Thank you. No, no, thank YOU

I got a great thank you note the other day, the kind that makes you want to send a thank you for the thank you. It was short, elegant, sweet but not sentimental. It gave me a kind of rush. Perhaps that is why I am now about six days overdue in sending a thank you note to my weekend hosts. I want to send the very best thank you because it was a very good weekend.

We were out in the countryside of Western Connecticut. Wide open fields of mown hay and woods lay all around the house, while we cooked and ate and drank and talked and laughed and ate some more. At dawn both mornings I went jogging down the two lane road, hooting a halloo at the gaping milk cows and listening to the songs of the early birds. I don’t know how the owners, who were not with us, get any work done. I spent hours on the porch looking at the yellow-headed birds and the clouds and trying to see if those deer in the distance were bucks or does. It gave me a very odd, very simple, pleasure to catch sight of a jet making a contrail and to sit and do nothing but watch it draw the single line across the sky. When one made a little turn to the West, just a little turn, I was so startled I almost dropped my buttered bagel.

So ‘thank you very much for inviting us’ doesn’t seem to fit the situation fully enough, yet I did like the simplicity of the note I got. (Sigh) Maybe tomorrow.

Meanswhile, I read where Bremer said that the one thing George wanted to get from the Iraqis was some kind of token of appreciation for all he had done for the country, a kind of national thank you for coming over note. I am pretty sure my hosts will get theirs before he gets his.

Wake-ups

Because it's been so hot, at least for New York City- 95 degrees fries brains around here, I've been going to the park earlier and earlier. The A train gets me to 59th Street at just about the time you can see your hand in front of your face 5:25am. There are always bikers and runners in the park before me. The cops are always there too. The police go around to the various benches near the entrance and do wake-ups for the people sleeping there. Everyone knows the routine. Cops yell "Hey", sleeping person lifts head and says nothing. Cops move on to the next bench. It's like watching someone do an odd version of the Stations of the Cross or maybe seeing some tourists in a hurry at the Met. I watched a group of people go through the Monet section in about five minutes once. They moved in front of each painting, there was a moment of reflection, some murmured comments and then they moved to the next and the next and the next. I turned around to look at one of the statues and when I glanced their way again, they were gone.

The cops move into the park about the same time I do. They roust the people under the trees near the public johns (which are locked up tight at that hour. I don't know when they open but I have taught myself not to need to go before the morning run.) I grab a sip of water from the fountain, start my music, start my watch and head out. I re-mapped a three mile route the other day because I was getting bored with always going up around the little horseshoe. It is a good run, starts uphill and passes the lake and Cleopatra's Needle is the two mile mark.



But even that can get old, so I figured out on a map that if I ran one and half laps around the lower loop and then headed for Fifth Ave I would get exactly three miles.
Except that it turns out I was trying to kill myself. The lower loop, if you head North is uphill all the way to the Fifth Ave Exit, so I was making myself run up two really long uphills and then finishing with a teeny downhill to the zoo.

Which is why you should always map things out on site and by sight rather than on paper. That was my wake-up.

Finishing Uphill (Rain Coming in Fast)

If you are going to run a long way in July you have to start early in the day. So, at 6:oo AM, I started out from 59th street and the Merchant's Gate. At that hour there are still many homeless, mostly men, still stretched out sleeping under the trees. My plan was to run just up to 72nd Street, then jog over to the river and run up the river to the George Washington Bridge and from there another mile or so to home.

I like running in places I've never been before and, though I had seen lots of people running and biking on the RiverPark trail, I had never been on it North of 79th Street. Luckily for me, one can scout out such things now online. You go to USATF Routes and punch up the map, the satellite or both. So you can see the little ziggy detour in the middle 90's and figure out how the hell to get around in the Fairway (125th Street) area.

The other problem was water. I knew I could get water at several spots but I didn't have a clue exactly where the fountains would be, so I decided to carry a bottle with me. I am learning to travel light which means that on long runs like this one (more than eight miles) I don't carry my phone, my Palm or my wallet, just my housekeys and my Metrocard.

