NYC Sentinel

By Lynsey Chutel

Piles of crushed green Gatorade cups fill the gutters. The crowds have left and the tables and stands have been dismantled.  Most of New York returned to its routine now that the excitement of the New York City Marathon has died down.

But David Fraser continues to push off the ball of his right foot, his manual wheelchair inching along in reverse. His feet aching, his ankles numb, he looks over his right shoulder to see where he is going, but his head lolls with exhaustion. At times his head drops to his chest, giving a little grunt, which makes his guides think he might have fallen asleep. But then he lifts his head up again, pushes back and keeps going. The day grows dark and cold. The only time Fraser takes off his signature plain black baseball cap is to put on a warmer tracksuit jacket.

Tricia Williams, Sonja Kerlen and Meggie Singh have been his guides throughout the race. At four months pregnant, Williams’ lower back is aching, and she admits that walking the marathon is tougher than running it. Kerlen, an experienced guide who has never run the marathon, says running after Fraser on the downhill has taken its toll — she limps slightly. Singh is surprisingly energetic, running along and jogging briskly with Fraser as he speeds on the downhill.

Andy Ashwell, a member of the Achilles Track Club, joins the group as they re-enter Manhattan, and is there for moral support. Michael Oliva, Fraser’s long-time training partner, joined the pack on First Avenue up to 125th Street.

At first the race was going well and it seemed that Fraser would reach his goal of completing in under nine hours. At the halfway mark, his time was just over four hours.

But the 59th Street Bridge became a steep and lonely battle, windy with no spectators and an unforgiving incline. Fraser lost a lot of time. In upper Manhattan, the race was rerouted and he was forced into traffic, waiting for red lights and slowing his time. It became difficult to maintain motivation. Remembering his wife Nora, says Williams, Fraser kept going.

Only marathoners can really appreciate the pain of the incline going on Fifth Avenue from 125th Street to Central Park. For Fraser it is even more pronounced.

“It’s only when you walk this city with him that you realize how many inclines and declines there are,” says Williams.

Fraser has to remain in reverse to fight the uphill. Passing intersections became like a countdown as his guides called out the numbered streets, signs that he was getting closer to the finish. Fraser has to stop often, his body throbbing. His guides cheer him on, not allowed even to give him a little push.

Passers-by cheer clap and call out Fraser’s name from the sign pinned to his back. One woman even has a cowbell. Maria Davis, one of the last runners, stops to take a picture with him. “If he could push his way to the end in a wheelchair,” says Davis. “I have two feet, I can finish the race.”

But Fraser doesn’t need a cheerleader, he needs a distraction. The guides keep the conversation going, talking about anything except the pain Fraser is in. Singh gets in Fraser’s face to poke fun at him. Fraser responds to this needling the best and he still manages to laugh and joke along. Cursing also helps and everyone joins in.

His guides remind him that if he doesn’t speed up, he’ll miss that night’s World Series Phillies-Yankees game. Shouting, “Let’s go Yankees!” Fraser keeps pushing.

On 59th Street at the edge of the park, Fraser defied the race officials and went along the horse-carriage path. The cobbled sidewalk would have been agony for Fraser. His guides moved to left side, their arms stretched out as a protective barrier from the traffic.

The last quarter mile inside the park is a steep uphill. Still, entering Central Park has given Fraser a final burst of energy. His pushes seem to become stronger. The handful of people and volunteers still at the finish line begin to cheer wildly. Fraser waves and smiles, regaining his strength.

With a final push, he crosses the finish line, his arms up in victory. Suddenly he is surrounded by officials in orange. In a blur, he is awarded his medal, wrapped in a foil blanket and handed champagne in a plastic cup. His time is 9:27:32.

Fifteen minutes later, it is all over. Williams pushes Fraser to her car. She can now call Fraser’s wife, Nora, and tell her that he’s made it.

Read more about Fraser’s story here,