BWABSBB, Part 4
The saga of my first Broad Street Run. Part 1. Part 2. Part 3.
On the course:
Mile 1 — I remind myself not to go out too quickly, and to try to maintain an eleven-minute mile pace during the first six miles. Unfortunately, I have no way to know how quickly I am actually moving until we reach the first mile marker, except for noting my rate of perceived exertion.
On my left, a tight formation of military runners in matching gold shirts is proceeding in formation, complete with call and response from their female drill sergeant. I figure that staying near them is as good a pacing mechanism as any, and it lifts my spirits to hear them chanting, “When my grandma was ninety-two / She did KP better than you.”
I hear one woman remark to her friend behind me, “What are those young guys doing all the way back here with us?”
“I dunno, maybe they’re planning to just pass people all the way through,” the friend responds.
I feel a slight burn in my thighs as we take a mild uphill in the first mile, and I try to back off a bit.
When we approach the one-mile mark, I look down at my watch. To my horror, it reads “10:21″. According to my watch, I cross in 10:28. I am officially a stupid newbie.
I immediately try to pull back on my pace, and I am puzzled by how many people are passing me. Isn’t this the 11-minute mile corral? As sad as I am to see them go, I fall back from the military formation, their chants slowly fading in the distance.
Mile 2 — As we approach Broad and Lycoming, I hear laughter rippling through the crowd of runners on the right side of the road. When I scan the scenery ahead, I discover why.
Six male runners are neatly lined up with their backs to the street, facing a parking lot wall that is grown over with greenery. This location is apparently the central switchboard when Nature calls. I see a couple of runners ahead of me turn their heads in that direction, then make a beeline straight for big green wall.
I realize that I am starting to heat up and I peel off my vest. I use a binder clip to hold it together around my waist, feeling oddly fortunate that my own sheer vanity prevented me from wearing a long-sleeved shirt.
We come up on the second mile marker just past Broad and Tioga. My watch gives me a 10:33 split for the second mile. I officially suck at pacing myself.
Mile 3 — We reach our first water station. Darting, bobbing, and weaving ensues.
The overpass for the train tracks splits the road into lanes, and under the bridge I pass someone folded in half trying to unseize his hamstring while leaning on a support pillar.
“Where is City Hall? Why can’t I see it?” someone asks behind me.
“It’s there,” the person’s running partner sagely replies.
“Do we still have that far to go?” the first runner asks mournfully.
The clouds, the misting rain, and a slight uphill grade obscure the clock tower and the statue of William Penn from view for several more minutes.
I clock a 10:49 split for the third mile. I don’t think I’m getting better at pacing myself, and I wonder if I’m just starting to fatigue, even though I feel relatively strong.
Mile 4 — We pass Temple University, where clutches of surprisingly bright-eyed students cheer us on. Yikes, I never looked that alert so early in the morning when I was in school. (Then again, we didn’t have Red Bull in those days, either.)
One kid sitting on the stoop of a brownstone rings a giant cowbell.
“More cowbell!” I yell at him. Other people behind me take up the call. “More cowbell!”
“More cowbell!” the kid cries back, vigorously shaking the bell.
Another young man holds up a sign that causes people to cheer when they see it: “No rain, no gain!”
By the end of the fourth mile, City Hall is clearly in sight. I fix my gaze on the Divine Lorraine Hotel up ahead to my left. My split time is 10:55, and I have finally thrown it back into the proper gear.
Mile 5 — Before I know it, I am chugging past the stately, careworn Divine Lorraine, whose intricate interior was stripped out several years ago in anticipation of a condominium conversion that never took hold.
I cover the mile in 10:47. I’m excited to be approaching my own neighborhood in the city.
Miles 6 and 7 — The crowds of spectators are starting to thicken, and a group of young women are blowing enormous bubbles and waving goofy fairy wands while standing atop a road median.
