Crossing the Bridge .. 

The first thing that happened when we got to the race site was that everyone was separated from each other. In the beginning, it was a bit like a horror movie where you wonder why the characters bother entering rooms alone because you KNOW there is a blood sucking zombie waiting on the other side of the door. Similarly, I simply did not understand why people kept walking away from each other in that insane pre-race atmosphere when we knew it would only lead to a chain of never ending phone calls to find each other. I did my bit to insert myself into this charged situation, by calling as many people as possible and providing directions that did not make any sense whatsoever.

Waiting in line for the port a potty, in an exquisitely Turkish moment, my lovely pre-race companion took the opportunity to impart some life lessons – made all the more piquant by the putrid port a potty that we smelt before we used – This race is like life itself, he said. There are people in the beginning and people at the end. But you see, you have to run it alone.   

One of my friends dressed as a kangaroo came over to complain about how her bib was still somewhere on the European side. Another friend came back bruised by an inadequate baggage drop situation. I started complaining that we were going to start the race without anyone, even though there was no question that I was surrounded by multiple someones. Like everything in (my) life, suddenly it all came together about 5 minutes before the race when everyone just magically found each other.

The view from the bridge was breathtaking and the view on the bridge was as moving as any Ottoman miniature. Just before the start of the race were some lovely gobekli gentlemen selling simit and cay. Couples, covered and uncovered ladies, and buff (and not so buff) men flexing their muscles were taking pictures against the backdrop of the Bosphoros. A handsome piebald beleidysi doggy ran a little while with me. A group of enterprising men had set up a backgammon table. Somewhere during the race, a man I didn’t think I knew slowed down to let loose a volley of fluent Turkish my way.. from which I surmised that he knew my name and that I was from Yeni Del-hee. It turned out that we had met two weeks ago while I was on vacation in the south eastern part of Turkey and he had recognized me amongst the thousands of runners on the bridge.

I am a bit sheepish – perhaps if I was a runner runner, I would be at least a bit frustrated by all this non-running traffic and chit chat on the bridge. But in reality, these vignettes made the race for me. In those transcendent moments on the bridge, I felt connected to so many people who in most cases did not even speak the same language as me. No matter where they were from or where we were going, we were all joyful to be on the bridge – some by playing blackgammon, some by holding hands, some by running, and some, admittedly a little more prosaically, by taking selfies.

On Sunday, I marveled at the singular course of events which led me to this gorgeous sexy beast of a city that I call home, at the completely indescribable chaos that embraces and energizes me every day, and all the crazy cool kangaroos in my life. In an ideal world, I would have trained three times a week, increased my mileage by a maximum of 10% every week, eaten less simit, been in perfect condition, dominated the 15 km,  and obviously, my hair would have looked amazing in all the fotos.

Instead, what really happened was that I had the best weekend ever.