From Couch Potato to Top Athlete.
Ever since I can remember, I’ve been a couch potato.
As a kid, the only sport I ever entertained was soccer, and even then, I was the goalie – the one who didn’t have to run much.
At 8, I landed in the hospital with bronchitis, earning me a free pass from gym class.
I loved it so much that I stretched that pass for a decade, happily skipping gym lessons and class trips.
Physical activity just wasn’t my thing.
Fast forward to my twenties and thirties, and not much had changed.
I still embraced my sedentary lifestyle.
But Frank Natale, my teacher, had planted a seed that kept growing louder in my mind: “Until the age of 40, your body takes care of you. After 40, you must take care of your body.”
So, as I hit 40, I decided to take his advice to heart.
And what better way to do that than by setting a ridiculous goal – running a marathon.
But not just any marathon – the New York Marathon, the most famous one in the world.
And I had less than eight months to get ready.
I laced up my new running shoes and started jogging.
Thirty minutes here and there, slowly increasing to 35, then 40 minutes.
I was feeling good… until I wasn’t.
Just a few weeks in, I hurt my back so badly that I couldn’t move for six weeks.
When I finally could walk again, I realized I needed a different approach.
I hired a personal trainer from my neighborhood gym, and we got to work.
The training was tough, grueling even.
It was painful – sometimes scary.
I had an asthma attack during one of my runs in the woods that left me shaken.
But mostly, it was inconvenient.
It was always too something—too cold, too hot, too rainy, too windy, too early, too late.
But I kept going.
The naysayers didn’t help either.
Professional athletes at the running club in Amsterdam told me I was crazy, that I couldn’t possibly do it.
They said I needed years of training, starting with 5K runs, then 10K, then half marathons before even thinking about a full marathon.
My father sent me newspaper articles about how unhealthy long-distance running could be.
Even my homeopath tried to dissuade me with horror stories of marathon injuries.
Needless to say, I quit the running club that day, stopped reading my fathers clips, and didn’t listen to my doctor.
But I didn’t quit my dream.
I had help, though.
A student of mine who had run many marathons offered his support.
Every week, he drove to my house for our long training runs.
Not only that, but he also promised to run alongside me in New York.
As race day approached, I grew more nervous by the hour.
I flew to the Big Apple with Vered and Peter, my friend who couldn’t get into the race officially.
We spent a few days soaking in the city, doing a light training run, and indulging in a massive pasta meal on Saturday to fuel up.
Then came Sunday, November 2, 2008.
It was 5 AM, freezing cold, and I found myself at the starting point, waiting outside for hours in just my running clothes and a garbage bag to keep warm.
The pep talks, the music, the cheering, and finally, the gunshot – it all became a blur as I started running.
Two kilometers in, as I crossed the first bridge, Peter magically appeared, sneaking through the barriers to join me.
Unofficially, of course, but there he was – my team, my support, my cheerleader, my friend.
Vered also kept popping up every few kilometers…
I don’t know how she magically beamed herself from one neighborhood to another – but I could see her smiling and cheering for me – which kept me going in the toughest moments.
Peter ran alongside me until the entrance to Central Park, where the last two kilometers of the race began.
That’s where security caught him and escorted him off the track.
But I kept going.
A few minutes later, I crossed the finish line, arms raised high, smiling for the cameras.
It was, without a doubt, the toughest thing I had ever done in my life (until then).
Four hours and forty minutes of relentless effort, powered mostly by sheer will.
No stops, no breaks, no excuses.
And as I hugged Vered in exhaustion afterward, I knew – truly knew – that there’s nothing I can’t achieve.
