I finished the 26.2-mile jaunt through the five boroughs Sunday. Here’s a synopsis of my run.

BEFORE THE START runners are shipped by bus from Manhattan to Staten Island where we sit in 40-degree, ultra windy conditions for three hours. I wear a fleece top and warm up pants that I bought at a thrift shop over the two shirts, running jacket and shorts I’m wearing. Still, it’s cold and keeping warm burns energy. I gab with other runners including a Norwegian guy in line for the Porta-Pot, wearing an Achilles Track Club T-shirt. I ask him about it and he tells me he’s going to guide Jonas, a blind and deaf man who’s run 16 previous marathons. Can you believe it??? I ask to shake Jonas’ hand for good luck. The Guide — who’s also a trained interpreter — communicates this by putting his hands inside Jonas’ hands and making a bunch of motions. Jonas breaks into a huge smile and shakes my hand. I’m not religious, but I suddenly feel blessed.

THE START is signaled with the firing of a Fort Wadsworth cannon. For the first time ever, runners have been divided by projected times into 3 waves to start at 9:40, 10 and 10:20. I start at 10 with Brooke Bussen, native St. Louisan and sister of a good friend. Brooke now lives in Nashville, Tenn. The wave start works. Runners are not nearly as packed together for the first few miles like they were in 2001 when I ran NY. The first mile is a steep incline over the Verazzano-Narrows Bridge. I’ve discarded the fleece top and pants. It’s cold and brutally windy on the bridge and there’s no sun because we’re running on the lower level. We hit Brooklyn at Mile 2, the wind dies down and temps feel warmer.

Crowds in Brooklyn are unbelievable. Cheering and screaming. There’s music about every half mile including a gospel choir that sends chills up my spine. (Again, not religious, but. . .) It’s hard for Brooke and I to pace ourselves because we’re so juiced by the crowds, but we try. Brooklyn has rolling hills, but nothing too hard.

AT MILE 13.1 we cross the Pulaski Bridge from Brooklyn into Queens. We’ve been running 2 hours 8 minutes. The bridge has a 1/4 mile steep climb. This is where I assess how I’m feeling and predict the second half. I feel OK, but not great. I won’t be running a negative split to finish in under 4:15. But maybe 4:20, though I doubt it.  Also, I lose Brooke going up the Pulaski Bridge incline because I have to walk. Dang. Should have done more hill-training. I catch up with her on the other side.

AT THE 59TH STREET BRIDGE, about Mile 16, I lose Brooke again, going up the steep incline. I won’t see her again for the rest of the race. She and I will leap-frog each other several times though according to her brother-in-law Jason Stallman, who’s tracking us at the NY Times, where he works. Somewhere on the bridge, I realize I have bad posture. So I pull my shoulders back and run on my toes which gives me more spring. This works for several miles. So do the unbelievable crowds standing four and five deep for miles up 1st Avenue when we turn off the bridge and into Manhattan.

AT MILE 18, I eat an Energy Gel for the first time in 9 years. It’s latte flavored and tastes really good. BTW: I’ve been drinking Gatorade (and water) at 2 out of 3 mile markers to replenish much needed carbs & electrolytes. I’m starting to subconsciously tune out the crowds, because I’m growing tired and need to focus.

AT MILE 23, I hit the wall going up a long hill, but not before spotting a couple of fellow runners who stand apart from the crowd. One is a woman running on two artificial legs. How inspiring. The other is a young man wearing one of those obscene Borat bathing suits which includes a G-string in the back and a low-cut front. Did he lose a bet? Has a frat brother dared him to do this? Or does he just like attention? Whatever the case, I tell him to expect chafing as I pass.  He looks annoyed. I’m sure he’s heard that several hundred times already today.

I stop to say “Hi” to my husband, Vahe, and tell him how horrible I feel. He’s duly saddened by this news. Then I trudge on walking and running, though still mostly running. We’ve entered Central Park and the crowds on the side are thick and lively. I can’t enjoy them. I’m too exhausted.

At Mile 24.5, I get a burst of energy running down a hill and pass a lot of people. It doesn’t last long. In fact, I look around and realize I’m the only person walking between Mile 26 and the finish line. What a goober. I finally pull myself together and run as fast as I can across the finish line. My time: 4 hours 27 minutes. About 7 minutes later than I’d hoped.

THE FINISH LINE of a marathon is always interesting. For one thing, it’s very very quiet. No one has energy to talk. I feel about as bad as I have at the end of any marathon and can’t wait to get food and fluids. But it takes several minutes to get to that point because everyone is moving so slowly. All the runners around me are wearing mylar blankets to stay warm, but I’m so hot that I can’t wear mine for several minutes. My legs and lower back ache fiercely, I’m slightly nauseated and light-headed and wish I could sit. A young woman behind me keeps moaning. I look back at her and she doesn’t seem to be in anymore distress than anyone else, but she keeps moaning. I wish she’d stop. It’s annoying.

I look to my left and see medics loading a Hispanic man into a cart. He doesn’t look so good. I learn later that a Brazilian runner who finished 15 minutes before me died of a heart attack after the race. (Not sure if that was him, but worry that it was. How sad.)

When the crowds finally break up, a British ultra marathoner who was on my bus to Staten Island earlier that morning approaches and asks how my run was. I tell him good. He says his was good too. (Of course it was. 26.2 miles is a training run for him). I’m touched that he remembers me from earlier. I smile and hobble off to find Vahe.

POST-RACE, Vahe has a cab waiting for me at 77th Street and Columbus Ave. For those of you who don’t know of my husband, he’s a sportswriter here. And he’s one of the most thoughtful people people you’d ever want to meet. Seriously.

I’ve gulped down a 20-ounce bottle of Gatorade and eaten an apple and am feeling noticably better by the time I reach him. Brooke, I find out, finished less than 2 minutes before me. I’ll see her later that evening and we get our picture taken together with our medals. Vahe and I go back to his parents’ apartment on West 57th Street, where I pop three Ibuprofen, stretch and take a shower. I notice that I have one small blister on my left foot an no chafing — a marathon first. Thank you, Vaseline!

Within an hour, I feel pretty good and we head to Moonrock Diner across 57th Street, where I chow down on French toast and sausage. Vahe sees a guy wearing a medal and thinks it might be one of the winners. I point out that we ALL got medals.

How do I feel about all this? Well, one of the hardest things I had to learn about running marathons was to relax, have fun and not worry so much about how quickly I finish them. The first two I ran (Chicago in ‘99 and NYC in ‘01) I was so obsessed with time, that I didn’t have a good time — neither figuratively nor literally.

And so it is that I finished the New York City Marathon on Sunday slower than I’d hoped for. I placed 19,802 out of 37,899 finishers, 903 out of 2,226 women in age group 40-45, and 4,717 out of 12,817 total women. It was neither my best nor worst performance, but In the end, I had A BLAST and am already thinking about which marathon to do next year. And that’s that.

Following are my split times.