Here is a really funny article by JERÉ LONGMAN that was in the New York Times with some photos and a video:

Wilson Kipsang of Kenya won the New York City Marathon in 2 hours 10 minutes 59 seconds — or as I like to call it at my age, a good night’s sleep.

At 60, I also ran Sunday’s race, one of about 3,000 windblown geezers among the field, expected to be 50,000.

“You need a pacemaker?” German Silva asked the other day.

“Hopefully not installed,” I said.

In 1995, before German’s second consecutive victory in New York, I joined him at 13,000 feet to train on the side of a volcano in his native Mexico. By “joined,” I mean that he ran up the volcano while I rode in a car with his coach.

A few weeks later, German finished first in New York, and, well, I finished. Actually, it was the only time I broke four hours. But that was nearly 20 years ago. Whatever speed I possessed receded with my hairline.

In April, I ran my first Boston Marathon: 5 hours 20 minutes. That is less a time for a race than a time for a crockpot recipe.

Not that 60 is a regretful age. Not at all. I’m much healthier at 60 than I was at 20. Back then I was on my way to 240 pounds. When I backed up, I beeped.

You know it is time to lose weight when you go horseback riding and the stablehand says, “Wait a minute; you’ll have to ride Big Boy.”

Now I’m 70 pounds lighter, although I probably could have used a little more heft navigating the gale at the start Sunday on the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge. Garbage bags and discarded running gear blew around like tumbleweeds. The wind pushed me across lanes and nearly stopped me in my tracks. It was considered unsafe for wheelchair racers and cyclists to cross the bridge.

“How are they going to let 93-pound Kenyans cross the bridge?” said Ann Glackin, 43, a marathoner from Ballston Lake, N.Y.

Near the crest, I came across Darren Weissman, 32, of Miami. He was probably the only guy in the race carrying two basketballs. Weissman is known for running 26.2 miles and dribbling the entire way. He did not on Sunday, lest one of the balls get away and trip another runner or end up in the Atlantic.

“It’s just not safe,” he said.

My race strategy was devised by David Monti, who works with elite runners in New York. I followed his advice with unwavering rigor: “Go out slow, then back off.”

Family pressure to finish the marathon was immense. My mother, who was set to turn 80 the day after the race, had upped the ante. Recently, she won a bronze medal playing bridge in the Senior Olympics.

“We had the gold until lunch,” she said.

She assured me that she passed her drug test, unless gumbo is considered a performance enhancer.

My wife, Debby, stayed home Sunday with the cats. At what point in a 28-year marriage did I become a lower priority than Meow Mix and hairballs?

O.K., that’s not fair. One of the cats is sick and needs medication. Debby has been a trouper. I’ve been driving her crazy with this marathon business. For 10 months this year, I’ve run numerous miles, disrupted her routine and given excruciating daily reports on the condition of my knees and hamstrings. Even worse is my diet, full of nuts and dried fruit.

“I married a squirrel,” she said.

An overcooked squirrel.

In the buildup to the race, I did seven runs between 19 and 22 miles. Too many. Pain skittered around my left knee like, well, a squirrel around a tree. Physical therapy helped. Then, in mid-October, I went to Cameroon to report on Ebola and soccer. I missed most of a week of training and then foolishly tried to make up for it when I got back.

“It’s funny how we never learn to be smarter,” said Amby Burfoot, the winner of the 1968 Boston Marathon and a longtime editor at Runner’s World magazine.

My knee started to make the snap, crackle and pop of breakfast cereal. My right hamstring flapped like a sheet on a clothesline. I got a massage last week, but in the early miles Sunday, my legs felt heavy and tight, the way my beer gut used to strain against a T-shirt.
Chris Lowell, 30, stretched before running the marathon, his first. Lowell, an actor, said he had been training in between rehearsals for a play. Credit Jake Naughton for The New York Times

Fortunately, people along the course were loud and supportive and had brought signs.

“You’ve got great stamina. Call me.”

“Chuck Norris never ran a marathon.”

“Toenails are for losers.”

The first time I ran New York, in 1991, I began to feel faint after finishing. As everything grew dim, I banged on the door of an occupied taxi.

“Get in,” the passenger said.

We drove across Central Park, dropped the guy on the East Side and then high-tailed it toward my Midtown hotel. The cabby alerted a bellman, who put me in a wheelchair and rolled me to my room, helping me into bed just before I passed out. Who says New Yorkers are gruff and unlovable?

On Sunday, it was my great luck at Mile 5 or so to run alongside Al Prawda, 67, a retired paramedic from Brooklyn. His bib said this was his 37th New York City Marathon. For a few miles, Al told great stories, and I forgot that my left hip was as frozen as my face. He told me about running ultramarathons, about finding religion, about his mother’s cooking.

“In the Army,” Al said, “I wrote her a letter. I said, ‘The food’s bad here; yours is worse.’ ”

After I broke four hours in 1995, I lost all enthusiasm to run another marathon. But this year, at 60, I wondered if I could trade Metamucil for Gatorade and get into top shape one final time.

Twenty years ago, to celebrate his own 60th year, George Hirsch ran the Chicago Marathon and finished second in his age group. A few weeks later, he was bumped up to first place. The guy ahead of him had not run the full course.

