Overall general impression favorable, overall grade is B- The race was pretty well done, but the city needs a professional race management company if the goal is to compete with races like New York, Los Angeles or Chicago. One interesting note was the crowd control fencing came from a Canadian company. I plan to write to the city about this. This offends me greatly as a taxpayer, as there are firms in the region that can and do provide similar services. The city talks about regionalism; they should put their money where their mouth is. There also was no TV coverage, and Universal Sports shows races like New York, LA and Chicago, which serve to showcase their cities. A big miss there, folks.
My jobs to drive a SAG wagon. This requires a little explanation and digression. There is no clear consensus on the term SAG. It’s not a portmanteau, and I need to research what the term is for word that starts out as an acronym and then becomes a word, if such a thing exists. Sort of reverse of the usual acronym process.
Some insist that it is an acronym and stands for Support And Gear. Some think it means what it sounds like, as in a chair with sagging springs. Tired, worn out. In any case it’s a term borrowed from the bicycle world. If you are on a century ride it’s possible that you can end up 50 miles from home with a broken bike. You’d need a way to get back.
When I ran marathons in the early nineties, uphill both ways, barefoot, in the snow, there was no such thing as a SAG wagon. It was expected that you had trained enough to successfully complete the distance. If you could not, there was no provision to get you back to the starting line. Since I ran in Atlantic City, I guess I could have hopped a Jitney, taken a cab, bus or rolling chair, but since I had no money on me I’m not sure how that would have worked out. If you weren’t an ambulance case you were on your own.
Fast forward fifteen years, and another couple of digressions. I wish I could have had half the technology available now way back then when I was a runner. I ran with a cassette Walkman. You can see one in the Museum of Technology. Later I used a Discman, which was actually much worse. For a while I had an FM radio headset, which was a totally goofy looking thing with an antenna sticking up. My watch was a Timex Ironman that pretty much told time, and had a stopwatch function. No MP3 player, no Garmin GPS wristwatch, no heart rate monitor, no Nike + iTunes, no waist belt with tiny bottles of GU.
Four hours was then widely considered the cut-off between real runners and plodders, and for some it still is. The idea of a six or seven hour marathon still seems very strange to me. The New York Times has an interesting article on this very subject that says it much better than I could.
In the interest of being all-inclusive, many marathons now invite walkers. Lots of folks like the idea of ‘running’ a marathon, and so they sign up. There may be a line of thinking that goes something like ‘take care of me, I paid big bucks to enter and race here.’ I think the AC Marathon in 1991 cost me $25, I got a long sleeved T-shirt. I’m guessing Philly costs $100 or so. There might be some sense of entitlement.
Back to SAG. I got recruited by a friend who I work bike events with. It’s a diplomatic job, since no one wants to abandon. I put aside my usual crankiness and put on my cheerful hat. We met up at the Wal-Mart on Delaware Ave (err, Columbus Blvd) at six a.m. to get our vans. A couple cases of bottled water, one case of Gatorade, two cases of GU, a box of Mylar space blankets, a radio, and a Cambro container full of hot vegetable broth. No cups, though, I had to score them later from a water stop. No sweatshirt, same deal.
I’m given a map and some confusing instructions. “You basically make it up as you go along” is what my friend tells me. No problem, that’s usually the way it is at bike rides and races, too. Once things start happening the plan goes out the window anyway. Judging from the semi-frantic radio traffic from six o’clock on it’s a little hectic at the start line. Some magnetic signs adorn the minivan, lending me official status, though a cop later gave me a raft of shit despite the signs.
I drive to 34th and Chestnut and get staged at the mile 7 water stop. I get some cups and a couple of sweatshirts from the volunteers at the water stop. Shirts are like currency, and I later gifted a cop who seemed really pleased to get it. My shirt is a yellow hoodie that says ‘volunteer’ and I never let on that I’m a paid staffer. Why would I? Gumby is among the volunteers handing out water and Gatorade at the rest stop. Me, I’m a pro. A hired gun.
I get a radio call. My first customer was James, the wheelchair athlete. The only wheelchair athlete in the race, and I’m not sure how that is even possible. He’s a mile 8, on the side of the road at 34th and Lancaster. I pull out of a driveway into a steady stream of runners, and creep along at like six mph in the left lane, flashers on. I see James, but he’s on the right side of the road and I’m on the left. I recruit a couple of cops and a volunteer, and we safely get James across the street. It’s the like parting of the Red Sea. One cop says ‘can we wait for a break in traffic?’ Seriously? I can’t stay all day, so no, we can’t wait. There is no break.
We get him in the van along with his chair, and I start to head back to 22nd and The Parkway. South St. bridge? Doesn’t exist. Walnut St.? Wrong way. Market St? It’s not possible to get there. Same with Spring Garden St. I make my way to University Ave and get on the Schuylkill Expressway. Go up a few exits, get off, and get him pretty close. A friendly cop parts the pedestrian spectator traffic and helps me get to him to his support vehicle, but driver and friend Gene is nowhere to be found.
I find a soundboard and ask the guy working where the PA announcer is. He points me to Mike Nutter and a PA guy standing in the street. I ignore the feeble protests of the security guard, open the fence and let myself in. I tell my story to another sound guy who says ‘we can’t really interrupt them for every lost dog’ or something equally stupid.
I see Melanie Johnson (race director?? Sp??) and plead my case to her. She sees reason, they make the announcement and we find Gene. We gather James’ stuff, and I take off.
