BROAD STREET RUN
I participated in my first ever Broad Street Run this morning. It’s the 25th year Philadelphia has hosted this ten-miler, which has become the second largest race of its kind in the country. This year, 12,000+ runners competed! What a spectacle. Some highlights from my morning:
6:00am. I groggily roll out of bed and my legs still feel sore. When you run regularly, they never really do feel good, do they? And yet I was hoping a good night sleep and a pasta dinner would put some spring back into them. No such luck.
7:00am. Having packed all my stuff the night before, I head out of the door and slowly make the ten-minute walk to the subway station. Halfway there, I realize I had thought about packing a towel but never actually did it. Drat! And it’s supposed to be humid today. I’ll just have to live with my own sweat for the whole morning. So will everyone else around me. I haven’t showered, shaved, or even put on deodorant, because I figure, why mess with my usual pre-run routine?
7:30am. I make the transfer from the Market-Frankford Line to the Broad Street Line at City Hall, but three straight Express trains zip by me and several other runners without stopping. They’re all full of runners, who drove their cars to the finish line and are getting a ride to the start line. Finally, a very full Local train stops, and all of us disgruntled runners mash our way onto it. Being a Local train, it makes all eight or nine stops. I think I’m getting queasy from all the body odor, lurching, and this one tall guy who’s cracking a bunch of jokes that are getting less and less funny.
8:10am. Finally, we arrive at the start line. I have to pee, change, drop off my bag, run a little, and stretch. Since there’s a line for everything, I quickly realize I won’t have time to do everything. But I know I have to pee. The lines are so darn long, though. I notice a bunch of guys urinating against the wall over on the side and decide to join them. “No line here,” I crack to the guy next to me. He doesn’t say anything.
8:25am. Five minutes to start. I hurriedly stretch, worried that my muscles won’t respond to stretching cold. I worm my way to the “8 minutes per mile” section, only to hear the announcer say there’s a fire truck a couple miles ahead, so they’ll have to delay the start. I take the opportunity to sprint off for a minute or so, sprint back, and then re-stretch. I know: I’m a freak.
8:45am. And they’re off! I’m shooting for 80-82 minutes (i.e. a little over 8 minutes per mile), and I know I’ll be tempted to go out too fast. So I try to keep it cool. But being a loner runner, I’m just not used to running with so many people, and the adrenalin starts to kick in. I hit the first mile marker at 7:53. It’s a tad too fast for my liking, but then I decide, let’s see how long we can hit 8-minute miles. For the people I pass, I wonder why they decided to line up ahead of me; obviously they should’ve been in a lower “minutes per mile” section. And for the people passing me, I tell myself that I’ll be passing them eventually. (Of course, 5-6 miles from now, I’ll be thinking the opposite: as I drop back and people pass me, I wonder if people are thinking I went out too fast in the beginning, and as I pass people, I wonder if I’m going to be passed by them in just a few miles.)
9:01am. I hit the second mile marker at 15:55. Awesome: almost exactly eight minutes for mile number two. City Hall, the halfway point of the race, still seems impossible far away. How long will I be able to sustain this pace?
9:09am. My next three miles are at 8:03, 8:00, and 8:01. I hit the halfway point of the race at 39:59. But as we bend around City Hall and get back onto Broad Street, I realize how helpful of a psychological marker William Penn at the top of City Hall had been for me. There is no equivalent marker to tell me how far off the finish line is. And my legs are really starting to hurt. I’ve run ten miles before, and I’ve run at this pace before, but I’ve never run ten miles at this pace before. It’s around this point in the mileage that I’m starting to head into unchartered territory for me.
9:33am. My next three miles are at 8:05, 8:05, and 8:10. I hit the eight-mile mark at 64:19. I’ve decided during this stretch that I’ll give myself a 30-second cushion above the 8-minute mile pace, and make it back up by sprinting the last half-mile at 7-minute mile pace, which is my usual length and speed for intervals (half-miles at 3:30). That’s my strategy for hitting 80 minutes even. Of course, I’ve also decided during this stretch that my legs are really killing me.
9:50am. These last two miles are painful. I can’t keep a grimace off my face, no matter how many water cups I douse myself with or how many cheerful spectators offer their support. I hit the nine-mile mark at 72:29; another 8:10 mile. At this point, I’ll have to turn up the speed a notch AND sprint the last half-mile at 7-minute pace to get under 80 minutes. Sounds good in my head, but my lungs and legs have overruled: the goal at this point is just to finish.
10:00am. I’ve decided that I will make one final sprint, but only once I’ve seen the finish line; not before. I see what I thought was the finish line banner, and kick it into another gear. I hear a bunch of “attaboys!” and “nice kick!” that keep me going. But when I get closer to the banner, I realize it isn’t the finish line. Even worse, while I know I’m in the last half-mile, I can’t pick up the finish line in my line of sight. And if I can’t see it, I’m not sprinting.
