Weekend Warrior

Last Thursday, I was asked to join the station team that would be running up the John Hancock building on Sunday for charity. In a moment of bravado -- or perhaps, stupidity -- I agreed. If you're not familiar with the Hancock Building, it's the second highest structure in Chicago, next to the Sears Tower. 94 floors -- 8,000 feet tall.

As a former track athlete, I think I let my competitive nature get the best of me sometimes. "Sure, I can just knock that thing out, no problem. What's a few stairs?" Ordinarily, it shouldn't be a problem, but see, I've kind of let myself go this winter. You know, it's cold out, working long hours, blah, blah, blah. By Saturday night I still wasn't taking it seriously. I went to L-Boogie's party till about 2 a.m. -- even though I had to be at the Hancock at 7 a.m. -- and incorporated what I'll call my three-pronged W approach to training. Wine, wings and women.

As I looked up at the Hancock at 7 a.m., I knew I was in trouble. I couldn't see the top of the building, because it went into the clouds. On one hand, this may be helpful. If I die on the way up -- a distinct possibility -- my spirit won't have far to go.

I hooked up with our station team, and gleaned some information from some veterans who've done this before. Absolutely DO NOT run starting out, and keep a cough drop in your mouth to provide some cooling sensation when your lungs start hacking out your chest. And take one step at a time. It was good advice. Although I ran the first couple of flights (for the camera's benefit), I settled into a brisk pace. By the 10th floor I was ready to die. At this point it's purely mental. You play games with yourself to get to the next level. About halfway through, I started noticing roadkill -- people who had started before me who fell out on he stairwells. I keep going. Volunteers with pom-poms, yell encouragement at us at each new level. I want to throttle them. Common sense would tell you to stay as close to the inside of the stairwell as possible in order to take the shortest route, but by flight 60 or so, I learn that it makes sense to take it wide when you reach flat ground -- it gives your legs a chance to loosen up a bit.

Flight 84 -- I can smell the finish line, and I told myself I'd pick it up on the last 10 flights. Sweet victory is mine -- not against my competitors, but against my body that wanted to give up.

Today, after months of procrastinating, I finally joined a gym. The older you get, the tougher it gets to fall out of shape and get it going again. My final time was 19 minutes and 3 seconds. Next year I'll get it down to 15.

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