In one of my first memories, I’m standing over our cracked poured concrete laneway. Because of a gully water underground pipeline, my childhood home, which consequently was set back about thirty yards from the street, was connected to the outside world by this narrow gray ribbon. As a boy, about six, that old lane seemed an endless stretch, a journey itself.
After a rain the snails would come out of the grass and dry off there, and I’d stand over them and watch, bending to my haunches, studying, particularly the way they stretch their heads, the antennae arching out, taking in, what? So much is going on, or so it seems, and all at what is no speed at all, as close to reverse as possible.
Can time go backward? I could learn more from the snails if I could join them, and I lean in even closer, almost touch them, am as close as I can be, so that will have to do, that is enough, to see, almost feel, these animals that barely move yet convey so much in their stretching, head, little nodules and neck, on their way, coming from places where it isn’t out of the question that they were a moment before moving backward through time.
Isn’t that why I watched? Isn’t that part of the reason to be child-thrilled by the idea of something that could show so much energy and purpose at the fraction of the speed of a human heartbeat?
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Week Two begins hot, mid- to high 80s and low 90s. Humid. We’ve a plan to see friends in Millbrook, New York, up the Hudson River on Saturday, Aug. 14, and Thursday, I’m set on a roundtrip 1 hour-30 minute run, without hills, to a water station at the Christopher Street Pier, which at my marathon pace, about 8:40 per mile, will be my long run: a little over 10 miles.
On Monday, I run at 10:30 a.m. in the park: midday temp 91. I’ve not a lot of time before work at the New York Post, where I design graphics and write headlines for a living. (No, I did not write the FREAKIN’ FLIER! headline that day for the wingnut JetBlue attendant Steven Slater, a 20-year vet of the airline industry who quit his job in gonzo style and was tab fodder for a week.) Still, though, I keep to my plan of running for an hour, with a set of six up-and-down intervals on the stone-step staircase that overlooks the park’s manmade lake.
On long runs, I run my 8:40 pace, with the view to bank the miles. That’s essential now, with only nine weeks to go before the marathon, to have trained A LOT of miles. (The books get precise, but enough to say here; if you think you’ve banked enough miles with nine weeks to go, you probably haven’t if you want to be a 53 percenter; See previous post.)
I’ve visual goals on the Week Two long run on Thursday. The Jehovah’s Witness Watertower clock at the Brooklyn Bridge, a half-hour door to door. From my home, I run along Third Street, down the Gowanus valley, a gradual rise, one of only two “climbs” on this run, up from the canal – pretty ripe in the August humidity – on the upside of the gully the row houses of Boerum Hill, Carroll Gardens and Cobble Hill. At Carroll and Hoyt a sign for Duvel, the Belgian beer. They carry it at the gourmet deli, but I’ve never seen anyone enter. Just the guy who runs the cash, on the street, staring.
Across Atlantic Avenue and into Brooklyn Heights, where M and I will meet at a winebar tonight – one that I spot on Henry Street, just down the road from the movie we want to see, “Winter’s Bone,” based on the novel by Daniel Woodrell, close to the Clark Street subway station for her, the High Street one for me. M will like that; a little different, out of our comfort zone.
Up and over the Bridge, the second "climb," careful with the “deaf” ones – runners and walkers, oblivious in headphones. I run at the edge of the bike lane, watchful that no one is zooming up behind, and of the lovers and families who stop suddenly to admire a view. Soon I am on the street, feeling strong, crossing through City Hall park, where at this hour, about 10 a.m., all the park benches are taken, the splash of the water fountain refreshes. Next, I check out the proposed home for the mosque on Park Place, not far from the World Trade Center site.
The sour faces don’t present themselves until I’m on the Hudson River Parkway itself. Runners in headphones, grim-looking, some actually talking as they run. Multi-tasking. By the time I get to Pier 40, the sour faces turn to appraisals, the gay couples camped out in the free tennis courts, chewed-up surface at the service line, never a true bounce. Basketball court, empty.
The man at the Christopher Street pier snack bar tells me it’s 10:26. Perfect, that’s 45 minutes, halfway. I feel a blister forming on the ball of my left foot, so I begin to alter my pace a bit, run more flat-footed, ease into the Tai Chi horse position as I go. In Tai Chi, the idea is to feel the gentle pull of a puppet master, lifting your head, centering your body, lightening the foot strikes.
I’m on my way back now, in Cobble Hill, maybe Carroll Gardens, and the blister feels like it will need some treatment. It’s a long straight stretch and, despite the break in the weather, low-80s when I started, the humidity is getting to me. I drop down to what must be a 9-minute mile.
A woman is pushing an wire grocery cart. A rust-colored ’do, sweet mother-type in a sensible dress, sensible shoes. She smiles and stops as I approach her at a place where the sidewalk is narrowing as so often happens running on urban streets, with their fire hydrants and street trees, barrels of all types, workmen tearing up the sidewalks, holes in the asphalt.
She stops in what seems a long distance from me, watching. I’m gassed. And only 8.5 miles in.
The lady nods and smiles. “Let the runner pass,” she says. I manage a smile and put on a bit of a kick. Take it home.
Next: Running for Your Life: Week Three
