By Christian Bergeron, Board Chair, Extreme Kids & Crew
Nearly two years ago, just after turning fifty, I found myself in a rut.
Christian Bergeron, Board Chair, Extreme Kids & Crew
I was inactive, out of shape, and if I’m being honest, probably a little depressed. Meanwhile, my wife Olivia – a lifelong runner – kept lacing up her sneakers and hitting the streets of our Bay Ridge neighborhood day after day, through every season.
One day, I decided to follow her lead. There was no grand plan, no dramatic turning point. Just one ordinary day when I said, “Why not?” And from that simple decision, something extraordinary unfolded.
Those early runs were hard.
My lungs burned, my legs protested, and my pride took a few knocks. But I kept at it, and over time the miles accumulated. I started to notice subtle shifts: a little more air in each breath, a little more strength in each stride, a quiet sense that my body was remembering how to move. I was discovering what I was capable of – at my age, no less – and it was exhilarating.
I run alone. Always have. There’s something about it that suits me: the rhythm of footfalls, the solitude, the way my mind wanders and weaves its way through thoughts. Running, for me, is meditative. There are moments on a run when everything clicks – the zone, the flow – and the world falls away.
An Unexpected Opportunity
Extreme Kids & Crew has fielded a New York City Marathon team for years, raising critical funds that sustain our programs. Each fall, I’d watch the marathoners fly past my house, part of that joyful river of runners.
Every year, I’d feel a twinge of envy…
“Wouldn’t it be incredible to be part of that?”
I’d never seriously considered running a marathon, until last summer. One of our runners had to drop out, and the organization suddenly needed a replacement. Without overthinking it (probably a good thing), I raised my hand. Just like that, in July, I was officially committed to training for my first marathon: in my adopted city, while raising funds for EKC.
Training and Transformation
The training was no joke. Twenty weeks of steadily increasing mileage, long runs that stretched into the double digits, early mornings, tired legs. The longest run – a 22 miler – came a month or so before race day, and by then, my body had changed. I’d shed twenty-five pounds. My lungs pulled in air like bellows. My legs grew strong. Slowly but surely, I was becoming a long-distance runner.
And the surprising part? I was enjoying it.
The fundraising was, in some ways, harder than the running. I’m an introvert. Asking people to part with their hard-earned money, even for a cause I deeply believe in, took courage. I approached it the way I approached training: steady and relentless.
I posted short clips and stories on social media. I reached out to friends and family, and even reconnected with old colleagues. What started as a fundraising campaign became an opportunity to connect.
People gave generously. Their support was humbling and deeply motivating.
Race Day Energy
Nearly two years ago, just after turning fifty, I found myself in a rut.
I was inactive, out of shape, and if I’m being honest, probably a little depressed. Meanwhile, my wife Olivia – a lifelong runner – kept lacing up her sneakers and hitting the streets of our Bay Ridge neighborhood day after day, through every season.
One day, I decided to follow her lead. There was no grand plan, no dramatic turning point. Just one ordinary day when I said, “Why not?” And from that simple decision, something extraordinary unfolded.
Those early runs were hard.
My lungs burned, my legs protested, and my pride took a few knocks. But I kept at it, and over time the miles accumulated. I started to notice subtle shifts: a little more air in each breath, a little more strength in each stride, a quiet sense that my body was remembering how to move. I was discovering what I was capable of – at my age, no less – and it was exhilarating.
I run alone. Always have. There’s something about it that suits me: the rhythm of footfalls, the solitude, the way my mind wanders and weaves its way through thoughts. Running, for me, is meditative. There are moments on a run when everything clicks – the zone, the flow – and the world falls away.
An Unexpected Opportunity
Extreme Kids & Crew has fielded a New York City Marathon team for years, raising critical funds that sustain our programs. Each fall, I’d watch the marathoners fly past my house, part of that joyful river of runners.
Every year, I’d feel a twinge of envy…
“Wouldn’t it be incredible to be part of that?”
I’d never seriously considered running a marathon, until last summer. One of our runners had to drop out, and the organization suddenly needed a replacement. Without overthinking it (probably a good thing), I raised my hand. Just like that, in July, I was officially committed to training for my first marathon: in my adopted city, while raising funds for EKC.
Training and Transformation
The training was no joke. Twenty weeks of steadily increasing mileage, long runs that stretched into the double digits, early mornings, tired legs. The longest run – a 22 miler – came a month or so before race day, and by then, my body had changed. I’d shed twenty-five pounds. My lungs pulled in air like bellows. My legs grew strong. Slowly but surely, I was becoming a long-distance runner.
And the surprising part? I was enjoying it.
The fundraising was, in some ways, harder than the running. I’m an introvert. Asking people to part with their hard-earned money, even for a cause I deeply believe in, took courage. I approached it the way I approached training: steady and relentless.
I posted short clips and stories on social media. I reached out to friends and family, and even reconnected with old colleagues. What started as a fundraising campaign became an opportunity to connect.
People gave generously. Their support was humbling and deeply motivating.
Race Day Energy
Christian B. running his first marathon for Team EKC
The night before the marathon, sleep was elusive. My mind buzzed with a mix of excitement and anxiety. Before dawn, I caught the Staten Island ferry, then a bus to the runners’ village at the base of the Verrazzano Bridge. It was freezing, but the sky promised a perfect day for running.
Standing in my corral among fellow runners, I felt something electric in the air. The howitzer cannon fired. Sinatra’s New York, New York blared. And then… we were off.
The start is uphill, but no one cares. We’re running over the bridge, carried by adrenaline and the collective heartbeat of the city. The real test would come later – around mile 22 where the body starts to fall apart – and when the rolling hills of Central Park make us pay for that early exuberance.
Throughout the course, the city unfurled before us. Crowds lined the streets in every borough, their cheers lifting us mile after mile. The people of New York showed up in droves, and their energy was nothing short of magical.
Hours later, I crossed the finish line in one piece, legs like jelly, face split in a grin. I had done it. I was a marathoner. Something I’d once thought was reserved for “other people” was now part of my story.
A New Chapter
Since then, I’ve kept running. Just a few weeks ago, I ran my second marathon. This time in Montreal, my hometown, surrounded by friends and family. I’m hooked, and I plan to keep running marathons for as long as my legs will let me.
One of the greatest joys has been watching the ripple effect. Our three teenage kids have signed up to run a half-marathon next year, following in their parents’ footsteps. Seeing them jump in, take risks, and push themselves to do something extraordinary fills me with pride. Running has become more than just my personal journey, it’s become something we share as a family.
But that first NYC Marathon will always hold a special place in my heart. It wasn’t just a race; it was a personal transformation, a communal celebration, and a way to give back to an organization that means so much to me.
Every Runner Has a Story
On November 2, the New York City Marathon returns. Among the tens of thousands of runners on the streets that day will be a special group: Team EKC. Each of them has trained for months. Each of them has a story, a “why” that propels them forward when the miles get tough.
I encourage you to come out and cheer for them. Ring a cowbell, hold a sign, shout their names. It matters more than you might imagine. And if you’re able, consider supporting their fundraising efforts. Every dollar they raise helps Extreme Kids & Crew create joyful, inclusive spaces for neurodivergent children and their families.
Last year, I stood at the starting line as a rookie marathoner, equal parts terrified and thrilled. This year, I’ll be on the sidelines, cheering with everything I’ve got. I hope to see many of you there, too, on the sidewalks of the greatest city on earth.