The one thing that didn't occur to me until I hit the river was the road home would be uphill the whole way. "That's why the river flows to the sea" the sarcastic portion of my brain reminded the duller parts, "We are going uphill for the next hour or so. (Grit teeth)

Meanwhile, off to my left, there was a large cloud formation. It was still a ways out, but I've seen enough thunderstorm fronts on the plains of the West to recognize that this was a big one. But I was already committed (or maybe I should BE committed.) so I kept on slogging along. Keeping one eye out for water fountains and the other on the looming stormclouds.

At about 96th Street, I got a break. There was another runner who looked as paunchy as me and who was running at about the same speed, if it can be called speed. Lurching along together we wordlessly challenged the other fat guy to a duel. I flipped from the book I was listening to over to the faster songs and, after we had traded the lead a couple of times, he seemed to fade and I bounced along through the one-hundreds and the one-tens. I got about a quarter mile lead on him and settled in for the long haul to the bridge.

One thing about the George Washington Bridge: from 72nd Street, it looks close. It looks close but not much closer at 96th Street, it's just there. There the whole time you are running, it just never seems to get any nearer. I was thinking about that when I heard the footsteps, I glanced behind me and there was the other fat guy moving at full steam. Apparently he thought we were only racing to 125th Street which was coming up soon. He thundered by me and sprinted to the compass that is embedded there in the sidewalk.

"Thanks for the lift, " I said as I approached, " but I'm on my way to bridge." He shook his head and both his hands and laughed. I hope I run into him again.

From there to about 138th Street, it's dicey. You run pass warehouses and big men pushing huge handtrucks of everything from Avian Water to Canned Cream Corn. There is traffic and honking and forklifts working the backends of semis. Then after making a short left/right you are on a fenced in narrow passage between some railroad tracks on your right and more warehouse on your left. There is also an elevated State Park right there, but the stairs up to it from the river look like they stay locked a lot.

Past there and you are home free. Except that now the real hill begins. The storm was coming in fast, the first big fat drops splatted here and there around me and I wondered just how much more wet I could get. I soak myself completely while running.
The hill under the bridge is very steep, all the bikers either walk up or stand on their pedals to get up, then it turns across a bridge over the railroad and heads up again. They don't call it Washington Heights for nothing.

I must be living right. The rain held off just long enough, just, for me to make the four corners at 181st, Bennett, 184th and Overlook Terrace. As I stuck the key in the building's front door the thunder rolled.

The Worst News for New York

How can this be? New York City has been named the Politest City in the World by Reader's Digest. (See their July Issue. It's pathetic.) The frigging world. This is Guiliani's fault. He's running for President. Shut up, he is too. And he's trying to make out like we are a bunch of goobers. A man who once said the motto for New York should be "We can kick your city's ass." has now turned us into some kind of clones from Ohio.

We're the nicest. Fuggetaboutit.

God. I feel something akin to shame and anger. How dare the Reader's Digest smear us this way? How did they get this so wrong? What? Did a couple of tourists help out another couple of tourists while a Reader's Digest crew watched?
(Why does that sound wrong somehow?)

I know, I know. The signs have been everywhere. The other day some people said they were going out for Italian and I asked them whereto? They said (oh the shame, the utter shame) The Italian Garden. Not Beppos on 22nd (which is so hip they don't even have a website.) Not Vento's down on Hudson Street and 13th, not even Camille's. The frigging Italian- hey, why not stay home and have some Chef Boy-ar-Dee?? I said. They said "They loved his ravioli."

"They loved his ravioli."

Ah, things change, I know. Like nobody knows what two-bits is anymore. I ask people if they want the little keyring for an extra two-bits, they ask how much is it?

It's.....two......bits.

Used to be bagels were six bits for six, a buck and a half for a dozen, but a dozen had fourteen (don't ask). Now a bagel is six bits EACH without a schmear, but that's just me complaining which I will have to stop doing because New York is now the frigging Politeness Capitol of the frigging world.

I don't know if I can do it. Complaining is our best sport after Cutting In Line. Half the fun in the bagel line is waiting for the next customer to hesitate a half a second so you can yell your order and then you both complain to each other and the bagel guy, that NO, I was next!! It's family.

