How I felt the call of the marathon hype-woman

For Holly Baxter, the cultural differences between Brits and Americans reveal themselves when it comes to cheering runners from the finish line

Even waking up to freezing temperatures will not deter Baxter (Getty)

A few months after I moved to New York, I discovered my unexpected passion for marathons. Not running marathons, obviously (I’m not insane.) Not timing them or getting involved in the nitty-gritty of what counts as a good time, whether or not carb-loading is worth it, or why people feel psychologically driven to undertake such a feat, either. Specifically, what I discovered I had a passion for was attending marathons and cheering on the knackered, red-faced people passing by at a sluggish pace with glazed eyes and gritted teeth, willing for their long-distance jog to end.

The first time I found this out about myself was in September, when the New York marathon passed by my apartment. Hot tea in hand, I soon realised a lot of people had sewn their names onto the back or fronts of their shirts in the hope (I imagined) that someone might give them a personalised cheer on the way down the course. There is nothing better than being able to yell at a sweaty passerby “Come on, Isabel! You’re doing great!” and to watch the recipient smile, wave and run a little faster with the boost the motivation gave them. Yes, they may have actually been running faster to get away from me, but I choose to believe the former.

To qualify for the New York marathon, you have to do 10 volunteering stints throughout the year (giving out medals at the ends of other races, helping to pace runners, or timing kids doing extracurricular activities in underprivileged areas, for instance.) You also have to run a certain number of races yourself, in order to prevent the sort of people who think they might just “chance it” ending up having a heart attack 5km into the marathon next year, much to the inconvenience of everyone else and the grief of their families. My flatmate is nearing the end of his compulsory qualifications, meaning that he’ll definitely run this September (despite badly injuring himself while attempting to cram too many 10km races into a month “to save time”.) Last weekend, he ran his final compulsory race: a half-marathon through Central Park.

Usually, nothing could convince me to get out of bed early on a Sunday in -6C weather and travel an hour into midtown Manhattan, only to return 30 minutes later. But I felt the call of the marathon hype-woman. I bundled up in my glorified duvet of a winter coat, put on three sweaters, tights under my trousers and a large woolly hat, and set out toward the finish line at 102nd street.

A man dressed as the Grinch came barrelling through a bunch of serious, Spandex-clad runners with his arms held aloft as people cheered

As expected, the atmosphere at the finish line of the race was electric. People wrapped in foil blankets who had just finished were doubling back to cheer on their compatriots, and families were camped out along the pathways with cameras and congratulatory homemade signs. A woman stopped steps away from the end to kiss her two children before running over the line. A man dressed as the Grinch came barrelling through a bunch of serious, Spandex-clad runners with his arms held aloft as people cheered.

My flatmate had a tracking beacon on him, so a group of his assorted friends and I watched the little blue dot on our phone screens move slowly round the final section of the track before we saw him appear over the horizon and started jumping and yelling. He sped up for a big finish while we attempted to get video for the all-important social media announcement. As he stepped away from the finish line, he took his coat from me and had only one word to say: “Beer.”

A marathon can tell you unexpected things about the culture you come from. Aside from our British love of beer, I also noticed, as we walked away, the fact that all the Americans cheering people on were saying the same thing: “Let’s go!” and “You got this!” They are phrases I associate strongly with all sporting events in America, though “You got this” is also often pulled out during discussions where someone doesn’t know what to do in their career or personal life. It’s a phrase I’ve really come to love for its simple message of support and belief in the receiving person’s abilities.

There are a lot of British people at New York races too, and Sunday was no exception. Almost all of them had queued up around the sidelines to shout to the racers who came after them “You’re almost there!”, “It’s nearly over!” and “One final push!” These phrases, imbued as they are with that traditional British stiff-upper-lip mentality, promise merely that the worst is nearly over rather than a celebration in the person’s abilities or an implication – “Let’s go!” – that we’re all in this together.

Ah, Britain. I miss you all the time when I’m in America, especially when I think about crumpets or costs of living. But I don’t think you’re a country which produces very effective cheerleaders. Unironic exuberance has never really been your thing.