Running to Daylight

Imagine you are standing outside but you are boxed in, as you might be in a corral. As these things go, a small corral. Sharing the corral with you are 4,000 people who are so close to you you can not only read the labels on the insides of their shirts, but you can identify the space between their neck hairs. Any other place or time, you would likely become the target of a protective order. And, then, you are asked to run. The legs start, the adrenalin starts pumping, but there is absolutely nowhere to go.

This was pretty much the scene last Saturday morning at the beginning of the Cooper River 10K Bridge Run, an annual event of some celebrity here in Charleston. The overt task: run 6.2 miles through the streets of Mt. Pleasant, up the graceful span of the Ravenel Bridge, and then down the mean streets of Charleston to the edge of the historic district. The less advertised task: to keep from getting trampled from behind by a tidal wave of hyper motivated runners, and to pretend you are doing a nifty bit of broken field running as you dodge slower moving humans as if they are enemy linebackers. There were about 40,000 of us that day, mostly runners, but also a fair number of walkers. Some are with strollers, mini-baby racers getting their first taste of competition. Others are in costumes, as outlandish as you can get while still permitting the legs to run, as they must. One guy had his dog with him.

There are 12 “waves” or corrals, as I prefer to call them, that are set in motion, each at 3 minute intervals, as they ever so smartly unleash groups of only 4,000 at a time until the approximate crowd of 40,000 are set free upon the local streets. My wave is about mid-way to the rear, somewhat ahead of the tortoises and zombies who bring up the rear of the field. Notwithstanding the sea of humanity I stare at ahead of me (and, no doubt, the nearly countless thousands staring at me from behind), the energy and excitement is universally shared as the countdown for each group is loudly announced. Temps are in the low 50s and the sun is just clearing the tops of the surrounding buildings. Perfect.

As many others do, I put on my earpieces and get the juices flowing even stronger as the running tunes I had selected fill my head with totally extravagant and unwarranted confidence. Funny thing about listening to music as you run. Naturally, you are very aware of the masses around you, but in a strange way the music turns you inward. You are alone with your thoughts. Only the occasional jostle from another runner, or the sudden swerve you need to navigate to avoid a collision brings you back outside. It’s such an odd sensation to have such a solitary, personal experience amid the teeming hordes at your elbows and shins.

And, then, the bridge looms in front of you. It is as intimidating as it is gorgeous. As I looked up the graceful upward span absolutely choked with runners, it is as if the whole world is running as fast as it can to get to see who can get to the gates of heaven first. The span is steep. It is more than a mile, seemingly straight up, to the top of the arch. Only the fittest (or most foolish) try to maintain their normal pace as they strive for that golden moment when you reach the top and know the rest of the course is downhill and then blessedly flat. The calves start to burn, the lungs too. Movements become more labored, more mechanical. Many folks who got off to jackrabbit starts move to the sides of the course, hands on hips, chests heaving. Sisyphus -- I feel your pain, baby. I had thought I would pause at the top, take in the view; smell the roses, so to speak. But, I didn’t. I think I was so elated to make it to this point that stopping was like an insult to my effort. And, senselessly, I figured this was the perfect moment to leapfrog a lot of competitors. Yeah, right. As if this would land me among the first several thousand finishers!

The rest of the way was a blur. Almost anti-climatic. Until the end. With crowds bunched along the sidewalks, yelling their support, whatever reservoir of adrenalin there was kicked in for many as the streets of Charleston slid away under our feet, and the promise of a finish line became a quickly approaching reality. As I’m sure many folks who enter these events will tell you, there is no way you don’t sprint to the finish line once it comes in to view, like some sort of oasis in the desert. You’ve worked too hard to get here and the joy is all the fuel you need.

How did I do? Only some 12,000 or so finished ahead of me. Never had 12,000th place felt so good. Thank goodness for the tortoises and zombies.