after school. Senior year, my gym teacher from years prior came in to have a shirt pressed. “Sam Paul,” he said, laughing, “remember the one time you caught the ball?”

I remembered it well. It really had only been the one time, during a kickball game. The ball was coming straight towards my face. I raised my arms in self-defense, and it landed directly in my outstretched hands.

At 15, I was also already well on my way to becoming a pack-a-day smoker. After school, I went to a convenience store named Verona Variety, where the owner would sell me cigarettes. The tax I paid for being underage was enduring his crass remarks: “Newport Lights, keep the (redacted) tight,” he’d tell me, winking.

Smoking stayed with me well into adulthood, even as I began to become more athletic. I started biking, and took jobs doing delivery on my bicycle. Still, I smoked constantly. I smoked all day long as I rode through the city. At home, I would pause the TV and go outside during moments of tension. I’d rush to the door after movies and flights, and go out in the middle of the night even in a blizzard to buy a pack if I was worried about not having one in the morning.

I started running in part as a way to stop smoking. I signed up for my first five-mile race so that it loomed in the distance on my calendar—something that would probably suck either way but would suck more if I picked up the habit again.

After work, I’d go run a few miles in the dark in circles around the park. I couldn’t run long at first, just a few laps without walking. I listened to an app called Zombies Run! (primarily written by Naomi Alderman, author of The Power) and imagined myself being chased. I ran a mile and then two and then five without stopping, over bridges, into Manhattan and Queens. The race came and went. I didn’t hate it and I still didn’t smoke. I signed up for a half marathon with a friend. We chose a training plan at random and printed a random grid I Googled, crossing off the days as they came and went. The miles accumulated and added up to so many.

It turned out I loved training. I couldn’t believe it when my legs first carried me one, and then five, and then ten miles. The running became a habit, a force that sustained itself, and me. At the end of my first half marathon in 2019, after 13.1 miles from Brooklyn to a car-free Times Square, ending in Central Park, I felt a rush of gratitude for my legs and my lungs and this city and just under two hours spent in conversation with myself. I knew then that I would run a full marathon as soon as I could figure out how.

I am never going to win a medal that isn’t a participation prize, but participation is itself a gift. The marathon is its own 26.2-mile celebration. One I hope more and more people are able to take part in as people of all different ages, abilities, races, and backgrounds are encouraged to line up on the starting line. Marathons aren’t for everyone, but they are for far more people than I’d once imagined. I am still sometimes surprised that they are for me.

Sam Paul

Sam is a writer based in Brooklyn. An ex-bicycle messenger and a marathoner, she is a lover of adventure. She is an avid reader of literary fiction and nonfiction in all forms–but has a special love for the weird and the dystopian.