Run, TJ. Run.

A journey of 1000 miles begins with a single step.
--Confucious

A journey of 10 miles ends with many aching muscles.
--TJ

Earlier today I completed the 2006 Broad Street Run, a 10-mile race through the middle of Philadelphia that I had decided to sign up for at the last minute on a whim. Below is a timeline of how the day unfolded:

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6:15 am: My alarm goes off for the 3rd time as I lay in bed and re-think the wisdom of running 10 miles this morning without the benefit of any real training over the past three weeks. Between a trip to Chicago and the unexpected start of a new job, I hadn't been able to get out and run at all. My 14-year old son Brendan pokes his head into my room and asks "Don't you have your race this morning??" I mumble something from under the comforter and he turns on the overhead light and says, "C'mon, Dad, you need to get up..." He continues to stand there in the doorway. "Yeah, yeah..." I say under my breath as I roll out of bed and begin to change into my running outfit. I pause to grab some scrap paper and jot down 'no driver's license until 17th birthday' as a little reminder for later...

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8:00 am: I am packed like a sardine into a SEPTA subway car, one of more than 15,000 runners being ferried up Broad Street to the starting line at Central High School. I feel bad for the regular patrons who had probably set out from their homes in North Philadelphia this beautiful Sunday morning never dreaming that they would wind up being crammed nose-to-armpit alongside thousands of overeager, underdressed fitness fanatics. A single voice rises from somewhere far in the rear of the subway car, floating above the sea of bodies and expressing the thought that is surely running through each of their minds: "You white people are all crazy..."

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8:29 am: One minute to go until the official start of the race. I stretch and warm-up as much as I can while surrounded by the crowd of people, and do a final check to make sure that my watch and mp3 player are set up properly. I consider that maybe I should have eaten more than a banana and a glass of orange juice this morning, but it's too late to do anything about it now. I make my way into the middle of the section designated for people running at an 8-minute per mile pace, and then suddenly it is...

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8:30 am: The race begins. I shuffle along with everyone else a few hundred yards up to the official starting line, and then the mob of people begins to slowly spread out across the width of Broad Street. Straight ahead and five miles off in the distance, the central tower of City Hall appears as thin as a pencil. I start the chronometer to keep track of my pace along the 10 mile course, and hit the random shuffle button on my iRiver for some fast music to set the tempo. I get underway to 'Gasoline' by Seether.

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1-Mile Marker: The first mile goes by pretty smoothly. The weather this morning is perfect for running--clear, blue skies and a brisk 56 degrees. I check my watch and see that I am actually going at a 7:45 minute pace. "Jukebox Hero" by Foreigner starts to play and I am feeling like a rock star...

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2-Mile Marker: My mouth and throat are starting to get a little dry and it's getting tricky to maneuver through the narrow gaps between the other runners. I see that I've slowed down to an 8-minute pace, but I'd rather hold things back in the beginning and save my energy for the later miles. "Hit Me With Your Best Shot" by Pat Benetar comes on, and I begin an internal monologue as I head into Mile 3: 'That's right, Broad Street--fire away...'

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Mile 2.4 : My mouth is really dry now and I am very relieved to come upon the first water station. Dozens of cheery volunteers line both sides of the street, holding out little white paper cups filled with water. I smile at the young kid who hands me my cup, and I conscientiously toss it into one of the nearby trash cans as I pass by. The water break comes at just the right spot, and I am feeling immediately refreshed. 'Thank you, Broad Street', I think appreciatively, somewhat chagrined. 'My bad about the trash talk earlier...'

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3-Mile Marker: I begin to feel a slight twinge in my right calf, but it is just coming and going at this point. The water definitely helped, because I see that I am back to a 7:45 minute pace. "Don't Fear the Reaper" by Blue Oyster Cult comes on. 'Nothing to fear at all, boys. I'm feeling pretty good...'

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4-Mile Marker: I'm still holding at a 7:45 minute pace, but my breathing is getting quicker and my mouth is completely dry again. "Turn It On Again" by Genesis begins to play, and I find that I start to push ahead strongly thanks to the encouragement of Phil Collins.

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Mile 4.5 : Thankfully another water station appears in front of me not a moment too soon. My mouth and throat are on fire, and the sun has been beating down without a cloud in the sky since the race began. Another group of cheery volunteers is handing out water again, but the primal need of thirst has begun to break down the social graces of the runners. People are now indiscriminantly grabbing cups from the volunteers' hands without even breaking stride and just chucking them at their feet when they're finished. I gulp down three cups of water in a row as I pass by, and I don't even hestitate for a second as I toss them each onto the ground to join the thousands of others that now litter the street. I have a sudden vision of a Native American Indian in full headress watching from afar, a single teardrop slowly rolling down his cheek.

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5-Mile Marker: Once again the water has done the trick, and I am surprised to see that I have picked things up to a 7:30 minute pace. City Hall suddenly looms above overhead as I pass right next to the office building where I started my new job last week. It dawns on me that my car is only parked about a block away, and for a second I am tempted to hop into my Pathfinder for a quick shortcut to claim first place at the finish line. But I feel quite certain that clocking in with a time of 33 minutes for a 10-mile race might raise a couple of eyebrows in the press and would require a battery of steroid testing involving very large needles, so I decide to keep things legit. "Gallileo" by the Indigo Girls comes on. 'How long until I reach Mile 10...??'

