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As I peered upwards, trying to discern the upper limit of
our tallest, most Art Deco-adorned masterpiece through an early morning fog, I
wondered whether I was up to the 86 story, 1,576 step challenge, and more
importantly, why I had forsaken the building’s umpteen, perfectly speedy,
oh-so-easy-on-the-legs elevators in order to run my way to the top?
And then I remembered: the annual Run Up the Empire State Building had been beckoning me for as long as I could climb stairs. OK, for as long as I had lived in New York. OK, for as long as I had known about it, since the former editor of this magazine first let me in on the tall secret. Seven years and one editor later, I stood on a 34th Street sidewalk, head tilted back like a Times Square tourist, preparing to put this shiny, elusive jewel in my runner’s crown.
It was a chance to cut the longest line in New York (fanny packers wait up to two hours for the same privilege), and do King Kong one better, scaling New York’s proudest monument to protect my own Fay Wray without the danger of those pesky planes trying to knock me off. (I would, after all, be using the inside stairwell.)
I knew I would have to contend with Thomas Dold, now three-time winner, capable of leaping his way to the top in a staggering 10-or-so minutes. Then there was that guy trying to intimidate me in his skin-tight, Spidey-decorated speed suit. How fast was he planning to go? The speed steppers and standing broad jumpers warming up in our holding area didn’t bode well for my chances of winning.
But I had spent two months in my office-building stairwell shaking off the winter stupor to build the kinds of quads and hammies that would carry a fireman up the stairs toward a three-alarm fire. Besides, I wasn’t going home without my T-shirt, bagel and bragging rights.
With barely a warning, the horn blared, and a hundred plus men already sweaty with anticipation wedged themselves through a tiny doorway into the stairwell. For a few flights, it was a solid mass of sweaty, stinky bodies jostling one another for space in the cramped stairwell—a experience not unlike my morning subway commute, except we were all wearing teeny tiny shorts. About 10 flights later the crowd thinned and it was just me against the stairs, punctuated by the occasional “On your left!” I bellowed in my competitors’ ears to open up my own passing lane. Perhaps a trick I should remember on the subway.
Fourteen or so minutes later, I was sorry to see the top. Hell of a view, but it came too soon. Especially after a seven-year wait.
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