One week before the New York Marathon I was in a cab on my way to La Guardia Airport. The cabbie, trying to make conversation, said, "You see all those cars going the other way? Those are the runners coming in for the marathon."

"But the marathon's not 'til next week," I told him.

"Yeah, but all these guys are coming in from other countries and have to get used to the time and the climate and everything. It's a big thing, you know."

A week and 26 miles, 385 yards later, I realized just how big the New York Marathon is, and--despite waiting in long lines, anticipating the start of the race, and dealing with my tired body--it is one of the great events in sports.

A Fine Line

The prevalent theme of the New York Marathon is the line. First one must wait in line in Central Park to receive an entry form. Next is the six week wait to find out whether you've been accepted through the lottery (the race is limited to 19,000 entrants, although 41,000 apply to get in).

Once accepted, the big lines come. There's the 90-minute line stretching three blocks around the Sheraton Centre in which you have to wait to get into the hotel. Then you wait in another line to get your number, another one to get your t-shirt, and still another to get to the "store" where the New York Road Runners Club peddles everything from marathon posters to marathon shoelaces to marathon plaques imprinted with your finish time (provided you make it to the starting line).

There's the blue line that is painted from the start to the finish, and of course the line of 19,000 runners that stretches over the Verrazano Narrows Bridge.

Ready

The night before the race, my brother prepared me the requisite carbohydrate-packed pasta meal. Having stuffed myself with fettucine, I watched a little TV and went to sleep, ready for what the next day would bring.

I woke up at 5:15 a.m. Sunday, put on my lucky shirt (a bright yellow t-shirt with OREGON emblazened in green across the front), shorts, and shoes, got some money for a cab, and went outside to hail a car to take me to the Public Library from where the buses would take the runners to the starting line on Staten Island.

"The Public Library," I told the driver.

"Where's that?" he asked.

"I think it's on 5th," I said.

"No, I think it's on 7th," was the reply.