Most people visit the famed Exorcist steps next to Car Barn for a photograph, or maybe a joke about how much it would suck to trip and fall. But scrawled writing on the lowest step reveals another reason for visiting these haunted stones: a fast-paced but vicious workout routine also titled “the Exorcist.” Not the most original name, but appropriate, because about halfway through the workout you feel like the life is being sucked out of you.
The routine calls for five laps up and down, interspersed with five pull-ups and ten push-ups, followed by five more laps up and down, this time broken by five knees-to-elbows and ten push-ups. That’s ten laps total, twenty-five pull-ups, twenty-five knees-to-elbows, and one hundred push-ups. This would be plenty tough in a cool New England fall, but in Washington, you will suffer more heat than a misbehaving Republican senator.
The record is currently 13:26.
Looking back up the stairs, I mutter to myself about getting in over my head. Deep breath, exhale, repeat. I move into a tiny alley with a small flight of stairs adjacent to the bigger steps. There’s a metal bar hanging above my head for the pull-ups. The first set is easy. In a moment I mount the stairs, chugging upward.
I hit the top, turn around and bounce down on my toes, back into the alley. After the push-ups my palms are smeared with grease and dirt, and I notice shards of glass scattered around my feet. My shorts are dark blue, but the cruddy dirt I’ve kicked up onto them makes me think they’ll be completely brown before I’m done.
Fourth lap, and a family politely asks me not to fall as I run by. “The stairs look dangerous,” they say. A man with a camera and a Washington Post t-shirt jokes that I look tired. My calves are raging and my thighs feel like they’ve got weights strapped to them. When I get back to the bottom after my fifth lap, sweat comes drizzling down my nose and splatters the baked pavement. I get down for more push-ups, and my breath blows sand and clay into my face like dirty fireworks. An older woman with a Southern accent takes my picture. Then she gets in her Chevy pick-up and drives off.
It’s around this time that I notice the other runners. No one is doing the same routine, but they come and go with a similar, sweaty frequency. Determination haunts their faces. I wonder why they’re running, why I’m running. I like to think it’s for the endorphin rush, or maybe for the sense of accomplishment. I think I came to the steps to challenge myself. But it could just be the feeling that everyone is always on the move, always achieving, and I desperately need to keep up.
I’m on the seventh lap and I feel miserable. I’ve never run a marathon before, nor am I planning on it, but I can only imagine after 26.2 miles your heart probably feels a little bit like this—explosive.
I make it to the top of the stairs and bang my hand on the railing. Damnit! Three more to go. Three laps. I try to move my legs back towards the descent but they mutiny. I curse loudly. Thankfully ,that family isn’t around anymore. I feel like I’ve caved, like I’m weak. Seven laps in fifteen minutes. I curse again. Damn steps.
I go to Wisey’s and buy a water. Actually, I buy four. As I walk out the door and onto the street, three shirtless men dash by, sweat beading off them. They turn the corner at Car Barn, and go down the steps. I take a swig of my water.
I’ll be back tomorrow.
