My father regularly talks about the first time he got to march in the annual Mummer’s Parade, an ancient tradition in the cannon of Philadelphia experiences that marks the first day of each year. His eyes sparkle when he recalls the euphoria and elation that swelled throughout his glorious day on Broad Street. He always remarks that his feet never touched the ground between South Philly and City Hall. You might even observe an act of mild levitation each time he tells the tale.
If my forecasting abilities are even passable, I would predict a feeling of the same sort as I trek the five Boroughs this coming Sunday morning. New York may very well be the first marathon I get to run without the benefit of me feet ever touching the ground, from the Staten Island start to the Central Park Finish.
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