Racing the Q-Line

When Mike’s phone buzzed he already knew what it said. He’d been awake for ten minutes, trying to will himself back to sleep for just a few more minutes of shut eye. It wasn’t happening no matter how hard he tried. He rolled over and looked at his phone. It was a familiar series of emojis, a skull and crossbones, a ship and lastly a weird symbol he knew was meant to be a loop. He laughed, Pirate Ship Loop Everyday, or at least on Fridays, he said to himself as he rolled out of bed to get dressed. He had about 10 minutes before Jeff, his long time training partner showed up.

“PIRATE SHIP LOOP EVERYDAY!” Jeff exclaimed as he got out of his car, probably waking up half the block. Mike nodded in silence. 

“You ready?” Mike asked and without needing a response, they started down the middle of the empty street. 

Their watches beeped slightly out of sync, Jeff saw a number that started with a 6, he backed the pace down just a bit. Without saying a word, Mike followed his lead, unsure why his buddy, known amongst their friends for pushing the pace for any number of illogical reasons, was unusually concerned.

“Everything ok?” Mike asked. 

“Yeah. Just want to save some, you know?” Jeff asked rhetorically. 

He didn’t, but complied.

Turning onto the Dequindre Cut they were happy to find it plowed from the recent snow. Heading south, benefiting from the slight loss of elevation, they ran through the next mile equally as fast, but with less effort, so Jeff ignored his watch. 

They made small talk as old training buddies do. Mike recounting his night in the ER. A relatively boring one with no gunshot wounds to tend to. Jeff gushed about how a local Strava legend had recently given him kudos. As they looped the Pirate Ship, Jeff was feeling good, feet popping off the ground effortlessly. The watch beeped and reported another mile at 6:50. That’s fine, he said to himself, I’m feeling good. This is perfect. He smiled, confident he’d timed his taper just right. He was sharp and today was the day it would count. 

When they reached Hart Plaza they turned right to go back up Woodward Ave towards Mike’s place. The normal Pirate Ship loop on a normal Friday. But as they stepped lightly on the slippery, canted stones that make for poor footing through the plaza, Mike could tell something was different. There was a palpable excitement coming from Jeff and he wasn’t quite sure what it was, but it wasn’t going to take long to find out. 

“There it is! We timed it perfectly!” Jeff said so giddy he was now more bouncing than running. 

“There what is?” Mike asked. Everything looked the same as it always did on these early Friday morning runs. The Plaza was deserted. Woodward Ave wouldn’t come to life for another hour or so. For what he could tell, it was just going to be another run up Woodward Ave, like they’d done hundreds of times. 

“The Q-Line! We’re going to race it!” Jeff announced.

“What? Why?” Mike wondered aloud.

The Q-Line was Detroit’s most recent attempt to convince the outside world it was a modern city that cared about public transit. More a PR stunt than anything useful, it is a single rail line traversing just over three miles from Downtown to New Center. A route already serviced by a bus line, that still did the same thing. Since the rails were laid in a lane of traffic, the Q-Line is arguably slower than driving, as it stops at all the stop lights and is often delayed for long periods by people parking on the tracks. While it’s utility value is suspect at best, it does offer expansion on Detroit’s theme of disconnected rail systems established by the People Mover in the late 80s.

As soon as the Q-Line was completed, there were tales of runners racing it. Some would win. Some would lose. Jeff was looking to test himself against the beast. Mike, while less enthusiastic, was happy to see this play out.

Ding, Ding. Ding, Ding. The Q-Line bell rang, indicating it was leaving its stop at the corner of Woodward and Congress. 

“Let’s go!” Jeff said as they crossed Larned, already about a block behind as the train left it’s station. Letting adrenaline get the better of him, he accelerated to an unsustainable pace. A match burned he’d never get back. The Q-Line, unaware that it was in a race, continued on like it always does.

Jeff and Mike stayed on the western side of Woodward Ave. Jeff had been planning this race for months, and knew that the west sidewalk was the straighter line. The Q-Line, on the eastern side of Woodward, would have to go around Campus Martius, taking a slightly longer line. This was where Jeff had planned his first move and he smiled as they pulled slightly ahead, the Q-Line decelerating to stop at Gratiot Ave. 

Quickly checking for cross traffic as they approached Gratiot, Jeff knew two things, they’d need to run through a few red lights that the Q-Line had to stop for and cross traffic in Detroit was highly unlikely to yield to pedestrians. He wanted to beat the Q-Line, but he didn’t want to die trying. Before getting to Grand River, he heard the Ding, Ding. Ding, Ding. The Q-Line was coming a little sooner than he’d hoped. 

“Hey, do you think they programmed the lights so the Q-Line stops less than a car?” Mike asked, a bit less bothered by the pace and with plenty of oxygen to speak in full sentences. He didn’t care about the answer, he just wanted to make sure Jeff knew that he was trying a lot less hard to run this fast. 

“Ugh.” Jeff groaned and immediately regretted wasting the oxygen. 

Jeff’s watch beeped, 5:43. He tried to convince himself it was fine, despite knowing that the last mile also had some slow bits mixed in as they danced their way across Hart Plaza. He knew he was running a lot faster than that and hoped it was sustainable. Shaken back into the moment by the rumble of a rail car pulling even next to them, he looked over trying to muster a poker face, the Q-Line didn’t even bother glancing in his direction. Like a competitor with nerves of steel, it pressed forward as if it was only out doing what it did everyday. 

