BWABSBB, Part 2
The saga of my first Broad Street Run. Part 1.
The day before the race: I go to Lincoln Financial Field pick up my race packet with my friend, The G, who will also be taking part in the Broad Street Run for the first time. The line of people waiting to enter the building stretches for over a hundred yards when we arrive, and does not move. It begins to drizzle while we are standing outside. The line nearly doubles in length while we are waiting.
A woman standing in front of us heads to the building entrance to learn why the line is not moving. When she returns, she reports that people are being sent into the building in groups of 150. We thank her for scouting out the situation, and joke that the line will be brought to a stop again just as she stands a few feet from the door.
Fortunately, when the line finally does move, we all make it indoors without incident. After picking up our race packets at one end of the exposition area, The G and I start walking clear over to the opposite end of the open hall to pick up our complimentary t-shirts. We assess the fitness level of most of the people we pass and deem every one of them faster than ourselves.
Along the way, we wind through a veritable souk of fitness gear: shoes, clothes, food, gadgets, gizmos. At this point, I am obsessed with locating some rain gear. When we leave the building, The G departs with a SPIbelt to hold his gargantuan car key, and I make off with a new tank top, some portable electrolyte strips…and a water-resistant vest. My fret level drops considerably.
Since we are already in South Philly, we make a pilgrimage to the Melrose Diner to begin fortifying ourselves with carbohydrates. At the end of our hefty meal, I see a waitress bring another customer a piece of pie covered with a voluminous tower of whipped cream. I have a sudden craving for chocolate pudding slathered in whipped cream. This is when I learn a most inconvenient truth: The Melrose Diner does not serve chocolate pudding. I am crushed.
When I arrive home, I take a brief nap, then run out and pick up some pre-race food: dried apricots (for potassium), bananas (potassium again), electrolyte-enhanced water (you get the idea), and some nut bars. I manage to eat a little more pasta, and then begin assembling my outfit for race day.
First, I follow the instructions for attaching the timing chip to my shoe. Then, I put on my clothes, and lace up my sneakers. I look in the mirror and see…the circus.
One unintentional side effect of never paying full retail for sporting goods that my running wardrobe spans a very wide gamut of colors. Generally, I manage to look okay. But when I gaze upon the mix of berry purple, neon lime green, putty, black, white, powder blue, and rust orange that adorns my body, I have to draw the line. The long-sleeved purple base layer is out, replaced by a neutral gray t-shirt with short sleeves. I no longer look like I just stepped out of a clown car.
Since I am not a morning person, I go to bed in my race clothes, sparing myself the confusion of trying to pull myself together when I am half-awake. My race bib is tucked inside my right shoe so that I don’t forget where it is. I begin lying in bed around 9pm. I fall asleep shortly before 11pm.
Race morning: I wake up around 2:30am. And stay awake. I’m simply too wired, and cannot fall back asleep. I will have to run on less than four hours of shut-eye.
Though I have planned with The G to consolidate all our gear into a single bag to simplify post-race pickup, I dig out an old gym bag that is a bright shade of spot-it-a-mile-off yellow. I figure we can use this bag, or just carry separate bags if need be. I fill out a claim tag to attach to the bag.
Around 6:20am, I get a call from The G saying that he is on his way. About 20 minutes later, I get another call from The G, who is trying to park his car at a pay lot near my house.
“You are not going to believe this,” he says with exasperation. “The credit card reader at the gate just ate my card.” Through the phone, I hear a voice jump out of a squawkbox at him. The voice says that they will send someone to help fix the gate.
“When will you be able to get here?” asks The G.
“Right away,” squawks the voice.
The G and I agree that I should just go ahead and catch the subway to the race start by myself, and that he will try to catch up with me once he gets everything settled with the parking lot people.
Having heard horror stories from other runners about being passed on the platform by fully loaded subway cars, I flag down a cab to take me to the subway station. As we draw closer and closer to the subway stop, I have to laugh. The otherwise empty sidewalks look as though they have been taken over by a subspecies of dumpster-diving zombies, with steady stream of young people covered in garbage bags converging on the subway entrances. In my hooded jacket, I feel overdressed.
I head down to the stairs to the subway platform, where a uniformed employee lets me and the Zombie Nation through an open gate. After several minutes, a train pulls into the station — completely empty! Score!
As soon as I get off the subway near the start line, I pull out my cell phone and call The G again for an update. He is still trapped at the parking lot, awaiting assistance, and unable to locate anyone who can freeze his credit card over the phone in the early hours of a Sunday morning. There is more than an hour remaining before the starting gun goes off. He says he will try to make it to the race as soon as the parking lot attendant shows up.
Next: Part 3 — On your marks, get set…
