A Magic Day at the 2025 NYC Marathon

A Magic Day at the NYC Marathon — A Roaming Diary
New York City, Sunday 2 November 2025

6.10 a.m. Staten Island Ferry Terminal
A glow of pale gold edged the harbour as the first waves of runners drifted into the terminal, bleary eyed yet buoyant, clutching coffee cups and bin-bag ponchos. The correspondent watched the doors slide open to release a tide of anticipation. A gentle thrum of nerves gave the place its own pulse. Today would become the largest marathon in history, with more than 59,000 finishers expected, yet in these calm early moments, New York felt almost hushed, almost courteous.

The ferry deck provided the first sight of the Verrazzano Bridge. Runners pressed against the rails, whispering about pacing plans or quietly filming dawn for social feeds they would not check again for many hours. Here the correspondent began the first of many conversations. Ten runners, chosen at random, each with a story as individual as their bib numbers.

There was Dana Morley, travelling from Liverpool, who said she had entered because she wanted to “feel the boroughs change beneath my feet, like chapters in a story”. Samir Qadri, from Queens, had once watched the race as a child and promised himself he would return as a participant. Eloise Tran, a nurse from Portland, wanted to “borrow the city’s energy” after a brutal year of night shifts. Miguel Ruiz, from Mexico City, called it “the most democratic expedition on earth: elite to beginner, all equal on the same road”.

Others echoed the same idea in their own way. Marianne Ko, running her tenth marathon, described New York as “a procession of cultures, each borough throwing open its windows for you”. Jonas Vicker, an Australian on a Six Star mission, said he had come for “the roar on First Avenue, where you forget your legs for a mile or two”. Priya Fernandes said she cherished the block-party feel, while Lance O’Malley said nothing matches the noise through Columbus Circle. Hassan Badi, on his first attempt, admitted he wanted to “feel like an Olympian just once”. And Colm Sheridan, with fifty races behind him, insisted New York still had “the best crowds anywhere”.

Ten voices, ten variations of the same truth: New York is less a route than an emotional landscape.

7.45 a.m. Fort Wadsworth
The starting village buzzed with the usual semi-organised chaos. The journalist noted runners dressed as pumpkins, superheroes, cartoon characters and — in one especially brave case — a full-sized doughnut. The air sat cool at around ten degrees, perfect running weather. Volunteers poured coffee with the brisk efficiency of baristas facing a festival crowd.

Elite women warmed up in a ring of purposeful silence. Hellen Obiri moved with unhurried precision, her face unruffled. Sharon Lokedi shadowed her in rhythm, while Sheila Chepkirui flicked controlled strides across the narrow stretch of asphalt. It was the first time all three had lined up together since 2018, three champions sharing a corridor of anticipation.

9.10 a.m. Verrazzano Bridge — Women’s Start
A single cannon blast cleaved the air, and the women surged up the incline of the bridge. From the press truck, the correspondent watched Staten Island slip away as the pack thinned to its most buoyant talents. By Mile 19, as the runners entered the Bronx, the trio began to carve themselves away from the rest. Lokedi and Obiri moved with mirrored calm, while Chepkirui drifted metres back.

Journalists murmured about the pace, already inside course-record territory. By Central Park, Obiri and Lokedi were duelling stride for stride. Then came the moment that would define the race. With roughly a kilometre left, Obiri’s cadence sharpened. She launched into a fearsome 4.58 mile through the rollers of the park, leaving Lokedi behind with a grace that was almost cruel. She crossed the line in 2.19.51, slicing through a record that had stood for twenty two years.

“It feels so great,” she said later. “With five hundred metres to go I knew I had something left.”

9.40 a.m. Bay Ridge — General Field Start
When the masses launched, they did so like a river breaking free of its embankments. The correspondent ran a short spell beside them, threading through the first cheering clusters in Brooklyn. The noise thickened quickly: steel drums, gospel choirs, brass bands and shouting children offering high fives with sticky hands. The route through Brooklyn unrolled like a festival, choreographed by thousands of strangers.

Among the runners were the day’s celebrity contingent. The correspondent spotted Anthony Ramos, the Hamilton actor, moving with a steady cadence beside his coach, Des Linden, both relaxed and smiling. Further along came Claire Holt, looking almost serene as she clipped along towards a personal best. Oliver Phelps, known for playing George Weasley, carried an enormous grin despite the weight of the final bridges still ahead. The field spilled with familiar faces: podcaster N.O.R.E. tapping elbows with supporters in Queens, the Broadway star Jordan Litz pacing with metronomic focus, and Ben Gibbard powering past on a mission for Protect Our Winters. It was that mixture of star power and everyday stories that coloured the morning.