“He was the old man’s Rosie Ruiz,” said Hirsch, the chairman of the board of New York Road Runners, which organizes the marathon. “You’re 60 and cutting corners? Some people can’t let go.”

Except for the cutting corners part, I guess I couldn’t let go either at 60. Maybe I was afraid that if I stopped running, I would weigh 240 pounds again tomorrow. But I still enjoyed running. Plus, it’s much more fun hydrating for a marathon than a colonoscopy.

Running is a great way to see a city. And it has taken me in my job to places I otherwise might never have gone — on the other side of the Berlin Wall, atop the Great Wall of China, a mile underground in a South African gold mine, 13,000 feet atop a Mexican volcano.

Oh, yeah, it once took me to the side of a highway in Midland, Tex., where a woman pulled alongside in her car and said, “Can I pinch your butt?” Hey, we all have our moments of glory.

In 1988, I covered what turned out to be the last East German Olympic track and field trials. Driving back to Berlin, several colleagues and I were stopped for speeding. I handed my Pennsylvania driver’s license to the policewoman and began to worry.

Would she put us in jail?

Did East Germany have a reciprocal agreement with Allstate?

The officer demanded Western currency and gave me a ticket, which I signed, “Jethro Bodine.” The wall fell a year later, East Germany soon ceased to exist, and my insurance never went up.

Before the 1996 Atlanta Olympics, I traveled to Ethiopia to see the great distance runner Haile Gebrselassie. He had won two Mercedes-Benz automobiles as racing prizes but did not drive them. Instead, he continued to arrive for training in a taxi.

“If I have a good car, maybe the car becomes more important than my running,” he said.

Oh, to be able to run one mile as fast and elegantly as Haile. Not in this lifetime. Sometimes it seems every part of my body is going in a different direction, everything squishing about like water in a balloon.

Several weeks after Hurricane Katrina in 2005, the first day I heard birds chirping again in New Orleans, I went for a run. I headed through the French Quarter and along Elysian Fields Avenue, when a truck driver stopped and said, “You O.K., buddy?” I never figured out whether he thought I was running from something or thought I needed a few tips on my biomechanics.

On Sunday, I reached the halfway mark in about 2:15. Paula Radcliffe, the women’s world-record holder from England, had cautioned, “Save something for the second half.” Trouble was, I had barely saved anything for the first half.

As much as I had overtrained, though, I had not done what Jacques d’Amboise did in 1976.

One of the great American ballet dancers, d’Amboise decided to enter New York that year as the marathon expanded to the city’s five boroughs. Get in a 20-mile training run, advised Hirsch, who later served as the publisher of Runner’s World.

As the race neared, Hirsch got a call. It was d’Amboise.

“I finished that 20-mile run you gave me; it was great,” he said.

“When did you do it?”

“Just now.”

This was Friday. The race was Sunday.

“I didn’t have the heart to say, You’ve blown it,” Hirsch said.

As it turned out, d’Amboise had not blown it. He finished in 4:05:09 and, according to legend, felt so exuberant at the start that he did cartwheels.

So maybe there was hope for me.

Here’s the thing about marathon running. You might feel awful one moment but better the next. Confidence can swirl like Sunday’s wind. After Mile 16, my legs did not hurt so much. The music and the cowbells and the cheering seemed to carry me along on some invisible current. And the signs.

“In your mind you’re a Kenyan.”

“Hurry Mom We’re Hungry.”

“This seems like an awful lot of work for a free banana.”

Along First Avenue, a runner dropped dollar bills in the street, but no one, especially not me, risked cramping to bend over and pick them up. Still, I knew I could finish.

On a bus to the start, I had met Cris Young, 61, a contractor from Escondido, Calif., who was running his 32nd marathon. As we age, Young said, we get fewer sporting opportunities to compete against others.

“Marathon running is private,” Young said. “You can compete with the face in the mirror.”

Along Fifth Avenue in the late stages of the race, I thought of Jon Mendes, who calls each year during marathon week. He was scheduled to walk the course Sunday, the day before his 94th birthday. If Jon had been successful, he would have been the oldest finisher in the race’s history.

A bomber pilot in World War II and the Korean War, Jon flew with John Glenn and Ted Williams. He became an investment banker and lived on Fifth Avenue. He once told me that he continued to push himself through 26.2 miles for a simple reason: “You’ve got to have goals in life, or you wither away.”

He liked to enjoy a postrace beverage with a little kick.

“It’s called Black Label,” he said.

In Central Park, beyond Mile 24, I saw a guy wearing a Louisiana State cap. My alma mater. It brought my sister to mind. As I’ve written, she is so crazy about L.S.U. football, she sprinkles holy water on her television every time the Tigers get into trouble. She got a special batch from friends for this Saturday’s game against Alabama.

“It’s from Lourdes,” she said the other day.

A little laugh got me to the finish in 4:44:53. Slow, but more than a half-hour faster than I had run Boston.

This will probably be my last marathon, unless I can get into a race in April that North Korea has opened to Westerners. Problem is, if I say I’m a reporter, they probably won’t let me into the hermit nation. If I don’t and they notice, I might have trouble getting out.

Otherwise, at 60, I’ll have to be content with this: Only 15 more years, and I won’t have to take my shoes off at the airport.