The Coldest Half: NYC 2023
The only time I smiled during the race: When I saw my run club cheering.
Photo taken by Drew Ku
My friends and I screamed as we frantically stripped off our throwaway sweats, trying not to trip while shuffling toward the start line with the crowd. I had ignored my mother’s advice—naturally—and here I was, standing in shorts and my run club’s tank top, a mere breath away from hypothermia. My toes were frozen solid in my New Balance FuelCell RC Elite V2, and every step toward the start felt like an arctic death march. No one was thrilled about this delightful 22-degree weather.
The second I crossed the start, I ran like my life depended on it—because at that moment, it kind of did. My only goal was to reach a hot shower ASAP. Oh, and to outrun the memory of my mother, who had shown up in long sleeves despite her own advice. A mile in, my sole motivation was staying warm. Slowing down meant surrendering to frostbite. My paper-thin arm warmers and gloves barely shielded me from the wind howling across the Manhattan Bridge. My face felt like it was being slapped by an ice demon.
Coming down the bridge at mile six, I flew past my run club, Run for Chinatown, as my friends screamed, “Aren’t you freezing?!” Yes, I was, thanks for noticing. I tossed my blue Lululemon sweater to them and powered on. Then came the FDR Highway—aka a windy stretch of pavement designed to break my spirit. I tried to distract myself with music, blasting Centuries by Fall Out Boy on repeat. Normally, I save that song for the start, but desperate times call for extra doses of emo motivation.
Finally, we veered left past Grand Central and headed straight into the neon chaos of Times Square. Overwhelmed by the flashing screens and sheer spectacle, I cried. Again. Just like last year. Turns out, being 11 miles deep in physical agony makes you really emotional.
As I was about to exit Times Square, a man ran up from behind me. “Wow, aren’t you cold?” Sir, yes. I nodded quickly, hoping he'd take the hint. But no—he kept chatting about the cold and how strong I was. Normally, I’m all for a mid-race convo, but at mile 11 and in the cold, I was using every ounce of brain power to keep moving forward. So I did what any polite runner would do—I weaved my way out of there like I was dodging potholes. (PSA: If you’re going to chat mid-race, please make sure the other person is also in the mood to socialize.)
At 59th Street, I whipped right along Central Park, only to be met with a cruel, unexpected hill at mile twelve. I pushed up the incline, curved back down, and finally, the finish line came into view. Sprinting with whatever I had left, I crossed in 1:54:16—a new personal record. Immediately, I snatched an aluminum blanket from a volunteer, threw my medal around my neck, and beelined to my hotel—a convenient six-minute run away.
I cranked up the shower heat and stood there for 20 minutes, trying to regain feeling in my limbs. I was so wiped that I canceled post-race celebration lunch plans. The next morning? Sore throat. Shocking that running in a tank top in freezing temperatures led to a cold. I spent the following days snuggled up with my kittens, basking in regret and recovery.
Brutal? Yes. But hey, I did PR. I even got my medal engraved with “Survivor 2024.” Next time, I’ll listen to myself and bundle up
