Runners,
Last year, after the Empire State 
Building Run Up, I was perusing the New York Road Runners photos of the event, with no desire to participate myself. What I saw changed my mind. Marathon winners typically look only a bit worse for wear when crossing the tape. They raise their arms, they kiss the ground, they get their flag, boom, instant rejuvenation. The winner of the ESBRU was doubled over, in deep anguish. The second place runner was on all fours, dry-heaving. The third-place finisher as well. I thought to myself, ‘I want to hurt like that. I need to run up this building.’
Fast forward to late 2011. NYRR doubles the race fee for the ESBRU to $100. My hopes of plumbing the depths of my sole are dashed by this cruel twist. But then, I feel strangely liberated. I can register, get rejected in the lottery for spots, and then whine about how badly I wanted to do the race, without actually having to put myself through physical and spiritual torture. I decide I really don’t care whether I am chosen.
It’s easy to guess what happens next. Charlie Brown, unluckiest kid in the universe, actually wins something, the opportunity to pay $100 and run up 87 flights of stairs.
I begin a strict training regimen in preparation for the race. This consists of calling a friend who lives on the 31st floor of his building, only for him to flake off and cancel my appointment with the stairs. I interval train on my bicycle–2 minutes hard to Peter Pan Doughnuts, 4 minutes recovery back to my house. With two weeks to go, I’m getting pretty nervous. Mike G.’s post on our Google Group rattles around in my brain, “It is its own special form of hell. Running fitness is absolutely no help.” I finagle my way into the Greenpoint Y and log exactly one 30 minute session on the stairmaster.
With days and then hours to go before the race, I become increasingly nervous. I have never done anything like this, and with my new compassionate approach to physical uptake, the whole thing starts to seem like a worse and worse idea. I don’t want to get hurt. I don’t want to get dizzy. I like my knees. Without exception, everyone I know thinks its a bad idea to do it.
The day of the race, I fuel with chili macaroni and cheese left over from the SuperBowl. This seems logical. I nap. I am determined that even if my body isn’t ready, my mind will be free, calm, relaxed. In fact, I nap so long that I need to hurry over to Midtown, pink NBR shirt in tow. As soon as I arrive I unzip my jacket and make sure everyone sees the pink NBR shirt. As soon as I do, I’m hit with that feeling, that while I’m running the race, I’m representing something bigger than myself. I have to show New York how NBR does business.
Daeha finds me in the glut of runners, amid the din of the NYRR host’s incessant microphone announcements. I miss Peter Ciacia. Daeha is like, the perfect teammate to have around when you have no idea what you are getting yourself in to. He projects this very zen-matter-of-factness. As they line up runners by bib number, I sneak in with Daeha, though my number is much higher than his. The herders are surprisingly militant about these bib numbers, and I have to do some sweet talking at multiple points to pass through checkpoints, as we make our way through the Art Deco halls towards the start. Luckily, sweet talking is my specialty. Really, it all happens so fast that I’m barely thinking about what I’m about to do.
Racers are started at five second intervals, and Daeha and I are perhaps 20 runners away. I bend my arms and legs to open them as best I can, I bounce. Whatever. I decide that I won’t be afraid to quit if I start feeling bad pain (as opposed to good pain).
Daeha enters the void and I’m standing on the start line, poised for my cue. It’s go! I run the fifteen steps to the stairwell and up! The whole hallway is gray and narrow. The stairs are just less than two people wide. I find Daeha in about a minute, and we are both bottlenecked by a few people in front of us. Immediately, I’m pouring sweat like it’s August and we’re training for the NYC marathon. I don’t see marking on the flights, so I have no idea how far I’ve gone. I have no idea how to pace for this, but forget it, let’s try passing some people and if I have to watch them power past me in the later stages, I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. I drop Daeha, the girl in front of him, some ass wearing headphones during the MOST DANGEROUS RACE POSSIBLE, ten more people after that. I accelerate past people, either turning my body sideways, or, if they are considerate, murmuring thanks as they let me go.
The post race food was pretty good-- in the lobby eating a chicken wrap from ESB catering.
I’m taking the stairs two at a time, and really, trying not to think about it too much. Just trusting my footing, pulling on the handrails, sweating and hacking up my lungs. I finally see the floor number, and its like, 35. A wave of relief crashes over me when I realize that I’m going to make it. I won’t have to quit. I hook up with a girl who’s passing a lot too, pacing really well, for maybe 20 flights. Finally, I sense her weaken and pass her, telling her to follow me and I will pull for a while. I look back a flight or two later and she’s not there.
Floor 60 now, and this is starting to suck. I will my quads to take the stairs two at a time, and they say, “Charlie, we got you, just keep going.” Thanks, chair pose. Like a marathon, when it comes time to “Go”, my will to accelerate is gone, so I just keep climbing steadily, past the 80th floor, knowing that I will make it.
I pop out onto the observation deck and am able to run across the line, even passing a couple of people in the process. I see Karen handing out medals before she sees me, and I run straight for her with a big smile, letting her put a medal on me before I get her with a sweaty bear hug. Ken and Mary, volunteering with her, get the same treatment.
I hang around waiting for Daeha to finish. For those five minutes, it feels as if a hammer is pressing into my heart. My legs feel okay. Daeha arrives and we take the elevator back down from whence we came. All the runners are hacking and coughing, us included.
I collect my things and head with Laura to a Korean Fried Chicken joint next door, wearing my medal over my clothes. Except, there are like four people in this place and none of them are runners. Okay, I look like a total weirdo. Nevermind.
I accidentally eat a hot pepper that is more painful than running up the Empire State Building. The pain probably also lasts longer than the 15:58 it took to climb it, good for 73rd place out of around 1000 other idiots like me.
With Love,
Charlie
Leave a Comment so far
Leave a comment
