BWABSBB, Part 3
In the start area: I arrive at the starting area early enough that the plastic corral separators have not yet been raised. The stretch of Broad Street behind the starting gate is still largely empty, with people congregating on the nearby grass and sidewalks. I pace around, trying to stay warm.
I am trying to gauge the timing of two important activities: turning over my gear bag and using the portable toilets. If I do either one too soon, I will end up chilly and uncomfortable. If I wait too long, I will miss the race start. I opt for earlier rather than later.
“We guys always have the last-minute option of just hiding around a corner somewhere,” says an affable man standing in line behind me as we chat about the niceties of timing the necessities.
“Well, that’s where you have the advantage,” I reply. “Not so easy for us females!”
“No way, I am soooo shameless,” interjects a perky, teenaged girl standing in front of me. “I just get out there and drop my pants and go!” You gotta love Title IX.
Once inside, the portable toilet is immaculate — and still has paper. I am stunned, and mildly triumphant. I think this qualifies as some sort of personal best. Hooray for little victories!
After returning outside and walking around for several more minutes, I begin to head towards my corral area, and walk right into one of my colleagues from work. She an her husband are both wearing garbage bags. We laugh together over the odds of seeing anyone familiar in a crowd of twenty-six thousand people, and wish each other good luck.
When I finally walk towards the school buses that will transport our gear bags to the finish line, I discover that the each bus corresponds to a sequence of bib numbers. The buses are nowhere near the matching corrals for the bib numbers, and I need to walk to the end of another corral area to locate my bus. I am having better luck than another runner, whose bib color reveals that he can sustain a rapid sub-7 mile pace. His bus is more than a quarter mile away from where we are standing as he tries to hand over his gear.
After finally peeling off my extra layers of clothing and dropping off my bag, I make my way into the Green corral. As I begin chatting with some of the people standing near me, I learn that the woman on my left who looks to be in her late forties is actually 59 years old, and the man on my right is one of the lead volunteers for this year’s Philly Livestrong Challenge.
I tell them both that they should be on the lookout for Team Fat Cyclist, and then he says the magic words: “How does someone like you belong on a team called that?” Egads, two victories already in one morning!
We hear some sort of roar going up from the crowd near the starting gate, which is several hundred yards away. A glance at my watch reveals that it is 8:30, and we guess that the starting gun has just gone off. I begin running the timer on my watch to measure how far my own start lags behind the official start time.
The rain, which has held off at the start area for most of the morning, now begins to drizzle softly. We continue to chat and wait, and I mention that most people who finished in around two hours last year had an 8-10 minute gap between their clock time (on the board at the finish line) and their chip time (measured by the timing device on their shoes).
The woman then shows off her Running Funky tights, which are a fantastic riot of color in a Pucci-style pattern. She jokes with the man about eating wheat germ — and being old enough to remember when wheat germ first arrived on the nutrition scene. I make a note to myself that I should eat more wheat germ.
More time passes. I eat some electrolyte strips. The man tells us that his son is also running today, and hopes to finish in just under an hour. I look down at my watch. Over fifteen minutes have elapsed since the race officially began. I pull out my course map.
“I think your son is at Allegheny Avenue right now,” I tell the man.
“Yeah, and the leaders are at City Hall,” he laughs.
Eventually, our entire corral is asked to move up to the starting line, since the faster corrals have already been launched onto the course. We all wish each other good luck as we finally step forward.
While someone with a bullhorn announces the start, the crowd smoothly surges ahead. I see numerous people jumping up and tapping the banner dangling from the starting gate as they pass through. Being far too short to reach the banner without a ladder, I shuffle underneath and tap my watch to start recording the first mile split, just over twenty minutes after the official starting gun.
Next: Part 4 — One foot in front of the other
