Tuesday, I turned 55. Funny, back in May, when I was surprised with my 3:47:42 personal best marathon at 54, that for purposes of qualifying for the Boston Marathon, I would be 55, advancing to the 55-59 age category for Boston by five days if I ran in the Steamtown Marathon on Oct. 10. That gives me a reasonable shot of achieving the qualifying time for that group: 3:45. Count those fives (three), my lucky number, along with 10, for October, or two fives.
On my birthday, My mother called 30 minutes to the date 55 years ago that I was born.
“Do you remember what happened just about 55 years ago?” my mother asked.
“No,” I said. “I know what you’re going to say but I don’t remember.”
“Well, I do,” she said.
Running for Your Life: Week Nine
Is it just me, or do young people have more middle-aged types of ailments than, say, twenty years ago, or even five years ago. M tells me that I’m a freak of nature, that I’m built like a tree, a red oak, like the one in our backyard that seems pretty much indestructible. I don’t know so much about that. Thing is, I’ve been running for my life, so I’m not sure what is nature or nuture.
What I do know is that a lot of the young people I know have bona fide medical issues. Weak ankles from high school varsity basketball, inexplicable spine pain that is exacerbated by extreme changes of weather. Then, of course, there are the allergies. So many, so intense. Invariably keeping them from getting started in a serious exercise regimen. “I’d loved to run,” they say, “and if not for this cranky knee I got from high school football, I certainly would. Definitely, I’d be out there. I read the news, I know how good it is for you.”
*
What I do know is that a lot of the young people I know have bona fide medical issues. Weak ankles from high school varsity basketball, inexplicable spine pain that is exacerbated by extreme changes of weather. Then, of course, there are the allergies. So many, so intense. Invariably keeping them from getting started in a serious exercise regimen. “I’d loved to run,” they say, “and if not for this cranky knee I got from high school football, I certainly would. Definitely, I’d be out there. I read the news, I know how good it is for you.”
*
Running for Your Life: Week Eight
At the main entrance to Green-Wood Cemetery at 25th Street and Fifth Avenue, you can hardly hear yourself think for the sound of the parrots. In the late 1960s, the urban legend goes, a crate of Argentinian long-tailed green parrots, known as Quaker Parrots, cracks open like an egg and the birds escape, eventually to make their way to the 1861 monumental brownstone arch built by Richard Upjohn, the builder of lower Manhattan’s Trinity Church.
Here, at the leeward side, because even on the warmest days there is a New York Harbor breeze, and in winter, Arctic at times, the parrots have made their nest out of the wind. In recent years, during renovation, the nests were destroyed and for a season they made do elsewhere before moving back, in exactly the same place they’ve been for decades, out of the wind.
I confess to a touch of Schadenfraude when, during the racket of the birds at 10 a.m. Saturday, the last day of Week Eight, the security guard waves M and I through to join the Sketch Walking Tour. I can’t be sure if he is the same guy who stopped me (See Running for Your Life: Week Four) on my first trip to the entrance. Now, though, I see that there might be a reason for him to be a bit grouchy (if not trigger happy). There must be dozens of birds up there, squawking like there’s no tomorrow.
Here, at the leeward side, because even on the warmest days there is a New York Harbor breeze, and in winter, Arctic at times, the parrots have made their nest out of the wind. In recent years, during renovation, the nests were destroyed and for a season they made do elsewhere before moving back, in exactly the same place they’ve been for decades, out of the wind.
I confess to a touch of Schadenfraude when, during the racket of the birds at 10 a.m. Saturday, the last day of Week Eight, the security guard waves M and I through to join the Sketch Walking Tour. I can’t be sure if he is the same guy who stopped me (See Running for Your Life: Week Four) on my first trip to the entrance. Now, though, I see that there might be a reason for him to be a bit grouchy (if not trigger happy). There must be dozens of birds up there, squawking like there’s no tomorrow.
Running for Your Life: Rest Stop: A Tornado Hits Home
M and I recognized B from our years skate-dancing at Prospect Park’s Wollman Rink the day after the tornado hit. In the old days, she ran the rink, but for the past several years she’s been on grounds, and I often exchange waves with her during my alternate-day runs.
Today, with a push broom half her size, B is vainly trying to clear the park’s north end road of debris.
“Careful, be sure to look up,” she says, pointing to the tree canopy above. “Watch for loose branches.”
We are crossing the road, not fearing the debris, rather the bike racers, who are zipping along the roadway, picking their way through sizable branches, twigs and mounds of leaves. Runners, too, the serious are legging it up the north-end hill. To our left is a giant uprooted tree, drawing rubber neckers to its underside like a Mayan calendar.
Today, with a push broom half her size, B is vainly trying to clear the park’s north end road of debris.
“Careful, be sure to look up,” she says, pointing to the tree canopy above. “Watch for loose branches.”
We are crossing the road, not fearing the debris, rather the bike racers, who are zipping along the roadway, picking their way through sizable branches, twigs and mounds of leaves. Runners, too, the serious are legging it up the north-end hill. To our left is a giant uprooted tree, drawing rubber neckers to its underside like a Mayan calendar.
Running for Your Life: Week Seven
Catching up to real time; Week Seven is September 12-18. Note to self: When climbing the Prospect Park stone staircase to the manmade lake overlook the second and third weeks in September, wear a sturdy hat, if not a helmet. Squirrel-bomb acorns threaten serious head-beaning. No joke.
*
My foot hurts like hell. On Saturday, the end of Week Six, I bought a new pair of Brooks Defyance at JackRabbit in Park Slope, Brooklyn. When I examined the old pair, the sole seemed to be holding up well, except for a spot on the left shoe, which had worn down to a thinnish layer where on the ball of my foot a callus had hardened. I’d been wearing the Brooks brand for years, usually for over a year before replacing them. But these I’d just purchased in April, a few weeks before the Pittsburgh Marathon. Perhaps, I thought, there was something wrong.
*
My foot hurts like hell. On Saturday, the end of Week Six, I bought a new pair of Brooks Defyance at JackRabbit in Park Slope, Brooklyn. When I examined the old pair, the sole seemed to be holding up well, except for a spot on the left shoe, which had worn down to a thinnish layer where on the ball of my foot a callus had hardened. I’d been wearing the Brooks brand for years, usually for over a year before replacing them. But these I’d just purchased in April, a few weeks before the Pittsburgh Marathon. Perhaps, I thought, there was something wrong.
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