Blood on the Pavement, or, Adventures at the American Heart Association's Wall Street Run

When I did this run last year, I learned several important lessons that prepared me for Thursday evening's race. Lesson One: Runner registration, where one picks up numbers and t-shirts, is maddeningly confusing. My strategy of showing up a few minutes before the gun wouldn't work here, as one really needs to understand the confusing system of buildings with multiple entrances and multiple lobbies in the financial district to pull off the last-minute appearance. I ran down to the starting area, about 2.5 miles from my apartment, with a fair amount of time to spare and got lost enough to barely make the start in the middle of the national anthem.

Lesson Two: This is not a racer's race. The course is narrow and winding as it wends its way through the tightly packed buildings in one of the oldest and most congested parts of the city. Runners are sardined together in a tight pack, compounded by sidewalks packed with unwilling spectators who just got done with work and want nothing more than to cross the street (nearly impossible) and go home. Passing involves shoving, and it's simply not worth it.

With this wisdom in mind, I lined up in the starting corral, approvingly noting all the "teams" in matching t-shirts on all sides. New York is home to lots of running clubs (the Front Runners, The Dashing Whippets, Central Park Track Club, the Brooklyn Runners...) but this run brings out participants from the big firms, too. Citibank, AIG, Bloomberg, and many others were in attendance. I always like seeing participants on the starting line who wouldn't normally be out for a jaunt. It was announced that the race had raised over $8 million for the American Heart Association. People cheered, myself among them.

I was dripping sweat, unusual for me, from my jog from home. It was one of the hottest days of the year so far, and I was thankful I'd thought to bring a handheld water bottle, handily containing my iPod, keys, and subway card in its front pocket. I took slugs from it now and then. In my other hand, I held the race t-shirt I'd picked up minutes before. Then the gun went off and we plodded forward. I'd made my peace with making slow progress, a decision I did not re-evaluate as the pack of us moved forward into the oven that was downtown. We jogged through the streets, hurling around sharp turns every few minutes. Sometimes a spectator would make a mad dash across the street, some looking annoyed and some looking amused. A woman in skirt, matching blazer, and heels jogged along with us for about 50 feet as she worked her way across the road diagonally, grinning all the while.

My hero.

The throngs of people led to disaster for me just after mile 1. I somehow caught the shoe of a guy in front of me and went slamming to the ground. I felt the water bottle in my left hand flatten against the pavement as I skidded to a halt. About 30 people around and behind me gasped in unison, and two men immediately stopped to help me up. I told them that I was fine, mostly to get them to go away so I could collect myself, and they took off while I limped to the side of the course to assess the damage. I examined my knee first and found a somewhat deep cut on my kneecap with small scrapes all around it. The heel of my right hand was scraped, but I got quite lucky on this front: I held the t-shirt in my right hand which shielded most of my palm, and the water bottle in my left hand had taken the brunt of the force when I fell, leaving that side completely unscathed. My left elbow, however, looked terrible and felt worse: raw, bloody, and red. For the first time I can recall in an NYRR race, I walked.

I carried on like that for about 100 meters, taking stock of things. Then I tried a few experimental steps at a jog. It hurt, but not terribly. I had no idea where I was and had no money to get home. Finishing the race was an unappealing prospect, but I knew there was a subway near the finish line, and I'd be in the heat forever if I walked that far. So I rejoined the flow of people and ran on. My elbow stung more and more as my sweat dripped onto it, but I told myself that the faster I went, the sooner I'd be done. I finished the race and went straight to the medical tent, another NYRR first, to be doused in a stinging disinfectant that burst into foamy suds the second it touched my injuries. The paramedic tried to put bandages over the scrapes, but I was sweating so much that nothing stuck. So I set off for the subway with abrasions covered with gobs of bloody Neosporin. At least people left me alone.

Ed was very sympathetic when I finally made it home and did the lion's share of cooking and cleaning up after dinner. I cracked a beer and took further stock of the situation, discovering that I was not the only one that had sustained injuries. The water bottle was looking decidedly worse for wear. My keys had poked through the pocket in front, leaving a small, neat slit, and there were some other small tears along the side straps. Amazingly, my iPod, which was cushioned by my earbuds, was completely undamaged, though, and the bottle is in good enough shape to see me through many more miles.

Happily, I am volunteering at a race this weekend instead of running one. My elbow hurts but wouldn't be problematic if I were to go for a run; my knee, however, is another story, and has me hobbling up and down stairs to avoid bending it. As a runner, though, these are the kind of injuries one prays for. I'll be healed up enough to attend my running class on Monday, whereas tendinitis, shin splints, strained muscles, or any of the other countless injuries common among runners would sideline me for much longer.