was Weg zur Spitze?

Tower running has enthusiasts, elite athletes, worldwide contests and dedicated internet sites. In fact it has all of the trappings and paraphernalia that one would expect of a serious sport. I knew all of this before going to Vienna but still could not treat the concept with the respect it deserves. At its lowest point Grandstand would not have filled the void between the 4.15 from Haydock and Final Score with tower running. They would have chosen bowls or water polo or lumberjacking, if Eurosport had not got that first. In my mind it is something organised by a company based in Canary Wharf on a team building/charity fund raising day. Even the chairman joins in, donning the tennis shirt and shorts he was inspired to buy just after Bjorn Borg first won Wimbledon, each man made fibre of his t-shirt desperately clinging to its neighbour to avoid exposing a paunch born of his expense driven lifestyle. His face turns puce by the 5th floor but he makes it to the top and all the ambitious executives comment on what a good sport he is at the buffet, hoping he hears them and moves them down the sacking league table.

So curiosity, rather than trepidation was the emotion that encouraged me to be at Kaisermuhlen Ubahn station at 7.55am on a gloriously crisp Viennese winter’s morning. I had not actually worked out where to go next, it I expected to easily identify Austria’s tallest construction and then head in that general direction. The problem was that Kaisermuhlen is the gateway to a business area with several tall buildings. The one I suspected was my destination, based on it being the only one that looked to have a rotating restaurant at the top, did not look much taller than all of the others. I was underwhelmed just long enough to reach the start of the business park and realise perspective was playing a joke. To transmogrify a line from Father Ted* “Those towers are small, that tower is far away”.

As I walked through the business park, and then the normal park beyond it, the tower took on an increasingly intimidating loom. It's true I’ve seen bigger, the Donauturm is less than half the size of the Empire State Building and Eiffel Tower and about two-thirds of Canary Wharf. But I’ve not (yet) faced the prospect of running up any of those. I was disappointed to see that there were no windows in the concrete cylinder that separated the restaurant and the ground. I had quite liked the notion of seeing the world winding away from me like a cork separated from its bottle. Unsure whether I had helped the environment I was leaving to develop character or just tainted it.

I, like, I suspect most people, cannot help but assess the other competitors at the start of an event. It is reassuring to identify some people you are confident you will beat (and so not finish last). At the bottom of the tower there was not one person about whom I could confidently draw this conclusion. Not even the chain smokers huddled by the changing shed. I realised this was no charity event. The only people that happily give their Saturday morning to exhausting themselves in this manner take their fitness and/or tower running seriously. Or they are bumbling around finding pointless challenges in an attempt to give reason to an otherwise puerile existence.

The usual procedure followed: registration, pin number to top, timing chip around ankle, hang around until the start. My age group (30-39) was scheduled to run between 10.45 and 11.10 (competitors went up one at a time, 20 seconds between each). It was too cold to stand outside so I decided to watch the under 30s at the start.

Again I was caught out by the standard of the set up. The starters were all filmed, a commentator announced what was happening and a large flat screen television flicked between images of the start, half way up, the 135m landing and the finish. Two timer displays were set up, one repeatedly counting down 20 seconds, one showing the time of the most recent finisher. These tended to be 6 minutes or less, 6 seconds per flight of steps. That seemed very quick to me.

The queue of people waiting to climb did not reflect the under 30 demographic I had expected. Everybody in a running kit was jostling for position. I decided I wanted to get on with things so added my frame to the hubbub. Several minutes and some careful manoeuvres later I was watching my 20 seconds count down to zero. The man recording who had run jovially pointed out to me that I was the 100th competitor of the day. I watched the clock and smiled.

0 seconds, I went. My tactic was to go as quickly as possible the whole way, fully anticipating that my “as possible” would continuously decrease. Each landing was numbered, starting at 60 and counting down. I managed to “run” to 40 but with two thirds of the tower left my legs insisted that I walk. So I walked, and hauled myself up by the banister (a painful place to be hauled). The sound of heavy breathing echoed around me, it was my breathing. The man immediately behind me bounded past at 37, the man immediately behind him did the same at 17. I did not care particularly, I only cared about two things – getting enough oxygen in my lungs to stop me feinting and that I had just overtaken the guy starting immediately in front of me, I would not be last.

Finally level 1, out from a claustrophobic, artificially lit tube and into the bright sunshine of the observation deck with a view of Vienna. It meant nothing to me. 6:51:05 said the clock, I desperately gulped for air like a goldfish floundering on a carpet.

Challenge complete.

This was a painful challenge. For the rest of the day my throat felt as if I had woken up following a night of straight spirits in pre-smoking ban pubs and clubs of Bristol, shouting over music and finally eating the contents of an ashtray. I would imagine. But, even though it was agonising and I was relatively slow - finishing 176 out of 289 men – it was over quickly and it was fun. If I was in a city at a time that coincided with running up its tallest building I would try to get involved. Mind you, at €16 per person I may just organise one myself. There was nothing about the competitors, consisting of Austrians, Poles, Germans, Hungarians, Swiss and a Brit that indicated they were any more eccentric/crazy/foolish than any of the other people I have met this year. I think it would be embraced in this country, it would appeal to our sense of quirkiness with a purpose. It’s too late to save Grandstand but I believe lumberjacking season has just finished so Eurosport might have a gap to fill. I just need to find out where I filed the number of that chairman. He seemed like a good sport.



*Sorry Jen, I only plan on buying one glass of wine.