How can they ask us to stop Cutting in Line just so this guy can run for President?

It's a disaster for New York, I tell you, a disaster. Two years from now, you won't be able to tell you are even in New York. We'll be holding doors like in Tulsa, and the kids will be helping little old ladies across the street without snagging some of her groceries and we'll be smiling at each other as we pass on the sidewalk, saying "Howdy" and "Good Frigging Morning" and looking like eight million escapees from the methadone clinic around the corner. Damn you, Rudy.

The First Run of the Summer

Man with Trophy Seen in Porta-Potty

The History of Giuseppe Mazzini is Revealed to Me.

Central Park Sunday 8:00 AM
Why aren't these people in bed? Because it's the Father's Day Five Mile Run. I got there early because I hadn't picked up my number and tag on Friday as I normally do. The first thing I found out is that you don't have to pick up your number and tag on Friday, so that is going to save me a lot of time before the next race. I also found out, mostly by watching people at other races, that you do not have to have a bag of stuff with you. Most of the time I have my fanny pack with an extra shirt (or two), spare set of socks, my gym lock, my Muvo music thingie, my keys and wallet. It's the everyday in New York is a nature hike you have to pack for rule, but today I was determined to do a bare bones run.
I brought my keys and my Metrocard. No extra stuff. I brought the Palm because I wanted to take pictures, but in the future, maybe that stays home.
Because I got there early I got to wander around through the legs. There are a lot of legs.


Any observer would see that the vast majority of these people do not see a five mile run as any kind of a challenge, but more of a 'something to do before we take the rest of the family to the Boathouse for lunch'. The run is not the serious part of the day. There are business meetings going on in the line for the Porta-Potties -two guys ahead of me in line were negotiating the shipment of some huge amount of something and vacations are being planned -the woman in the teal outfit doing the hamstring stretch just saved a lost summer for her friend in the black shorts by offering her the possibility of someone not fulfilling their agreement on the rental in the Hamptons. Oh, and there was a guy with the trophy in the Porta-Potty. Apparently he was delivering it to some group of very large guys in matching running jerseys when he was unavoidably detained. My question was : There are not too many places to put stuff in a Porta-Potty. Where did he put it while solving his problem?


Anyway. It was hot at the start and hot through the first two miles and hot all the way to the finish.
Here is my most usual view during a run. Yes, those are people all the way out of sight and around the corner. It really helped if when you leave your big bag of stuff home, you also leave most of your self esteem. During the race, because I left my music thingie (Mp3 whatever) at home, I got to listen in on more business being done, several people were thinking about leaving their jobs or had already done so, one hugely hairy-shouldered guy was schmoozing his running partner about something but I couldn't catch what it was. I was very glad to have no one to talk to because I don't think I could have carried on a conversation. I did get a lift in the last mile from a passing runner who acted as if she knew me but by that time I was blinded by my sweat. Did I mention that before the run I had half-promised myself that I was going to trot on up to 110th Street to get a few extra miles in? Well, that half promise was not fulfilled.

I finished pretty strong, making sure that two gray-haired guys (in my age group) were left behind, but that was it for me. I got some water cups and wandered over to the Giuseppe Mazzini statue and started to read the sign all about how he well, read it here.
Anyway, while I was reading another finisher came up and started reading too. I waited until he's gotten about done and then said "I run by this guy's head thousands of times now, but I've never stopped to read the sign." "Same here." he replied. It was a reminder to me that I need to see more of the park then just the white line on the pavement.

Over at the Seventh Regiment Statue (I was trying to get a start on things.) one older skinny fellow was leading an even older fellow up the hill to have a seat on the statue's base. I offered them one of my cups of water. Turns out older fellow is the son-in-law and is seventy-one, the older fellow is his father-in-law. We talked about running a little running, older fellow expressed his disappointment at running a couple of over nine/thirties that morning. (I am hoping to break ten minute miles soon.) I called him a rabbit and he laughed and I said I hoped he and his wife's dad had a great Father's Day. Mine was going good so far.

