Cheer Everywhere
Dear Cheer Everywhere,
I don’t know you. In fact I only found out about you through a rabbit hole of Google searches and Reddit discussion posts. I don’t know who you are, but whomever you are — thank you.
I was recently diagnosed with ARVC. It’s a rare and progressive heart disease caused by a genetic mutation; it causes your heart to malfunction and the currently the only way to manage the disease is to reduce your physical activity because the more you use your heart, the faster the disease progresses.
I’ve been a runner for 16 years. I first got into the sport because I had just quit figure skating competitively and was told by my parents that I needed to participate in some sport, any sport, in order to look good on my resume when applying to universities. I chose cross country because it was the one high school sport where everyone — anyone — was welcomed and no one got cut. I started off quite mediocre, potentially even below average; it was just a hobby, one where I didn’t care for doing well. It was a way to check off doing a sport in order to get into university and a way to have a new group of friends.
At some point I became surprisingly good. I became stronger and faster thanks to an encouraging coach and daily dedication to practice. I joined the varsity team and was captain. I was placing in the top 3 and winning races, and I even broke the school record as part of a relay team. While I wasn’t a national superstar, I had made it a lot farther than I’d ever thought I could achieve. Running became a huge part of my identity: I was on the cross country, winter track, and spring track teams, and I was training throughout the summer in preparation for the fall season. It took up my weekends and my summers.
I continued running at university as part of their club team, but it just wasn’t the same. I had identified myself as a varsity athlete for the past four years and was struggling to deal with that loss of identity at college where I was no longer officially an athlete. I was also dealing with an eating disorder which warped my relationship with running.
Later on I started running half marathons and continuing to do the sprot. Running slowly became a coping mechanism. I’ve always had a complicated relationship with running, but over time it developed into a healthy one. When I moved to New York, I participated in NYRR races, loving the exhilaration and joy that came with running alongside thousands of other New Yorkers, sharing the joy and the freedom of being able to move our bodies, together as one. Marathon Day because my favorite New York holiday - I cheered myself hoarse every first Sunday of November, dancing along and feeling emotional as runners of all sizes, shapes, abilities, ages, and backgrounds, ran along the streets of New York. I even volunteered at mile __ one year, handing water and Gatorade to elite athletes and amateur runnings, encouraging them that they could make it through the last bit of Centra Park. I promised myself that one day, I too, would be one of them. That’s the quintessential dream of a New York runner - to paritipate in the New York City marathon and race in the city where dreams are made and wehre you belong.
I’d qualified to run the 2023 NYC Marathon through the 9+1 program but deferred my entry to the following year since I was living abroad during that time; instead I planned to race the 2024 NYC Marathon and race through the city that shaped me and built me.
—
My first race back in the US was scheduled for June 8th in Central Park: the 2024 Manhattan Mini 10K. My coach and I agreed that this would be a test, an opportunity, to see where I was at race wise as we trained for the marathon in the fall - it’d be our first gauge of where my racing fitness was at, hopefully on track to achieve my personal goal of Boston Qualifying.
The day before the race I received a phone call with the news that I tested positive for the genetic mutation that causes ARVC. The cardiologist cautioned me against performing any strenuous activity - they didn’t know if I had the disease but having the genetic mutation meant there was a possibility that racing could lead to sudden cardiac arrest. Family also were worried - they didn’t want anything to happen to me. I reassured them that I’d just jog it to keep my heartrate down - I knew I needed to do it for me. If there was a possibility that this might be my last race, ever.
The morning of the race dawned. It was the most beautiful blue sky I’ve ever seen. The sun was out and as I walked towards Central Park, that familiar thrill of excitement filled me. There’s nothing like race day in New York - seeing other runners on the subway, bibs pinned to their chest; joining other New Yorkers in crossing the streets to Race Day central; keeping an eye out for the latest and trendiest racing shoes and running outfits. I remember making the conscious choice to take out my earbuds and place them in my waistband - I wanted to savor this and be present in every moment.
I remember waiting in my starting corral (likely the only time I’ll ever be in A!) and looking up at the sky and being filled with awe. it was the mot perfect blue sky, with puffy painted clouds. Trees above peeking through with their leaves but not blocking this beautiful blue sky. And then the gun going off and moving forward. I remember making the conscious decision to race rather than run. Fuck it. I’d been okay training for the past several months and hiking around the world for the past year - I was going to race this shit.
I remember gliding, striding like a gazelle, down central park west. I remember looking down at my watch and being surprised by how fast I was going. I remember feeling so perfectly in tune with my body and knowing intimiately that I could go faster.
I remember running by the Met, grazing and sliding towards the inside lanes to take advantage of the course’s curves, pounding up Cat Hill, and passing by the northern parts of Central Park. I remember smiling the whole entire time, unable to stop, a huge curve softly across my face.
I remember feeling my heart rate race as I was 200m from the finish line, unsure if this was an arrithymia or just generalized and manifested anxiety due to the news about my genes. I held back a little as I raced towards the end but still powered through.
I remember starting to tear up as I crossed the finish line. I remember feeling alive and thankful and grateful - thankful I was alive and grateful that I raced and didn’t die. Thankful I proved to myself that I could do it - that I’m an athlete, that I can run fast, that I am fast. That I did it.
—
Two weeks later I found out that I have ARVC. It was devastating and a shock. And yet I remember feeling so incredibly fucking grateful that I got to have this one last race: one last race where I was entirely present, where I felt all the joys of moving my body, feeling all of my muscles work in tandem to get me over that finish line, my whole body work together to enable me and allow me to move with power and grace.
I wanted a photo to capture that moment and memory. A photo that not only would commemorate my last race, but also to show the utter and complete joy I feel while running. The joy of moving your body with complete freedom, the beauty of being surrounded by others who share the same feelings of joy and utter contentment, the exhilaration of feeling the wind across your fast, your arms pumping, your body moving in a beautiful rhythm.
Thank you.