“Uh-oh,” Mike sneered. 

Jeff tried to ignore him.

Just then, the Q-Line started to slow for its stop at Grand Circus. Jeff knew there was bound to be some yo-yoing involved, but he thought it would come a little further north. In his mind, where he’d raced the Q-Line hundreds of times, it had never been this close, this early. As it came to a full stop, opened its doors to allow the zero passengers inside to get out and wait for nobody to board, Jeff rejoiced in automated processes, even when they were completely unnecessary. 

At the north side of Grand Circus they swung slightly into the road, running in the turn lane to avoid the construction scaffolding in front of the new Little Caeser’s Headquarters. 

“When do you think they’re going to finish that construction?” Mike asked, enunciating far too well for someone running sub 5:30 pace. 

Jeff grunted. 

With no oncoming traffic in sight they stayed in the turn lane. It felt like their lead was growing, or maybe Jeff was just trying to be optimistic as the lactic acid in his legs started to accumulate. When they passed Little Caeser’s Arena and were still ahead of the Q-Line Jeff allowed himself the smallest of glances over his right shoulder. Through slightly blurred vision he could see the Q-Line, stopped on the overpass for I-75. He tried to accelerate again. He thought that he had. Even if he didn’t go any faster, at least he was keeping his foot on the gas. Just beat it through Mack, he thought to himself. He knew there were a few stops between here and there. With just a few more lights, he thought there was a chance.

Mack Ave, a major east-west road across town, would be the first intersection where they would have to deal with traffic. The last thing Jeff wanted to do was stop. He knew that standing idle for even a moment wouldn’t bring recovery, it’d bring paralysis. As they approached, now back on the sidewalk, the light in their direction was green. This of course meant they could run through without stopping, but so could the Q-Line, which was quickly catching up, it’s warning bell getting louder with each ring. There was a station on the south side of Mack the train would have to stop for. It’d be great if it got stopped at the light too. The worst case scenario, Jeff thought in garbled, oxygen lacking logic, was if the light turned red while the Q-Line was already stopped. He needed its progress to be as inefficient as possible. As they ran through the intersection he kept on eye trained on the light above and to his right. It never turned. He allowed himself a quick peek over his shoulder, the Q-Line was just stopping as the light changed to yellow. Crap! 

His watch beeped as they went through another mile, he didn’t bother looking. 

Now that they were in Midtown he dug deep, remembering old high school XC races, where it hurt, but you could smell the finish line. His old coach’s voice boomed inside his head with motivation he’d long since forgotten. He’d wanted to win the race inside the race to Mack and he had. Could he win this section to Warren as well? He had to. Ding, ding. 

As they raced north through Midtown he got a surprise boost of energy from the regular crowd hanging outside the party store at Willis. They’d run past these guys so frequently that they stopped making fun of their short shorts or tights a long time ago. But today, they cheered as he raced past. Or at least Jeff decided they were cheering. The cheers injecting just a tiny amount of adrenaline to offset a pinch of pain in his legs that felt heavier by the foot fall. These guys get it! He thought as he looked up, saw Warren Ave just four blocks ahead and realized he was still in the lead. The universe, always happy to apply a pin prick to a balloon chimed in, Ding, ding. Ding, ding. The Q-Line was less than a block away and closing the gap. 

Jeff played the same mental gymnastics as they approached Warren Ave as he had back at Mack. He needed a green light, but he needed the Q-Line to get stuck at a red. He threw up a prayer to god of racing, promising that if he granted him this one favor, he’d never push the pace on a Saturday RunDetroit group run again. The light stayed green, but this time he didn’t look back. He didn’t have the energy to turn his head. 

Mike, who had remained silent for several blocks, realized that they were quickly approaching their usual turn to go back to his house but that was not where the Q-Line ended. “Are you planning on racing this thing all the way to the end of the line or just to Kirby St?” He asked. Jeff replied, but it didn’t come out as decipherable English. Mike made an educated guess, based both on the shape that his friend was currently in and the fact that Jeff was not afraid of an arbitrary finish line, that they were going to stop at Kirby. Or, he was anyway, he didn’t care about this race. 

Halfway down the last block. In front of the main branch of the Detroit Public Library, Jeff in a haze of pain and exhaustion started to believe he has it won when the familiar Ding, ding, Ding, ding. rang out, causing a shift from predator to prey and he begins to run scared, driving his knees as the world closes in around him. He can just make out the intersection through blurred vision. The other side of the road, he thinks to himself. He can hear the rumble of steel on steel as the Q-Line closes the gap. Instinctually he leans forward as he crosses the curb on the north side of Kirby. A lean so desperate, he’s barely able to keep his balance as he simultaneously pulls the plug, grateful the effort is over. In a controlled tumble he lays on the ground, splayed out as if he’d just been shot, chest heaving violently as his lungs, legs and brain crave oxygen. 

He stays like this until his vision opens up the world around him where he sees his buddy Mike, standing over him, hands on hips and rolling his eyes. 

“Did I win?” he asks. 

“Sure.” Mike replies, extending a hand to help his buddy off the ground. 

They cross Woodward as the Q-Line continues north and jog the rest of the way back to Mike’s in silence. There’s nothing left to say.