Check out the military formation passing through at 1:08…
I’m in there too, somewhere…
We pass Roman Catholic high school, where a small marching band is playing on the front steps. Then it’s up and over the Vine Street Expressway. We have had the entire width of Broad Street open to us from the beginning of the run, but as we approach the Masonic Temple, we are all guided into the southbound side of the street. The pace slows briefly as runners merge together.
I gradually move towards the far right side of the street in anticipation of seeing Governor Ed Rendell in front of the Bellevue-Stratford. The crowd of runners bunches up again as we approach South Broad, and I barely make it between the curb and some wide-elbowed people coming around the bend at the corner of the Ritz-Carlton.
I am so happy to be trotting through the heart of Center City that I completely miss the time clock for Mile 6.
When I approach the Bellevue-Stratford, I don’t see any sign of the Big Kahuna. In frustration, I literally shout (to no one in particular), “Hey, where’s Ed?”
But then I see him. He’s a little hard to spot because he’s wearing a coffee-colored velour track suit. I run up and give him a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “That’s for Arlen Specter,” I tell him. Gladhanding is no easy job; Ed smells like he’s been exerting himself far more than I have this morning. I potch his tuchus on the way out, adding “And that’s for the casinos!”
In what seems like no time we’re done with the seventh mile. I am at 21:44 for Miles 6 and 7 combined. I haven’t take in any energy gel or Gatorade yet, and I feel my stamina beginning to flag.
Mile 8 — I tear into a packet of gel as soon as the mile starts, and begin slowly taking it down, mouthful by mouthful.
I find myself working harder and harder to try to keep my stride tempo in place. I am starting to count the number of minutes to the finish. “Save it, save it, you still have twenty-seven minutes to go,” I remind myself.
The watch is proving to be a godsend, with my lap times helping me to determine how far I am between mile markers. I wonder whether there is still any chance for me to finish with a clock time of less than two hours. When I realize that I would have to complete roughly two-and-a-half miles in the next twenty minutes, I resign myself to being saddled with yet another bloated finish time.
I pass by Broad and Snyder and I am sorely tempted to make a detour to the Melrose Diner, even if they don’t have chocolate pudding.
My watch gives me 10:55 for the eighth mile. I am definitely starting to run on fumes.
Mile 9 – I’m waiting for the energy gel to kick in, but it doesn’t seem to be happening yet.
A college-age woman next to me turns to her friend and says, “I wonder if I’m going to make it.”
“Don’t worry,” I assure her. “You’re already eight miles in, so you’ve got it.” She considers this, then smiles.
I know that I’ll also finish on my feet, but the rain has really started to come down steadily at this point. I notice an increasing number of people taking walk breaks.
I try to concentrate on my cadence, but there is a woman nearby nailing each stride with the clomp of a Percheron. She is wearing headphones, so she can’t hear her own thunder. (On the upside, her gait is extremely rhythmic.)
I wind up with a 10:58 for the penultimate mile. Will I have anything left for the Navy Yard at the end?
Mile 10 — The sides of the road are thick with cheering spectators. I don’t dare let up for fear that I won’t make my “reach” goal: 108 minutes on the chip, which would be averaging the same pace throughout a 10-miler as I did in the 10K I ran a month earlier.
I know that I’m close to my target time, but I’m not sure exactly how close, given the late start. At this point, my brain is totally incapable of doing any math. (Running the numbers? Hah! Numbing the runners is more like it.)
Much to my surprise, I see the same group of military runners from Mile 1 up ahead, still moving in formation. I slowly make a move towards them, but my legs are toast and I can only close the gap a few inches at a time.
Someone with a megaphone warns us about what I learned very early from talking to race veterans: The finish line is not at the gate to the Navy Yard. You have to keep moving for another quarter mile.
As soon as I pass through the Navy Yard gates, I begin working my way around a number of people, but I don’t have an entire quarter mile left in my legs at that pace and I drop back slightly again. I cross the line just a few seconds behind the military formation.
The clock reads 2:08:11.
I forget to record my final split until I am well past the finish line.
Next: Part 5 — Afterwards
