On Sunday, March 22 I struggled up 69 flights of stairs in Seattle’s annual race up the Columbia Tower for Leukemia & Lymphoma. In a search on Favorwish I found an event to help support the fight for the cure to eradicating Leukemia & Lymphoma.

A thousand people fill the first and second floor waiting for their turn up the stair well. My hands and body start to shake with anticipation as I starred up the daunting 69 flights of stairs ahead of me. The starter nodded his head and pointed his index finger signaling that is was my turn to race. I was off. Immediately I grasp on to the handrail tug and pulling myself up the stairs as my legs exploding off of every other step. I turn my head downwards trying to avoid the tragic cost of counting flights. As my shuffle kicks off with the Foo Fighters “Pretender” I glance at the number 27, just past a third of the way and I was feeling great.

The steps seem to float off behind me as bound from step to step until flight 43. Then it hits me. My lungs gasp for air and my extremities begin to tingle from the lack of blood. A rush of paranoid thoughts paralyzes my mind as I search for the will to struggle up another 26 flights of stairs. Finally my body slows down and does not allow me to sprint up the stairs anymore. I was at a walk. It felt more like a crawl. And, for the first time I notice the wretched stench of human sweat and struggle soaking the stairwell. The flights of stairs pass by with disdain and struggle.

I couldn’t give up. I didn’t want to give up. My shuffle switches to “Eye of the Tiger” just in the nick of time and I was off. Goosebumps raise the hair on my arm and the will to break the 11:00 minute barrier floods back inside of me. My legs started skipping steps once again and the numbers melted away as I passed them by. The end was close. Voices spill out of the 69th floor as cheers from the competitors finishing before me receive yells and applause for the completing the trek to the top. I could see it, the dim stairwell breaks with light from the top floor. I smash through the door, pound my wrist on the mat, log my time and pace the hallway filling my lungs with the needed oxygen.

At the end of the day I find my time posted up on a wall with the other thousand participants in the lobby. My time is 11:15. I miss the 11 minute barrier by fifteen short seconds. I failed. But, I stood there, in a room filled with a thousand other participants all jockeying to search for their time and realized how we didn’t fail. As much as I make the event about my race and struggle to the top I notice that I am part of this community surrounding me who seek the same thing and struggle in the same way. After the race I continue some conversations with fellow racers, comparing times, sticking points and the excitement of finally being at the top and staring out over the entire city from its tallest building. As our group heads out to Gorden Biersch for a beer I feel the cold air cool my sweat and realize that today was not just about racing to the top of the 69th floor of the Columbia Tower.