Judging by his raised eyebrows and "Whatever you say, mister" grunt, my cabby is not accustomed to ferrying charges to the Hancock Building at 6:45 on a Sunday morning. And frankly, I'm as disoriented as he is: It's been several years since I've seen the sun come up on a Sunday without it being the far side of a Saturday night.
But here I am, yawning in my Vans gym shoes and Adidas warm-up pants, en route to the American Lung Association's second annual Hancock Building stair climb. I push open the doors of the second-tallest building in Chicago and get a good look at my competition. (Actually, as someone who gets winded descending two flights to retrieve the mail, I've opted to participate in the "non-competitive" climb, which will take me only halfway up the Hancock's ninety-four flights; still, thinking of the other participants as nemeses helps me get the necessary eye of the tiger.)
The usual pre-race hullabaloo, transplanted to the lobby of a luxurious office building, is decidedly out of place: Lean athletic types stretch calf muscles and talk carbos amongst plush sofas and abstract sculptures, while the Hancock's security guard looks on with a bemused expression.
The participants, most of them looking like transplanted marathon runners, aren't quite sure how to deal with the idea of charging up stairs. "What's the mileage on this?" a woman is asking her companions, who shrug as a group. The unique nature of the stair climb is hammered in at the start line, where climbers are being sent up not en masse, but one at a time with a fifteen second interval between them, like kiddies being sent down a theme park water slide.
As I begin my assent, alone but for the beleaguered huffing of the preceding climber drifting down from a flight up, I feel a stab of calf pain, along with one of loneliness. I'm unused to the racing life, but it always seemed like a big part of the fun was running alongside a buddy or some genial stranger, egging each other on or just smiling grimly in mutual determination. But here it's just me, plugging along in a grubby back stairwell, with its metal handrail and cement walls unadorned but for the fire extinguishers and posted memos from the maintenance staff. Eventually, I do manage to pass the person ahead of me, and then the group in front of her (which admittedly is made up of a middle-aged mom and her two chunky-plus preteens), swinging around them with a polite "excuse me," while in my mind I gloat ferociously at my superior athleticism.
Hitting the finish line - beyond which the "walk-it-off" area and first aid station are located in a somewhat creepy boiler room - the first aid lady tells me to keep moving until my heartbeat slows, and I nod, breathless. But not two seconds later the elevator arrives, and I stand in it - perfectly still - for the long ride back to the ground floor.
(Ben Winters)
copyright 1999 New City Communications, Inc.