10:05am. Finally, I see the finish line, and my brain sends a signal to each leg to pick it up. They grudgingly obey. I cross the finish line, hit “stop” on my watch, and look down: 80:31. I closed with a 8:02 mile, just about as fast as I could’ve willed my body.
10:06am. I try to keep speed through the chute, but when I get to a clearing and notice signs for turning in the plastic chip on my shoe that has electronically recorded my time, I decide first to pull off to the side for my usual post-run stretch. It is at that point that I lose all of the adrenalin that had kept me going for those last two or three miles, and my body is left to feel all of the aches and pains that the adrenalin had blocked out. I immediately feel a sharp throbbing in my left knee, left ankle, and left second toe. I go through the motions of stretching, but really I’m just trying to keep from blacking out from fatigue and exhaustion. There’s no post-run runner’s high this time, just a big sigh of relief from every part of my body: “thank God we don’t have to go any further.”
10:15am. I finally get back into the flow of people, and we are spit out in the runner refreshment area. One volunteer yells out, “Water!” Another: “Gatorade!” Still another: “Yogurt!” I think I’m in heaven. I grab a bag of goodies, and one of everything free, and start chomping on an energy bar.
10:45am. The area where you can pick up your bag which you dropped off at the start line is ridiculously far away, but as I limp towards it, I convince myself that my body will be thankful for the cool-down. After I pick up my bag, I make my way back to the field where all the action is, and plop myself down for another stretching session. Realizing that the more I stretch now, the less I’ll hurt tomorrow, I stretch, on and off, for a good thirty minutes.
11:15am. By now, I’m not really stretching as much as trying to summon up the energy to make the long hike back to the subway station. I hear a rumor of some shuttle bus, but after getting sent from one place to another and seeing the pile-up of cars not moving, I decide that more post-run walking is what I’ll be doing.
11:45am. There are quite a few of us who have said no to the shuttle bus and who are limping slowly across the interstate to the stadium complex where we can pick up the subway. One fellow runner asks me, “How do the legs feel?” Wearily, I reply: “I don’t know: I can’t feel them. Ask me tomorrow.” As we wait for the train to arrive, I quickly go through yet another stretching session, since I feel like I’ve walked another two or three miles since I reached the finish line of the race, and since my legs are already starting to feel tight. I think to myself, I am going to be in some pain tomorrow.
I can’t wait for next year’s race.
I participated in my first ever Broad Street Run this morning. It’s the 25th year Philadelphia has hosted this ten-miler, which has become the second largest race of its kind in the country. This year, 12,000+ runners competed! What a spectacle. Some highlights from my morning:
6:00am. I groggily roll out of bed and my legs still feel sore. When you run regularly, they never really do feel good, do they? And yet I was hoping a good night sleep and a pasta dinner would put some spring back into them. No such luck.
7:00am. Having packed all my stuff the night before, I head out of the door and slowly make the ten-minute walk to the subway station. Halfway there, I realize I had thought about packing a towel but never actually did it. Drat! And it’s supposed to be humid today. I’ll just have to live with my own sweat for the whole morning. So will everyone else around me. I haven’t showered, shaved, or even put on deodorant, because I figure, why mess with my usual pre-run routine?
7:30am. I make the transfer from the Market-Frankford Line to the Broad Street Line at City Hall, but three straight Express trains zip by me and several other runners without stopping. They’re all full of runners, who drove their cars to the finish line and are getting a ride to the start line. Finally, a very full Local train stops, and all of us disgruntled runners mash our way onto it. Being a Local train, it makes all eight or nine stops. I think I’m getting queasy from all the body odor, lurching, and this one tall guy who’s cracking a bunch of jokes that are getting less and less funny.
8:10am. Finally, we arrive at the start line. I have to pee, change, drop off my bag, run a little, and stretch. Since there’s a line for everything, I quickly realize I won’t have time to do everything. But I know I have to pee. The lines are so darn long, though. I notice a bunch of guys urinating against the wall over on the side and decide to join them. “No line here,” I crack to the guy next to me. He doesn’t say anything.
8:25am. Five minutes to start. I hurriedly stretch, worried that my muscles won’t respond to stretching cold. I worm my way to the “8 minutes per mile” section, only to hear the announcer say there’s a fire truck a couple miles ahead, so they’ll have to delay the start. I take the opportunity to sprint off for a minute or so, sprint back, and then re-stretch. I know: I’m a freak.