Easy Moving

About everyday this guy rides his bike up to the corner of 23rd and 3rd and gets his boogie on. He's got a little boombox in that front basket and it's tuned to whatever disco is on the air. He rocks it, he claps his hands. He yells "Hey!"


More arm movement then leg, the choregraphy is formed by joy, as is any worthy artform. Here is the dance I have, he says, watch me.

Hey!Hey!Hey!

Oh, yeah. It's easy moving.

I bore through the boredom

B It occurred to me the other night while making the five mile horseshoe of Central Park that while hundreds of runners were passing me, I was not passing anyone. Everyone was passing me and I wasn't staying up with them after they had gone by. Okay, there was that dog walker, but that shouldn't count should it? No.

So I have devised the following: The Royal Sport of Slogging and the Rules thereof:

Okay, the rules: you get one point for every person you pass who is 1)actually running - no points for passing walkers, persons using walkers, tourists groups gaping at the raccoon in the tree. You get no points for passing a speed walker either, although that's probably not going to happen anytime soon, not at my current speed. You also get no points for anyone with a handicap, victims of strokes, blind runner and the very ancient, besides which so far I haven't been able to pass any of them anyway.

2) You then rate your run by A) the distance and time you took and B) how many even more pathetically paced then you you passed.

Pay no attention to how many pass you, it's too depressing and yes, after long consideration because I do not want this to become some kind of weirdness in shorts, you lose any points you've earned if the other slogger re-passes you. (I was going to make it double points lost, but then I remembered last fall when I was racing that mother with the twins in the carriage (She Was Too Running!!) and I couldn't bear to finish a run with negative points. Maybe later, I'll be more confident.)

Also, you get no points if the slogger you are catching up to stops for a breather just as you get to him. I don't know why, that just seems right. Oh, and anyone who is obliviously finishing a long run and is on their last legs is also immune. (You don't want to go charging past someone who has been running for two hours in your first fifteen minutes and think it means anything. That would be crazy. or crazier, I'm not sure.) Of course, none of this means anything.

Here are the results for the remainder of the Monday night run --Total time 57 minutes- Number of sloggers passed ---three. I had a real shot at passing this girl in black shorts and a Jeeter tee-shirt but she turned off at 79th Street just as I was building up some good downhill speed. I know I would have caught up by the time we got to the Tavern on the Green. (Say hello to the doorman Adam. Mention my name.)



Wednesday morning six am

Four miles Forty nine minutes same score -- three.

The only good news is it was not the same three.

House Rules and Taboos

Taboos are not the same as house rules. I’ve stumbled into that truth. What’s a house rule? Well, at my sister's house the knives must go in the dishwasher points down. At a friend's lakehouse in the distant past, there was no such rule, however, there was a blue cup that was never to be put in the dishwasher, just rinsed well in hot water and replaced on the shelf. At my best and oldest friend’s home, you must run the water in the bathroom sink for a minute or two before flushing the john and at my house in order to get out of the bathroom you pull down on the knob while simultaneously yanking the door towards you. House rules are never explained unless a guest requests an explanation and they are not always fully connected to reality.

My sister says the knives should go down to prevent the drowsy first riser from impaling a hand as he tries to find the espresso carafe, but I think it’s a holdover from when her kids were little. They are now in their mid-thirties. I violated the never put the blue cup in the dishwasher rule in the midst of doing a whatever- I- could- to- help- clean- up- this- pit- frenzy. I forgot. I had been told the no blue cup in the dishwasher rule two days earlier. The cup, I was hotly informed the next morning, was NOT dishwasher safe. I then made things worse by pointing out that the blue cup had gone through the dishwasher process just fine. Breakfast was sullen, a morning boat ride was cancelled and we left earlier than we had planned. There isn’t any connection that I know of between running water down a sink drain and “air in the pipes”. That was the explanation for the routine. There is an alarming sound made by the toilet after you flush, but it sounds to me more like a sticky intake valve than air. Maybe I should volunteer to fix it. There is a perfectly good reason for the twisting, pulling, yanking necessary to get out of our bathroom, it’s necessary. I AM TOO GOING TO FIX THAT!! It’s only been like that since we moved in four years ago.