I head back to my post, and I see that I’m pretty much at the back of the race. My friend calls me and says he’s on the way to my location, he’s sort of sweeping the course. When he gets to the water stop he tells me to start driving the course. I go out, and see cars heading towards me since I’m going the wrong way on a one-way street and now the roads are open.
I head over a block to a northbound street and all is well. When I get to the Zoo, I’m back on the course going the right way. A cheerful cop asks me for a shirt and I hook him up. The Streets Department crew asks me where the rest stop at mile 9 is, as we’re looking at the sign but the tables, volunteers and trash have all disappeared. I go uphill and around the corner when I hear people frantically calling me. There is no safe way to turn around where I am, so I find a spot, flip around and go back. I pick up 76 year old Edith from Connecticut, who is walking the half marathon. She’s dismayed at having to stop but says the hills are killing her. A friendly cop helps me to get her in the van. I get on to MLK drive, and we pick up a volunteer who flags us down. She needs a lift back to the start/finish line. I get Edith to the Prevention Magazine tent and bid farewell.
I get my friend on the radio. He says ‘drive up and down Kelly drive, most folks are there by now.’ Every cop stops me, despite the signs on the van. Once I’m on the drive it’s no problem, just a nice sunny day. I spy some of the other SAG vans who are kind of laying low. A woman flags me down. I forgot her name, she was from Raleigh, NC. I usually interview everyone who gets in the van. She tells me she’s an experienced runner, and I can see that from the enormous Garmin thing on her wrist, her iPod, and waist belt of tiny GU bottles. Her feet are sort of like claws, painful cramps pulling her toes in. I offer to rub her feet but she declines. My instructions were to take people to the Medical Tent, but she’s a wreck so I drive her to the Crown Plaza at 18th and Market. Good karma for me.
Back to Kelly Drive. I get a radio call, can I pick up three people at St. Joe’s Boathouse and transport one to a waiting ambulance at Kelly Drive and Girard Ave? They have apparently been waiting for an hour. The paramedics sort of think this young Asian-American woman is malingering and are pretty much refusing to leave their post and take her to the hospital. She’s insisting she has a fractured foot and wants to go to the ER. So they worked out a plan. When I get to Kelly and Girard I’ll drop this woman off and pick up a young lady named Melissa who has been waiting in the back of the ambulance and take her to the medical tent. Melissa has also been waiting for a ride and the ambulance won’t take her as she’s apparently not ill enough, just bonked.
I drive the young Asian-American woman and her two friends to the waiting ambulance. One friend is another woman who was pacing her, and the other friend is a guy in street clothes. The two of them are asking me if they can ride in the ambulance with her which I kind of doubt but I don’t say too much, as she seems pretty distraught. She gets on a stretcher, and the friends are refused a ride, naturally.
Tearful Melissa gets in the van with me, along with the two friends of the hospital bound Asian-American woman. We head off towards the medical tent. Along the way two young guys flag us down and ask for a ride. One guy looks like he could keep running all day His buddy, however, is wrecked. Full house. We all squeeze in, and ride the two miles or so to 22nd and Pennsylvania.
I attempt to go precisely one block in the wrong direction on a closed 22nd Street. An irate schmuck cop starts giving me hell, “Did you think you were just gonna drive around me?” “No officer, I am a SAG driver as you can see by my vehicle and I have two people who can’t walk and who need to go to the medical tent right there! I was stopping to tell you what I planned to do” “Drive down the sidewalk!” Seriously? That is a total law enforcement fail right there. He would prefer that I drive down the sidewalk and incur the wrath of dozens of pedestrians rather than go one hundred yards down a closed street. It’s insane. I called him an asshole under my breath and drove down the sidewalk. He yelled after me to turn my four-way flashers on, as if that would make all of the difference. Thanks, asshole.
Everyone piles out. A semi-frantic woman buttonholes me and tells me her daughter is missing. Que? The paramedics say she hasn’t been transported to the hospital, which turns out to be wrong. They mean that they, the Philadelphia FD, didn’t take her. They’ve been tracking people by bib number. She must have gone by private ambulance and that is where the system broke down.
Shortly after a few phone calls and radio transmissions two nurses come out of the medical tent. “Are you looking for Rowena? She’s been taken to Jefferson ER.” The mother is simultaneously relieved and terrified. They explain that she was disoriented and dizzy, and was given a saline IV and taken there as a precaution. The husband shows up. They ask if I can take them back to the Zoo, where their car is parked. I tell them I’d rather take them to the ER. I make the second exception of the day and take them to 10th and Sansom. They are deeply religious farmers from Lancaster County – not Amish, not Mennonite – but really devout just the same. I manage to keep my Tourette’s-like swearing and blaspheming under control during the traffic choked ride to the hospital. They are God-Blessing me up and down and thanking me like it’s going out of style.
Back to Kelly Drive. Now it’s one o’clock or so, I’m starving, haven’t eaten. Up and down Kelly Drive, looking for stragglers. No one wants to get in the van. One says something like ‘I wouldn’t get in there for a million dollars.’ One woman gives me some shit as I explain that services are ending at 2. “They told me 7 hours, I didn’t start until 7:30, I’m here until 2:30.” Fine, but I’m going home. I just drove away. A couple of people take some water or Gatorade. Another SAG driver picks up a guy who looks about 70. I tell a few people who are approaching Boathouse Row that the streets are about to open up and they might want to use the sidewalk.
We take the vans back to Wal-Mart in a loose caravan and the day is over. Many karma points for me, but when I’m a race consultant things will be a little different.
