New York's marathon cancellation is frustrating, but the right decision

How could we have run past waving banners and cheering supporters when so many livelihoods had been destroyed?
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New York marathon signs
Workers take down signs at the finish line of the marathon after it was cancelled by New York's mayor, Michael Bloomberg. Photograph: Mehdi Taamallah/AFP/Getty

"The marathon is off!" It was my running mate Gavin, shouting from the other end of the immigration line at JFK airport.

"You're joking," I called back, not entirely convinced. And when I saw the look of a man utterly crushed, contemplating the futility of six months of gruelling training, 5am starts, ice baths and long lonely runs, I knew he wasn't having me on.

As the news rippled down the line of passengers, most of whom were runners or supporters, there was confusion, tears, anger and disappointment. But right then, I didn't know what to think or feel. I just went cold, and then numb.

I had watched the rolling news reports from London of the devastation wreaked by Sandy. I fully expected the marathon would be cancelled – not just out of respect for those whose lives were affected so tragically, but also just for purely logistical reasons. The images being beamed around the world in the hours after the disaster were of the Manhattan skyline plunged into darkness and subway tunnels filling up with water. It seemed impossible that the city could cope with 40,000 people running through its streets at a time of such chaos.

As the days went by and reports of the human cost of the storm began to emerge, my feelings about running became increasingly conflicted. But the New York city mayor, Michael Bloomberg, insisted the marathon would go on, and the word across the Atlantic was that the runners would be welcome. Our presence would help New York overcome this tragedy, and New York would send a message to the world that she was back on her feet. So on Friday morning, with my running mate Gavin and our support team of eight friends, we bundled up our banners and boarded our planes.

It's hard to describe to people how much completing this marathon meant to me and everyone else who spent the summer grinding out the miles in training runs.

Every runner involved has their own reasons for running and are deeply personal to them. For me, it has been about proving I still can run, after a freak accident last year when I tripped on dry leaves (I've heard all the jokes). It left me on crutches and in intense physiotherapy for five months. It was a huge challenge – mental and physical – but I wanted to prove that I could do it.

But as I stood in that line at border control, as the reality of the situation dawned, I could not take my eyes off the television screens tuned to cable news, showing footage from Staten Island, the starting point of the marathon. It looked like New Orleans after Katrina. And as I watched the images of wrecked homes and ruined livelihoods, and saw the scale of the loss of life, my personal challenges melted away. How could I have been so selfish even to think of coming?

Back in the UK, the level of devastation had not been apparent. Or perhaps it was just being in New York that made it seem more real. But pretty soon it became clear why Bloomberg's decision to press ahead with the marathon had caused such bitter divisions. How could we possibly have gathered to run a marathon, with banners waving and supporters cheering, when just minutes away from us, two young children had been swept from the arms of their mother as she tried to drive them to safety?

Obviously I am frustrated by the sacrifices I've made, but they are nothing compared to the losses faced by so many people here. Had the marathon gone ahead, I would have not run. And now that it has been cancelled, pass me a broom – and show me the way to a bar so I can have my first beer in five months.

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