House rules have a ritualistic feel to them. Okay, not the bathroom door one, but the others do. They are ways of bringing order and when they are properly performed the world feels in synch with those present. Ah, no dangerous pointy objects, Ah, my blue cup is right where it belongs, Ah, --wait, I can’t hear over the weird sounds---the air god has been appeased. They are some of the little touch points that bring, with some irrationality, a little rationality.

Violating house rules is seldom fatal to a friendship. There is always a little tension amongst guests and hosts, but love carries us through the rough spots. Love and the right apology, - whoops, this knife is sticking up right next to the espresso carafe. Ha-Ha.

The blue cup fiasco was forgotten by the following weekend and was never mentioned again by any of us. Ever. It had changed from a house rule to a taboo. Taboos are not only not explained by hosts, they are not mentioned, they are not spoken of, they lie about the places we inhabit waiting for us to stumble upon them. They are the unmentionable subjects, sometimes merely politics, sometimes religion, sometimes both, sometimes a recent incident, sometimes a happening so ancient and long forgotten it’s difficult to recall why it became taboo in the first place. Sometimes we forget what is taboo. Taboos simply float there, mid-air, waiting for someone to stumble. Which is how a couple of days ago, in the midst of a too loud defense of Mary Todd Lincoln, I tried to say something about how the reaction in the 1860’s to the death of children was less severe than it is these days and I crashed right into a taboo.



Having a friend who knows the right thing to say at such a moment is one of the most precious gifts I possess. Having the sense to listen to her is just something I have stumbled into and take no credit for.

Street Theatre

h Sirens were echoing down the narrowness of Sixteenth Street as I got near Seventh Avenue. I couldn't tell if they were North or South of where I was huffing along in the darkness. It's lighter now in the mornings now that summer has arrived, but there are still a lot of alleys and other hidden places along my jogging route. There was a man in a light grey suit near the corner waiting for his dog to finish taking his morning dump. He had a cigarette in one hand and the leash and his official plastic-pick-up-the-doo-doo bag in the other. Between me and the dog walker a couple walked arm in arm down the sidewalk. She had her hand tucked inside his belt and he had his hand shoved into the right rear pocket of her jeans. They had done this before, what they were doing was less like walking and more like dance. The dog was finished now and was doing a little dance of it's own. A celebration of another successful mission. As the couple passed him, the man bowed low, his plastic covered hand grasping the lumps of dog poo all the while drawing deeply on his glowing cigarette. The dog was pulling at the leash making it difficult for the grey suit to keep up with the poop gathering but he too had done this many times before.

It wasn't until the couple had gotten to the corner that all of us spotted the half-naked black man in the middle of street. He had no shirt on, and it was a little chilly, and his pants were down around his knees. The couple stopped on the corner and briefly looked his way. The grey suit said "Oh, for Chrissakes" or something and then proceeded to take his harvest to the nearby trash basket. The half-naked black man was jumping up and down on a manhole and making a sound like the distant sirens. He was facing away from all of us watching the approach of two or three cars. The couple didn't wait for the light to change, but paced right out across the avenue, the half-naked man never gave them any notice. The grey suit man and I got to the corner about the same time as the cars reached the man in the street. He did some more jumping as they cruised around him, he waved his arms above his head and made that howling siren sound. Grey suit and dog turned right and disappeared into the entrance of a building. I watched the naked man do some spins and some karate punches. He tried to do a kick but couldn't with his pants down so low.

The real sirens were closer now and, as I watched, an ambulance turned onto the avenue and headed towards us. "Ah, they are coming to get him." I thought as I crossed the street. I turned to watch, I couldn't help myself. The ambulance came roaring down the avenue straight for the man with his pants down, the lights, even in the brightening morning light, were brilliant and glaring and the siren suddenly was very loud. The man was doing a kind of jumping jacks with little leg movement while windmilling his arms like one of those old-timey tap dancers. At the last second possible, the ambulance swerved to the right, missing the jumping man by maybe a foot and then it proceeded on down the street and in a moment was gone.

