
Photo courtesy of Coolermag.com; permission being requested
Nike should have pulled off a marketing and brand coup with its Human Race: one week after the close of the Beijing Olympic Games, 24 international cities, each hosting a 10k race, runners competing together against the other cities to be the fastest in the world. Frank Vial wrote earlier in this forum about how the Human Race aimed to bring the Olympic spirit home and translate that goodwill into Nike sales.
But in this neighborhood, the actual race had little enjoyment and could potentially become a brand emergency for Nike among serious runners. I ran the Human Race in London, and my own personal experience left me wondering how Nike let such a smart idea go so wrong.
Nike’s Human Race was announced here in London in mid-June with great fanfare: bus sides, full back-page newspaper and magazine ads, web banners; you name it, they were plastered with inspiring, team-building slogans like “The day I raced the world” and “Runners of London Unite.” The race was to be held in the home of English football, the new Wembley Stadium in northwest London. Though situated miles away from central London, it had enough resonance to attract patriotic runners from all over southeast England. Combined with a concert featuring Moby, the race seemed like a “must-do” for runners of all experience levels.
Communication about the race from Nike was spotty all summer. Most of the emails I received encouraged me to join Nike+, gear up at Niketown, download playlists of music for my training through iTunes, and to be on the lookout for more emails and text messages from Nike. It was clear from its announcement that this race was aimed at novice runners, but as a novice runner myself I would have appreciated more constructive information from Nike such as tips on pre-race nutrition, pacing, and stretching, instead of being directed to buying Nike stuff. Most notably, the email blasts lacked critical information like race time, directions to the stadium, and the amenities that would be provided to runners.
A race pack was given to each entrant, but it had to be picked up from the Niketown in central London—a bit of a hassle for runners who didn’t live or work in London. The pack included a red shirt with yellow printing on it that screamed Beijing; it was the most blatant Nike touchpoint that referenced the Olympics. Also in the pack were a wristband, shoe sensor, entry ticket, and coupon—10% off of £150 spent in Niketown. Again, a lot of “Nike,” but no definitive information about schedules, the race course, or what to expect.
The day of the race arrived cold and rainy, and STILL no information from Nike about the race. At Wembley the mood matched the weather: security guards treated runners like football hooligans, denying entry, forcing us to move out of seats. A huge rock concert was underway and the warm-up band wanted runners to jump up and down and make some noise. The only food available was stadium snacks like pizza for sale in the concession booths.
British running legends Seb Coe and Paula Radcliffe were on hand to encourage us runners, but by the time they were introduced to the crowd everyone was grumbling, complaining, and jumping in place to stay warm. During breaks in the “entertainment,” runs in other cities were showcased. Paris, Munich, Istanbul, and Shanghai all looked sunny and cheery, winding through tree- and monument-lined city streets with plenty of spectators! I soon found out that the London race was, for some reason, completely the opposite.
Nearly two hours after runners were required to be in Wembley Stadium, the first wave took off. A few minutes later, my wave took off. The course was clearly not planned by runners, and if it was, then Nike might want to look for new running consultants. It was nearly dark and pouring rain when we set off, and the course was tight, narrow, over-crowded, lit only by streetlights. There was only one water station along the whole route, the course had potholes and uneven surfaces for the majority of the 10k, and several tunnels had no lighting whatsoever.
Wembley Stadium is located in a very industrial neighborhood of northwest London; the course looped around an Ikea, a Tesco supermarket, a gas station, carpet wholesalers, and warehouses, and along a highway—a big contrast from Paris’ leafy streets and statues. Spectators were only allowed near the end of the race, and it made a huge difference to see people cheering along the way. Why didn’t we have encouragement for the first 8.5km?
Once over the finish line, Nike representatives handed out energy drinks and commemorative longsleeve shirts—and that was it. No directions back to the Underground trains, no congratulations, no medals, nothing. Nike ceased to exist after I slowed to a walk. I would have enjoyed a concert then, as a way to celebrate my first race, but it was so late by the time I picked up my bag that I just wanted to get home.
The day after the race saw running message boards on forums like Runners World blowing up with scathing reviews of the race and Nike in particular. Many posted that they would never run another Nike race again, and drew bewildered comparisons to previous, more successful runs. I share the sentiments that this was a Nike party with a race afterwards and am a bit hurt that the London race seemed so ill-planned and miserable compared to how other cities’ races looked. The whole event really felt more like a marketing stunt for a lifestyle brand rather than a quality race hosted by an athletic company.
As a runner, I felt like I was let down by a brand that I always thought stood for athletes—knew what they needed, how they performed, and how to help them do their best. As someone who might have wanted a connection to the Olympic Games, the only thing that made me feel like an Olympian was the fact that my shirt (and everyone else’s) was red and yellow. As a marketing person, I felt like I witnessed a huge brand trainwreck: a brand making a promise to its core audience and breaking it, big time.





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