Fans of Diplo and running alike gathered at Robin Williams Meadow on Oct. 11 for the annual Diplo’s Run Club — a 5K with a Diplo DJ set at its finish line.
Brooke
3:08 a.m.
I go to bed.
6:45 a.m.
I wake up, pick up Juliet and drive to Golden Gate Park.
8:30 a.m.
A Waymo honks at me. An elderly woman directs me to take her parking spot, and when we tell her we’re there for Diplo’s Run Club, she curtsies and tells us to win for her. We’re ushered through to the start line. We run almost a 5K; the course is short, and we can’t even get through the finish line because of the horde of people taking selfies in front of it. In an effort to get the full experience, we take a selfie too, and when I look at it later, there’s a man in a MAGA hat right behind us. I came in 5,215th place.
Brooke Kirchner | Courtesy
10:00 a.m.
We are handed bottles of water that claim to contain gold and silver and some gummy bears from a brand called Grüns, which, the package boasts, will support our gut health, energy, immunity, recovery, beauty and cognition. I eat three packs, and they are green and very hard. “You have nutrition gaps. Grüns fills them,” says their website. One bag costs $64.
10:18 a.m.
We enter the VIP area by virtue of our press pass. Normally, this ticket would cost $177. Those who paid only $85 are herded into the packed general admission area. The VIP section is filled with corporate health brands offering their services: a “VIP foot massage,” for which about 100 people are waiting in line; an on-site chiropractor, where a variety of medieval torture devices appear to be in use; and a booth called Rythm, where the VIPs have gathered to have their blood drawn and lab tested.
I look around at the signage: “Dopamine Dispensary,” “Non Plus Ultra Plus Bar,” “Running Is Dope,” “Unf— Your Feet.” Every brand seems to have a name that is not a word.
The crowd in general admission appears to be having more fun.
10:31 a.m.
Diplo arrives on stage. Apple Watch-clad hands fly into the air. A drone flies out from behind Diplo; everyone cheers for the drone. The line for the special VIP bathroom is giant, so I escape to the porta-potties with the masses.
“Rave” feels like a misnomer for what’s actually happening. I think if LinkedIn were a place, this would be it.
This felt like the kind of fun you would have on a workplace retreat, which is to say, a) not very much, and b) that it was intended to make us better at working. What Diplo’s Run Club showed me was not, in fact, how to have fun at 10 a.m., but rather that I have nutrition gaps, my feet need to be “unf—ed,” and my blood needs to be drawn every month. What a relief that there are so many companies to solve all my new problems and that they’re all conveniently located at Diplo’s Run Club.
Juliet
T-minus one day till the race: Friday, 11 a.m.
Another one-way street. God, this city blows, but alas, I must pick up my race bib. After dashing around the same four one-way streets in an attempt to snag a parking spot, I finally arrive at a nightmarish warehouse: concrete flooring and walls laden with soft house music and a surplus of tech-fanatic millennials.
Freebies that will seemingly solve every health problem you’ve ever had fill the room, along with long lines to pick up your bib and free T-shirt. Truthfully, the shirt is great quality, and, like any other normal person, I am thrilled for the free items.
Raceday, 6:38 a.m.
There is no good reason to be up at this hour. But it’s Diplo’s Run Club, so I have got to rally. After a trilogy of morning affirmations to get me out of bed, I put on my race shirt, assemble my morning meal of cottage cheese on toast and espresso with cold milk. Not my finest, but no matter, Brooke has arrived.
8:28 a.m.
The race starts in two minutes, and we still have to park. Thousands of people fly by in front of our car. House music blares, and I begin to understand the sheer number of people attending this event. A mob clad in Alo sets races past my window.
8:52 a.m.
In the spirit of investigative arts reporting, Brooke and I decide to jog the race. On my left, a mom, dad and two little kids are all wearing matching grey donkey onesies. On my right, there’s a couple in matching strawberry costumes.
Among the silly costumes, there are also many three-inch inseam Lululemon shorts. I notice a spectrum of how seriously people are taking the race.
9:34 a.m.
Somewhere in the midst of all the runners, there’s a finish line. And after some time spent wading through that selfie-taking horde, we crossed it.
10:30 a.m.
It dawned on me, never have I ever finished a short morning run and wished to be at a DJ set immediately after. I am sweaty, starting to feel a blister forming on the underside of my foot and can feel my legs beginning to chafe. But everyone seems to be enjoying themselves, so I figure there must be something enlightening about this experience.
11:52 a.m.
Diplo’s set is finishing, and I am ultimately over it.
At the end of the day, I feel overcome with uneasiness about the sheer waste that events like these create. From pounds of fresh banana peels — tossed into a recycling container — to individually wrapped vegetable gummies and $17 canned gin and tonics, I didn’t understand the purpose of any of it. Maybe it’s just that morning DJ sets don’t require intent and message, but when an event of this scale has the kind of environmental impact this one did, I would hope that it would at least be grounded in a common goal. Instead, the event reeked of capitalism and represents the intense hustle culture San Francisco can oftentimes emit. I was truly excited to experience this hybrid race-rave, but I came away from it feeling confused, overwhelmed and mostly tired.