It was quiet. The man stood still for a moment, he still had his back to me. He heaved a big sigh and bent over a little to get his pants up. He shook himself like a wet dog would after getting out of a lake, then he walked to the other side of the street and headed west.

The next show is on the next block.

The ghost train and other entertainments

H The city is a completely different experience in the early morning. It's a completely different experience every morning, but The Committee for Keeping Things Interesting down at the offices of the MTA must been reading Stephen King this past weekend. Twice since Monday morning (more on that in a moment) a completely empty train has arrived at my stop . Now at five in the morning you would expect a lot of emptiness, but this was a different empty. This train had it's lights off. You couldn't see into the cars. It was as if the longest stretch limo in the universe had just pulled up to the curb,

''Is that who I think it is?'' said a woman to her male friend one night in front of the Booth Theatre. There was a white limo in front of them at the curb, it's windows deeply blacked out.
"That's the good thing about black windows, "he replied,"You can imagine it to be anyone."

Meanwhile, back at my stop I was imagining that it was the Chinese army. I was alone on the platform, they could take it, but I would make it a fight. What a perfect way to invade the city. You get your troops to Yonkers and then march down to 207th street for the A, maybe put the rest on the number 1, it's just a couple of blocks over. You keep the lights shut off so nobody sees the Chinese Army invading the city until they get off at Penn Station. The problem is there are a lot of stairs to maneuver through at Penn Station. You've got to go down a set to get to the passageway and then climb a set to get to the actual station or out onto Eighth Ave. They should have gotten off at 42th Street and taken a cab to Times Square. That's where they'd want to go in the early morning, weary few pedestrians and beautiful lights.


The lights came on revealing it was nobody. No one at all. The train sat there, it gave a little wheeze, and sat there some more, then someone found it's asthma inhaler and it moved on south sounding a bit hollow. That was amusing said someone down at the Committee to Keep Things Interesting.

So was Monday's train. They usually just screw with the trains on the weekends in order to confuse the tourists. "All A trains will be running express to 207th Street, {unintelligible inaudible sounds}is no C local service, for local service take the Express A which will be running local. Or Loco. For local service between 59th and 125th Street, take the B train. (which hasn't been spotted since Jimmy Hoffa disappeared.) or the D which will {unintelligible inaudible sounds} until 5AM." Screwing with the trains during the Monday is dangerous for the MTA because, well, because there are so many of us and fewer of them and we can be the Chinese Army if we have to be.

So when the train pulled into the station on Monday, empty, and did I mention that the platform was loaded with lots of people who had been waiting and waiting for a train,(During rush hour, waiting and waiting is defined as anything longer than one song on your Ipod.)and it stopped but the doors did not open, were they just trying to mess with us? Yes. So several people discussed the matter with the conductor who had lowered his window like a dope. And he opened the doors. We all got on. The doors stayed open. The train did not move.

There was a crackle and a voice, probably the dope, said "Sorry, folks this train has to go directly to 14th Street. This train was not supposed to take on passengers here. Please get off. This train is going directly to 14th Street." Nobody moved. I didn't move I was GOING to 14th Street.

I wasn't in the conductor's car, but I imagine there was some more discussion. We waited and waited, about half a song or more. The doors stayed open. "This train is out of service" the dope tried, "No passengers. All passengers must exit the train."
I didn't move but a lot of more obedient people did. They got off. Soon there was only me and about six others. "Everyone going to 14th Street?" I asked. "Oh yeah,"they said. We sat there. I read the New York Times Dear Diary.

The doors shut and the train started going. It was like your best dream, friends, there was plenty of room and the train was skipping every stop along the way. As a special treat, it went through the stations just slow enough so we could see the looks on people's faces as we zoomed by.

At 14th Street, we stopped. All of us got out of our private limo and went to work.

====
That's not what really happened. What really happened was that the trains were cancelled due to a power outage and I had to run up St. Nicholas Ave at 126th Street to catch a gypsy cab which took me and another abandoned passenger all the way to 23rd and Third for about Thirty-Five Bucks. It was a lovely ride through Central Park and the environs of Lexington Ave which is where I am going now for my Sunday run.