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6-Mile Marker: I'm still on my 7:45 minute pace, but my right calf is twinging pretty regularly now. I begin to pass along a section of Broad Street named 'The Avenue of the Arts' for all of the theaters that are located there. As if on cue, 'La Vie Boheme' from the soundtrack of Rent begins to play just as I approach the Merriam theater where that show will be opening next week. I take that as an encouraging sign that I am on the right pace, and I am suddenly grateful that I decided not to download the soundtrack from "Cats" instead...

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7-Mile Marker: Wait a minute, can that be right? Seven miles already?? I'm still on the same pace and it seemed like I had just passed the 5 mile halfway point a few minutes ago. "My Immortal" by Evanescence is playing and I start to slip into a kind of zen-like rhythm, with the asphalt rolling on and on beneath me as one foot continues to fall in front of the other.

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Mile 7.8 : I am snapped out of my little trance as I approach another water station. Runners are jostling into each other without apology as they desparately grab for water. I reach out gratefully to take a cup from one woman's hands, and am momentarily thrown when she pulls the equivalent of a "psyche!!!" move by drawing the cup, filled to the brim with cool, life-sustaining water, back away from my outstretched hand. I keep running but begin to suspect that maybe these people are getting a little sick and tired of serving as human water dispensers and disposable paper cup targets. Their sense of humor was starting to seem down-right twisted. I picture them all lined up in a gauntlet along the next water station, waiting with their arms half-cocked for the signal to unload coconut cream pies at our faces.

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8- Mile Marker: I'm running a 7:45 pace but the cramps and the sun are starting to get to me. "Vertigo" by U2 comes on. As my tongue begins to stick to the roof of my mouth, I decide that I would gladly deal with "Vertigo" anyday over "Dehydration"...

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Mile 8.5 : I feel a moment of great relief as I see a spray of water cascading onto the street up ahead. The Philadelphia Fire Department had opened up several fire hydrants along Broad Street to help cool down the runners. I angle over to the far side of the street and then watch in disbelief from 20 yards out as a really strong gust of wind suddenly blows in from the east and pushes the stream of water back over across the sidewalk to the right and into an adjacent empty field, completely off of the race course. I ask the crying Indian to pass me a Kleenex...

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Mile 9: I really don't care about my time at this point--with one mile to go I just want to finish. There is another water station right beyond the mile marker, and again I make a few unsuccessful grabs at some water cups as I continue to run at a full pace. A man up ahead makes eye contact with me and says, "I got you. I got you." He plants the cup directly into my hand and I make sure that I say "Thanks" before I bring the cup to my lips. Both the water and the tone in his voice give me a much needed boost. "Fly from the Inside" by Shinedown kicks in, and I dig down to finish this last mile with everything I've got left.

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Mile 10: I see a sign that says 'Finish line 1/2 mile ahead.' Very soon I spot an archway of orange girders up the road that appears to be rather close. A quick glance at my watch indicates that I seem to be making incredible time in this last mile. I break into an all-out sprint, my arms and legs pumping away without holding anything back. I cross beneath the girders euphoric, but the feeling is short-lived. None of the other runners are slowing down or stopping. I wonder for a moment if they had all signed up for a special "11-Mile Broad Street Run" option that I didn't know about, but then it dawns on me that the orange structure wasn't the finish line--it was set up to record a color photo of each and every runner to be purchased after the race. It also dawns on me that I had made the exact same mistake when I ran this race six years ago. Finally, it dawns on me that I am an idiot. The finish line is still a quarter of a mile away.

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Mile 10 (for real): The true finish line is up ahead. For a second time I reach down and make a final sprint for the finish. A small brunette in her early-20's pulls up even with me, and suddenly it is on for a head-to head race to the end. We alternate back and forth slightly pulling ahead of each other, and as we cross beneath the finish line we are actually completely even. We both nod at each other to say 'thanks' for the motivation, and then I go turn in my computer timing chip and make my way over to the refreshment tent. I chug a cup of Gatorade, and then follow it down with another. I decide to take a pass on the rest of the free food donated by the sponsors of the race, especially the cups of 'lite' yogurt sent in by a local dairy. Considering that we had just burned off about a bajillion calories in our little jaunt down Broad Street, you'd think that if there was ever a time to splurge on a little caloric indulgence, this would be it. I quickly make my way back up Broad Street to the nearest subway stop and soon I am back at my car and on my way home.

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Later that evening: I go online to check my official time in the race. I notice that the results from when I ran it back in 2000 are still available as well:

2000: 1:17:45

2006: 1:17:16

I had improved my time by just about 30 seconds the second time around. Of course, six years ago I had trained for about two months straight leading up to the race, and this year I didn't even sign up until three weeks ago. And once I registered I quickly wound up with my butt parked inside a classroom learning improv or working in a law office all day.

But the most significant thing for me was that I ran this particular race in the last remaining days of my thirties. My 40th birthday is a little over one week away, and even though I think that age is pretty relative, I was a little curious to see how I might match up physically with my younger self. Six years later, and I still managed to improve my time in spite of the fact that I had no training or conditioning.

I guess maybe it's true what they say about 40 being the new 30 after all...