Near as I can tell, the last time I ran the Red Rose Run before Saturday was in 2002. In between the clock kept ticking, same as it does on the course itself. There had been a job change, a layoff and several other U-turns and detours. And finally, blessedly, retirement in December 2022.
So yeah, the Red Rose Run took a back seat to all that. But Saturday marked the 50th anniversary of the five-mile race, which began with a literal bang, back in 1977. That year they used a starting cannon – yes, a cannon – to send the runners on their way, and its concussion reportedly knocked out the windows of some businesses in downtown Lancaster. (Also – the course was a little less than five miles, a fact immediately noted by Jeff Bradley, the inaugural winner with a time of 22:39. “It was a nice race, a nice course,” he told the Lancaster Sunday News. “But it wasn’t five miles. I can’t run five miles in 22 minutes.”)
Safe to say that the organizers long ago worked out all the bugs. That was one of things that was most noticeable Saturday – how slick and well-run the RRR has become. Trackers were affixed to race bibs, making precise timing possible. Every runner is videotaped crossing the finish line, as shown in the personal screen grab above. And prize money is doled out – $5,000 to this year’s overall winner, Hamza Chahid of Morocco, and the women’s winner, Katie Izzo of Flagstaff, Ariz. Both also earned $1,977 for shattering the respective course records, according to LNP.
But the essential feel of the race is still the same. It is still a wonderful civic celebration, with thousands of people – runners and onlookers alike – gathering in Lancaster Square for the occasion. And the runners still embark on the same mission – to test themselves. And to do so on a course that I daresay is more challenging than that of the average five-mile race.
Certainly that’s why I was back. We all know Father Time’s undefeated, that eventually he’s gonna chase us all down. But for one day, at least, you want to keep him at arm’s length. You want to continue to rage against the dying of the light, as the poet Dylan Thomas once put it.
Finishing was all that was on my mind as I lined up on Queen Street with 2,000 others. Not a particular time – just finishing, while knowing full well that the Duke Street Hill awaits. The first mile and change is largely downhill, before flattening out in County Park. Then you make a left back out of the park and onto Duke Street, and head upward for so long – over a mile – that you begin thinking about enlisting the services of a sherpa.
But first things first. The starting horn sounds and the pack, slow-moving at first, shuffles over the starting line, with everybody looking for open spaces. On Saturday, one dude came rushing up from behind me and veered over onto the sidewalk to my right, only to plow over a kid who happened to be watching. From what I could tell, the runner caught the kid before he hit the ground, a relief.
Then we all passed a truck advertising Red Bull (and playing the obligatory thumping music through enormous speakers), made a right on Lemon and another right, onto Duke. By now, things had begun to open up. Some bros were yelling and posturing and doing other bro-ish things, and they were left behind. People lined the streets on both sides, looking for loved ones.
The pack passed the courthouse, breached a small hill by Old Town and headed down Duke Street. Blessedly down.
“The good news,” I gasped to a woman next to me, “is that we get to come back up.”
She humored me, and said something about letting the momentum carry you downhill; indeed, that is the textbook approach. And then she darted off, weaving between clots of competitors as she went.
Show-off.
Before long, everybody was making their way through the park. If you looked forward or back at certain points, you could fully appreciate just how massive the pack was. The large turtle who happened to be sitting next to the road at a certain juncture was probably less impressed.
I marvel at those who can carry on conversations under such circumstances, like the woman to my right who was telling her friend about her daughter, who is already 16 and competing in track and cross country. Or the guy who was discussing with a woman the boss who had to upgrade the HVAC system at their office at his own expense.
Seriously? It’s all I can do to breathe at this point.
Up ahead loomed the left onto Duke Street, and the hill. To be more accurate, it’s a series of hills, beginning right before the three-mile mark and ending just after the four-mile mark. There are points in between where the road levels off for a half-block or so, but they offer scant relief.
The digital clock at the three-mile mark flashed over 28 minutes when I passed, which was fine. Again, the goal was merely to finish, clocking be damned. It is nonetheless humbling to know that Chahid finished the race in 23:04.2 and that Izzo’s time was 25:58.6 – that they were over two miles ahead of me. Two miles! Knew I shoulda given up Chips Ahoys.
Anyway, I chugged up the hills, and to my surprise they weren’t quite as bad as I feared. And now it was back into town, up the rise in front of the courthouse to Walnut Street. There was a left there, then another onto Queen, and now the finish line was in sight.
A couple guys passed me in the last block or so, and I kicked (in a manner of speaking) and passed them back. (Guys being guys, I suppose.) I finished in 44:23.4 according to Motion Timing, which is over seven minutes slower than I did it back in 2002 – I ran 37:04 then – but good enough for an old guy. Good enough to keep Father Time at bay for now.
And really, that’s all that matters. That you just keep putting one foot in front of the other, knowing that the clock is ticking. That it’s always ticking, and you’ve just gotta make the most of every moment granted you.