10.05 a.m. Pulaski Bridge — Halfway
The correspondent paused here as runners streamed into Long Island City. A wind funnelled through the towers, tugging bibs and singlets. This was where many of the ten interviewees passed again. Morley beamed despite the climb. Qadri looked utterly at home, soaking in cheers from his home borough. Tran winced, then grinned when she recognised the correspondent’s raised hand. Every runner carried a fragment of the city.

The noise on First Avenue, as always, was cathedral-loud: a wall of cheering that lifted the most fatigued shoulders. One runner shouted, “This is why we came!” just before dissolving into laughter. New York’s magnetism was working again.

11.05 a.m. Central Park South — Women’s Finish Zone
Journalists pressed around the barricades as the elite women filed through. Lokedi, finishing in 2.20.07, spoke of the push and pull she now shares with Obiri. Chepkirui, third in 2.20.24, sealed a Kenyan sweep.

Fiona O’Keeffe arrived in fourth with an American course record of 2.22.49. Her face flickered between pride and fatigue. “I feel like I learnt more today than in any marathon so far,” she said. It was a brave, elegant run.

11.40 a.m. Central Park — Men’s Finish Approaches
Few predicted the men’s finish would eclipse the drama of the women’s record, but the race had other plans. Benson Kipruto and Alexander Mutiso burst into view with only metres separating them. Kipruto looked certain of victory until Mutiso summoned an astonishing late surge. For a breathless instant, they appeared entirely level.

The clock had the final say: Kipruto first in 2.08.40, Mutiso a whisker behind by three hundredths of a second — the closest finish in the history of the race.

“It was so close,” Kipruto said afterwards. “I could feel him coming.”

12.20 p.m. Columbus Circle — Late Morning Crowds
By midday, the course swelled with runners in every costume imaginable. A man dressed as a lobster shared the road with a trio of angels, while a woman in a skeleton suit offered encouragement to a runner wincing from cramp. Volunteers clattered cowbells. The autumn air held the crisp scent of hot pretzels and roasted nuts.

The correspondent met Colm Sheridan again, now shuffling through a walk-run rhythm, still insisting this was “the world’s friendliest pain”. Behind him came Priya Fernandes, tears springing as she turned into the final kilometre. “The noise,” she said. “It gets inside your ribs.”

1.45 p.m. Times Square — Celebrity Sightings Redux
The celebrity field continued to scatter through Manhattan. Carl Radke punched the air as he passed a cheering knot of supporters. Phil Keoghan jogged with dogged concentration, fundraising motivation written across his face. From the Love Island trio, Elan Bibas came through dramatically faster than predicted, thundering towards a 3.20 finish. Runners around him whooped, amused at the sudden pace injection.

3.15 p.m. Central Park — Afternoon Lull
The correspondent took a slow walk along the finish chute, observing the steady trickle of mid-pack runners. The afternoon sun lit the confetti-strewn ground. Medals clinked in tired hands. Volunteers wrapped foil blankets around shivering shoulders. A man collapsed into laughter when handed a banana, as if fruit had never seemed so miraculous.

A whisper ran through the press tent about Eliud Kipchoge. The greatest marathoner of his generation had finished seventeenth in his New York debut. Later, he spoke about his next ambition: a global tour of seven marathons across seven continents. “Starting and finishing in a good way, a happy way,” he explained. “That’s success.”

8.10 p.m. Brooklyn Bridge — Dusk Reflections
As evening settled, the city still felt charged with residual energy. From the bridge the correspondent watched runners in recovery robes drift towards subways and taxis. A saxophonist played a soft, melancholy tune that floated over the pedestrian walkway.

Somewhere in the city, an extraordinary 91-year-old, Koichi Kitabatake, had already collected his medal — a nonagenarian finisher completing the course in 7.25.13. And much later, in the small hours at 12.34 a.m., an amputee athlete named Juan Pablo Dos Santos would break the final makeshift tape, surrounded by crowds singing the Venezuelan national anthem. But those moments belonged to the quiet corner of the marathon few witnesses see.

10.55 p.m. Hotel Desk — Final Notes
In the dim light of the desk lamp, the correspondent replayed the day’s scenes. The jet-engine roar on First Avenue. The elite duel etched into Central Park. The ten runners who offered fragments of their hopes on the cold morning ferry. The celebrities who folded charity into effort. The volunteers, the spectators, the small kindnesses exchanged between strangers. A city stitched together by one long ribbon of running.

New York stages a marathon, yes, but it also stages a day-long act of communal imagination. Every runner crosses the same bridges, hears the same music, inhales the same winter-leaning air. The correspondent realised, as the room finally softened into silence, that this is why people come. Not for the medal. Not even for the stories. But for the rare sensation of being carried — sometimes literally — by a city that refuses to let anyone run alone.

A magic day, indeed.