Take the Bridge (race recap)

For such a short race, it is so impactful. There’s a mystique behind it — it’s an unsanctioned race, no course, no stopped traffic. It’s just the city, the energy, two checkpoints, you, and your run crew. Go time is in the dark, 8:30 at night. Only 39 people line up with you. There are 40 men, 40 women, separate heats, no waves. You know you need to book it if you don’t want to be last. 

You start and end on the Longfellow. A huge crowd gathers, mostly runners from the run clubs present, some friends, everyone chattering and moving. The vibe is palpable, electric.

You have to get to the first checkpoint as fast as you can, any way you can. The horn blares, and everyone takes off. You seed yourself towards the back, but the wave of runners carries you, and you’re already going faster than you’ve ever started. 

At the end of the bridge, the pack splits. There’s no way to describe how disconcerting it is to see runners peel off down side streets and disappear — usually you’re all staying the same course. You don’t have time to decide who to follow — you just go. 

Pedestrians leap out of your way and gawk at this pack of girls tearing down the sidewalk at full speed. Runners jump out into traffic, over benches, cut corners, whatever they think the most direct route is. Girls who had turned down side streets pop up in front and behind you. You have no idea where you fall in the pack. 

The first checkpoint is in Paul Revere Park, navigating the dark causeways. A blur of a person swipes your bare arm with a Sharpie — check. You come up under the Zakim and bear down on the second checkpoint on the Cambridge Greenway. From there, it’s a short(ish) sprint back to the bridge. 

Coming up the bridge, you can hear the crowd and the megaphone before you see them. You crest the hill, run through the gauntlet of cheering, screaming, fist-pumping people, and then suddenly, you’re done. 

You double over, drop your hands onto your knees, take a few deep, shaky breaths to bring yourself back down. Someone hands you a scrap of paper with your time on it, the fastest 2.85(ish) miles you’ve ever run. Someone yells out the location of the afterparty and the bridge empties in minutes, with no finish line tape, no discarded cups, no course ropes left as evidence that it ever happened at all.