Down and Dirty at the OSR30

I love running, but unlike certain masochistic members of the cardio community, I don’t get my rocks off by proving how many long and painful miles I can slug out. I like a good tempo heart rate, I like to go fast (relatively) and I like to see as much of the city as possible before winding down and easing into brunch. Any race lasting an hour to 90 minutes is within my boundaries of ‘fun’; I have no desire to run long and hard miles for their own sake.

However, the OSR30 - a 30-mile race around the perimeter of Manhattan, give or take a few bridges and cross-town detours - is a different sort of beast, and the only sort of ultra-marathon I’ve ever had the desire to attempt. Last year’s effort ended up being a 35.5 mile tromp, which I managed to pull through despite a very cold, whipping rain and a very dead rental e-bike for my bike escort, who ended up carrying the leaden junk over bridges, up steep dirt-hill inclines and along a narrow muddy strip bordering the Hudson River.

I still haven’t bought the guy enough beers to thank him.

I came into the 2024 race with two very valuable weapons: the lessons of experience, and my friend George, an experienced triathlete and endurance fiend even more competitive than myself.

The race, on May 11th, started out auspiciously; runners faced a sunny blue cumulus-filled sky as we kicked off the start line and raced up 1st Avenue. I had no problem hitting my goal pace of 6:40 for the first 3 miles, and became more confident with each passing mile that I could keep that cruising altitude for upwards of 3 hours.

By the time we reached the first checkpoint at Randall’s Island, I felt quite strong, and the day had turned gorgeous. I grinned in my checkpoint photo and set off for the Inwood Peninsula feeling hale and hearty.

I knew from 2023 that St. Nicholas Avenue going north through Harlem is one of Manhattan’s most precipitous hills. I was surprised my pace didn’t dip too far below 6:50 by the time I emerged into a cluster of baseball fields and playgrounds in Inwood. I followed George across the freshly cut grass, feeling like a child running through lush verdant fields in a dream, and posed with my arms crossed and my lips pouted on top of the second bench in the park.

Running back downtown through Harlem was the only part of the race I would call ‘dicey.’ We were creeping on mid-day at this point, just before 12 p.m., and the thoroughfare of East Broadway was crammed with vehicles. Ripping through the sidewalks was equally as hopeless; I nearly ran over at least one Dominican grandmother carrying their groceries, very reasonably not watching their back for incoming runners trying to push the pace.

I also lost track of George after about 160th Street. Everytime I looked behind me I just saw columns of traffic; up ahead, one of the runners I was chasing seemed to be taking a stronger and stronger lead.

I slowed down to call George, and texted him multiple times. Checking his location, he seemed perpetually stuck on 153rd street. The prospect that he had been hit by a car became very real.

But around 130th Street, as I simultaneously tried to keep a strong pace and check my phone, I heard a familiar voice behind me.

“We’re back,” he said, smiling and maneuvering ahead of me on the sidewalk.

I later learned he thought I had been brained by an open car door, and had gone back to check on me. With any unsanctioned street race, you’re bound to have some uncomfortable brushes with pedestrians and even cars, but as far as I know there were no reported casualties from the race.

Thank God.

We cut over to the West Side Highway around 125th; WSH is where I blew up at last year's race. I had to fight back PTSD as I coasted through mile 20, and one very persistent thought began to take over:

“When am I going to bonk?”

Around mile 22, running nearly perpendicular to the Midtown Manhattan street where I live with my fiance, I heard someone call my name. I immediately recognized one of my co-workers on the side of the walkway, a fellow endurance enthusiast who knew I would be racing that day. We exchanged shouts of appreciation, and I picked up my pace just a bit. Encouragement is amazing fuel.

George recommended I watch my heartrate as I cut into mile 24; sure enough, I was in the low 170s, around my zone 4, and I was starting to feel it. Not bonking, not muscle failure, just exhaustion. Pure tiredness. I slowed down a half step, attempting to bring my heart rate below 170. My mile times subsequently slowed to around the 7 minute mark.

Coming onto the third checkpoint at Little Island, I had consumed a full bottle of NuuN water, as well as at least 4 GU gels. The fueling strategy had kept me from crashing so far, but I was still on high-alert; crashing can be sudden and merciless. One minute you’re pulling your tempo pace, the next you’re doing the old-man shuffle.

I hit the marathon checkpoint at 2:58; not shabby, and I was still feeling strong enough, though cautious - in retrospect, entirely too cautious - about controlling for the dreaded wall.

It took a little encounter with a guy in sunglasses and a very expensive looking camel coat to snap me out of my circumspection. The guy - probably out on a morning walk, definitely not expecting or deserving of the verbal harassment he was about to experience - did not look onto the bike path and had to untangle himself from George after a minor bump. I heard him scolding; immmediately, I went into defense mode for my biker.

It doesn’t really matter what I said to the guy, because I’ve already repented at church.

But George came away with the one-liner of the day.

“Have fun with your third wife!” he shouted to the guileless Tribeca denizen, as we steadied ourselves and continued to zip south towards the fourth checkpoint at the doors of the Staten Island Ferry Terminal.

A fight always gets my Irish blood going, and I knew we were within 5 kilometers of the finish. I picked up the pace - pushing just below the 6:40 territory - and after posing at the Staten Island Terminal, let ‘er rip.

Besides a few painful calf knots as I ascended up the sloping hill of Pike Street, and a wrong turn at East Broadway - which very well may have cost me two places, as the 6th and 7th place finisher were all within seconds of me - the finish was as strong as I could have asked for. I clocked 29.5 miles in 3 hours and 20 minutes, feeling great. Feeling, in fact, like I had more in the tank.

I proceeded to eat heaping plates of spaetzle, mashed potatoes and meatballs courtesy of Cafe Katja. The line for beer was too long, else I would’ve gotten myself a steiner. No matter; I had more than my share of drinks later that night, when I bounced between the West Village with George and the East Village with my biker from the prior year, Matt. Many espresso martinis were quaffed.

And at the end of the day, isn’t that why we all run? So we can drink espresso martinis with our friends on a guilt-free New York City Saturday night?

Until next time.