Ward on the Street: Surviving the Nike+ Human Race
"I'll top your Judas Priest with a 'Jesus Walks.' Kanye in the hiznouse!"
I am in a text war with my sister, who is headbanging her way through a metal concert 400 miles away. She surrenders: "You smoked me with Kanye."
I've just run 6.2 miles at Nike+ Human Race, along with over 12,000 sweat-soaked Angelenos who've gathered near USC to hyperventilate through the urban race course, which ends with a Kanye West concert. It is my first ever organized race, and my brain is keeping a running list of observations to distract me from my fear—and later, from my aching lungs.
7:46 p.m.: I never wear sneakers around this many people. I feel like an 11-year old boy or a hockey mom who has given up on fashion.
(Note: not my legs.)
8:04 p.m.: The lawn in front of the L.A. Coliseum is a sea of identical red shirts. Glow sticks are prevalent.
8:06 p.m.: Oh hey, there's Tiffany Amber Theissen.
8:31 p.m.: The race is seconds away from starting. The energy of 12,000 nervous people is electrifying, as is the presence of Randy "Dawg" Jackson, currently pumping up the crowd with affirmations. Instead of a gun blast to mark the start, an air horn goes off, and it occurs to me that in L.A., it might be difficult to discern between ambient neighborhood gunshots and athletic-related ones. Good call, Nike.
8:33 p.m.: We're running. There are so many people that it starts off like the slow shuffle one might encounter at the mall on Christmas Eve.
8:45 p.m: Along the course, they've set up Hawaiian dancers, taiko drummers, and French can-can girls to represent the millions of participants across 25 cities who are running simultaneously for this event. Distracted, I smash my face into the back of a very sweaty man with a fanny pack.
9:02 p.m.: At the midway point, in front of modest South Los Angeles houses, families have set up lawn chairs on the sidewalk to cheer us on. I wish they would come to the gym with me sometime, because it's really quite motivating.
9:21 p.m.: At mile 5, I'm starting to tire, but manage to keep pace with a man in wheelchair, who's pumping his arms to keep his wheels spinning at a speedy clip. I'm trying not to be sappy, but it's unspeakably moving.
9:43 p.m.: At the final mile, the finish line glows in the distance. I keep running, hoping that medical attention will not be necessary.
9:50 p.m.: Finish. Lawn collapse
9:58 p.m.: My faithful comrade Georgia has accompanied me, and I find her near the finish line. She informs me that while I have been jogging for 1.5 unbroken hours, she has been in the VIP tent "eating a bunch of food! Oh and drinking 3 glasses of wine. Oh and I got a massage!"
10:46 p.m.: Kanye West is onstage rapping "One for my mama, two for real hip hop and three for Obama." The crowd is roaring in approval.
10:49 p.m.: I spot a group of runners, who have apparently adopted the Michael Phelps Philosophy of Compensatory Nutrition: they've each piled plates with thousands of calories, as though preparing for the Iron Man competition or a winter's hibernation. I want to remind them that by running 6.2 miles, we burned off less than a Happy Meal, but why ruin a stranger’s binge?
11:01 p.m.: Comrade Georgia, not presently pumped full of adrenaline, is over it. She wants to go to a bar. She also wants to beat traffic home. In the interest of showering, I agree to leave and as we walk to the parking garage, fireworks thunder in the sky.
12:45 p.m.: I return home and I eat a piece of cheesecake.
Overall, I must hand it to Nike for getting millions of people off their asses in one day. It's no easy feat, but baiting the finish line with Kanye and/or snacks is a bang up strategy.
Until next time,
Ward