It’s not a typical race. It’s tower running.
I step up to the starting line with about a hundred other competitors. I’m about to run up the 1,575 stairs to the eighty-sixth floor of the Empire State Building in New York City.
I’m somewhat prepared but anxious about the claustrophobic stairwell, which I’ve never seen. Finally, it’s time. “Ready,” the starter announces. HONK! A loud horn sounds—and we’re off.
Running up buildings is nothing new. Building or tower running has been around since the turn of the 20th twentieth century. That is according to Michael Reichetzeder, a veteran tower runner, who runs Towerrunning, the sport’s unofficial organizing body.
When it comes to running up buildings, Reichetzeder, who resides in Vienna, is the man. According to Reichetzeder, it’s rumored that runners raced up the Eiffel Tower as early as 1905. The Empire State Building started its race in 1978. That same year, Toronto’s CN Tower began its annual race as well.
Today, Reichetzeder estimates that there are about 200 tower races a year, and he says the sport is gradually gaining acceptance in the traditional sports world. For instance, in 2010, the unofficial World Cup running event held at Torre Colpatria was recognized by the Colombian national athletic federation.
Photo courtesy The Washington Post
After the horn, we run underneath the starting line banner and make a sharp turn towards the building’s stairwell. Everything’s relatively civilized. I’m in the preliminary or the warm-up race for amateurs. In the latter heat, when the professionals enter the Empire’s tight stairwell, it’s ultra-competitive, somewhat akin to running with the bulls. As the pros jockey for position, it’s not uncommon for runners to hit the ground and be trampled on, at least partially.
After fifteen or so strides, I get to the narrow stairwell’s door, where runners are anxiously shuttling in, one at a time. In the dusty, tight stairwell, I’m surrounded by limbs. I maintain a steady pace in the inside lane, hitting every stair because it’s lower-impact. I’m behind a female racer, who’s alternating between nailing every stair and every other. Meanwhile, a few people pass me on my right. I probably could’ve passed a few people myself, but it’s just the beginning, and I’m conserving energy. I want to do well. Even more than that, I want to avoid hyperventilating and not finishing.
At about the fourteenth floor, still behind the alternating stepper, I’m alarmed by a strange noise from my stomach. The toast I had eaten a few hours earlier is talking. Regurgitating in itself wouldn’t be so bad. However, doing it in a narrow stairwell, possibly on a fellow competitor, certainly would be.
Fortunately, my stomach shuts up.
I reach the twentieth floor, where a race worker directs me to exit and take a different stairwell. While I’m prepared for this course change, the male competitor in front of me, who’s hooked into his earphones, is not, and he continues to run up the wrong stairwell. After I yell at him, he finally stops. On the twentieth floor, there are tables with pyramids of cups of water, which I run right past. Of course, I want water, but I know better than to indulge thanks to the advice of a race veteran, who had warned me, “You can’t drink and breathe at the same time!”
Photo courtesy The Times
After the twentieth floor, the pack spreads out, and I acclimate myself to the design of the new stairwell: each flight is divided by one long continuous stretch of stairs. On the previous stairwell, each flight consisted of two relatively short stretches separated by a landing. I prefer the new design, which allows me to find a steadier rhythm. Somewhat similar to a rower, I use both railings to help pull myself up. Reichetzeder had told me that professional building runners often practice different rail techniques.
During my training, I had resisted using the railings because I wanted to build stamina. As I row up the stairs, a female racer, who’s pulling on just one of the railings quite effectively, passes me. Immediately, I switch to her method. Staying tight on the inside lane, I pull on the rail as if I’m a mountain climber pulling on a rope, one hand in front of the other. As my arms go forward, my legs follow. With this seemingly more effective method, I pass a few people, including someone who had previously passed me, and reach the sixty-fifth floor, the site of the second checkpoint. As expected, my legs are heavy, and I’m short of breath. I’m not wearing a watch, and they’re not calling out times, so I have no idea of how slow I’m going. When I get to the top, I’ll get to the top.
In the homestretch, I feel like I have some gas left. I contemplate breaking from my rope tow method that’s served me so well and gunning it. Right before I do just this, I pass one of my fellow male runners on one of the landings. He’s a cautionary tale. Slumped over with his hands on his knees, he’s gasping. With that sight, I stay with the method that has gotten me this far. As I work my way up the final flights, the air becomes considerably cooler.
The Empire State’s security people offer encouragement. Finally, I reach the eighty-sixth floor, exit the stairwell, and run down a carpet towards the Empire State’s observation deck. On the flat surface, my legs are like Jell-O. “Be careful, it’s slippery outside,” one of the race volunteers warns me. “It’s sleeting.”
On the observation deck, I’d hoped to be rewarded with a glorious view of the city skyline. Instead, I observe absolutely nothing. A heavy fog has blanketed the city. As I run the final yards to the finish, I embrace the cold sleet. 20:51 is my finishing time. I’d hoped to be under fifteen minutes. I’ll settle for finishing without puking. For comparison sake, Australian Paul Crake holds the world record: 9:33.
Immediately after crossing the finish line, I’m awarded a medal. At the finish, I stick around, congratulating fellow competitors as they come in. Due to a lack of space at the summit, race volunteers ordered us to go downstairs immediately.
Fortunately, they demanded that we take the elevator.
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Jon Hart is the author of Unfortunately, I was available illustrated by Coverkitchen