8:45am. And they’re off! I’m shooting for 80-82 minutes (i.e. a little over 8 minutes per mile), and I know I’ll be tempted to go out too fast. So I try to keep it cool. But being a loner runner, I’m just not used to running with so many people, and the adrenalin starts to kick in. I hit the first mile marker at 7:53. It’s a tad too fast for my liking, but then I decide, let’s see how long we can hit 8-minute miles. For the people I pass, I wonder why they decided to line up ahead of me; obviously they should’ve been in a lower “minutes per mile” section. And for the people passing me, I tell myself that I’ll be passing them eventually. (Of course, 5-6 miles from now, I’ll be thinking the opposite: as I drop back and people pass me, I wonder if people are thinking I went out too fast in the beginning, and as I pass people, I wonder if I’m going to be passed by them in just a few miles.)
9:01am. I hit the second mile marker at 15:55. Awesome: almost exactly eight minutes for mile number two. City Hall, the halfway point of the race, still seems impossible far away. How long will I be able to sustain this pace?
9:09am. My next three miles are at 8:03, 8:00, and 8:01. I hit the halfway point of the race at 39:59. But as we bend around City Hall and get back onto Broad Street, I realize how helpful of a psychological marker William Penn at the top of City Hall had been for me. There is no equivalent marker to tell me how far off the finish line is. And my legs are really starting to hurt. I’ve run ten miles before, and I’ve run at this pace before, but I’ve never run ten miles at this pace before. It’s around this point in the mileage that I’m starting to head into unchartered territory for me.
9:33am. My next three miles are at 8:05, 8:05, and 8:10. I hit the eight-mile mark at 64:19. I’ve decided during this stretch that I’ll give myself a 30-second cushion above the 8-minute mile pace, and make it back up by sprinting the last half-mile at 7-minute mile pace, which is my usual length and speed for intervals (half-miles at 3:30). That’s my strategy for hitting 80 minutes even. Of course, I’ve also decided during this stretch that my legs are really killing me.
9:50am. These last two miles are painful. I can’t keep a grimace off my face, no matter how many water cups I douse myself with or how many cheerful spectators offer their support. I hit the nine-mile mark at 72:29; another 8:10 mile. At this point, I’ll have to turn up the speed a notch AND sprint the last half-mile at 7-minute pace to get under 80 minutes. Sounds good in my head, but my lungs and legs have overruled: the goal at this point is just to finish.
10:00am. I’ve decided that I will make one final sprint, but only once I’ve seen the finish line; not before. I see what I thought was the finish line banner, and kick it into another gear. I hear a bunch of “attaboys!” and “nice kick!” that keep me going. But when I get closer to the banner, I realize it isn’t the finish line. Even worse, while I know I’m in the last half-mile, I can’t pick up the finish line in my line of sight. And if I can’t see it, I’m not sprinting.
10:05am. Finally, I see the finish line, and my brain sends a signal to each leg to pick it up. They grudgingly obey. I cross the finish line, hit “stop” on my watch, and look down: 80:31. I closed with a 8:02 mile, just about as fast as I could’ve willed my body.
10:06am. I try to keep speed through the chute, but when I get to a clearing and notice signs for turning in the plastic chip on my shoe that has electronically recorded my time, I decide first to pull off to the side for my usual post-run stretch. It is at that point that I lose all of the adrenalin that had kept me going for those last two or three miles, and my body is left to feel all of the aches and pains that the adrenalin had blocked out. I immediately feel a sharp throbbing in my left knee, left ankle, and left second toe. I go through the motions of stretching, but really I’m just trying to keep from blacking out from fatigue and exhaustion. There’s no post-run runner’s high this time, just a big sigh of relief from every part of my body: “thank God we don’t have to go any further.”
10:15am. I finally get back into the flow of people, and we are spit out in the runner refreshment area. One volunteer yells out, “Water!” Another: “Gatorade!” Still another: “Yogurt!” I think I’m in heaven. I grab a bag of goodies, and one of everything free, and start chomping on an energy bar.
10:45am. The area where you can pick up your bag which you dropped off at the start line is ridiculously far away, but as I limp towards it, I convince myself that my body will be thankful for the cool-down. After I pick up my bag, I make my way back to the field where all the action is, and plop myself down for another stretching session. Realizing that the more I stretch now, the less I’ll hurt tomorrow, I stretch, on and off, for a good thirty minutes.
11:15am. By now, I’m not really stretching as much as trying to summon up the energy to make the long hike back to the subway station. I hear a rumor of some shuttle bus, but after getting sent from one place to another and seeing the pile-up of cars not moving, I decide that more post-run walking is what I’ll be doing.
11:45am. There are quite a few of us who have said no to the shuttle bus and who are limping slowly across the interstate to the stadium complex where we can pick up the subway. One fellow runner asks me, “How do the legs feel?” Wearily, I reply: “I don’t know: I can’t feel them. Ask me tomorrow.” As we wait for the train to arrive, I quickly go through yet another stretching session, since I feel like I’ve walked another two or three miles since I reached the finish line of the race, and since my legs are already starting to feel tight. I think to myself, I am going to be in some pain tomorrow.
I can’t wait for next year’s race.
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