The truth is I can’t see it. Not on this first run in Morocco. Tangier. Not in the old city, the medina, it’s called, or the Casbah, or citadel, forever changed by a single song by the Clash, “Rock the Casbah,” and now Moroccan houses, really just two bedrooms, a kitchen and a sitting area (what more do you need?) are bought up, walls knocked down, and become home to the third wave of jet setters, at Manhattan prices. Nine hundred and more streets, some the narrowest of passageways but cars and small trucks can bring goods up through the tourist row, the dark rattan chairs of the Café Central that nods to Rick’s Café Americain, and another time, because M and I are here in the morning before the European ferries arrive, and can imagine how foreign the glamour of the likes of a Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman would be in Tangier 2010. Yet Tangier still bears the imprint of its artists and socialites, famously Barbara Hutton, the Poor Little Rich Girl, the Woolworth heiress who died thirty years ago, and in the cobbles, embedded, are
Running for Your Life: Skinny Man
I am wondering about The Path Man as I go. I never know what will come to mind on a long run, but The Path Man often does. Before Brooklyn became SoHo on the Gowanus, The Path Man took up residence along a dirt trail in Prospect Park. I don’t know his given name. He had a washbasin on a stump, shirt and trousers that slung from a rangy bush, a clutch of whittled spears he’d carved from the branches of fallen oaks. In those days just a handful of people would venture deep into the park, and at night only fools because what lamp standards there were had been smashed by vandals, and under trees and weedy bushes crack users nested, rapists and robbers for a score, or so our apartment super said at the time and he was born near the park so he would know. But I never saw a needle or a syringe, or even as much as a cigarette butt near The Path Man’s home. I’m thinking I was his first runner on his path; every other day for years, a
Running for Your Life: After The Race
Now what? It’s two days after Steamtown. Boston is Monday (Monday?), April 18. The earliest I can apply is Monday. And despite my aching feet, I will. Will, it seems, is the operative word.
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K found Thurber (see right!), a mahogany-colored bloodhound mix, on Petfinder.com. For as long as she can remember, she’s wanted a bloodhound. As a child, two of her favorite books were on sharks and “The Right Dog for You: Choosing a Breed That Matches Your Personality, Family and Lifestyle.” Sharks weren’t an option, and a Bichon, Snowball, adopted us at a Manhattan pet store, and he was the sweetest family dog for eighteen years. But the dog book said bloodhounds are loyal but not needy, which is just like me, little K said. I’d love to have a bloodhound.
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K found Thurber (see right!), a mahogany-colored bloodhound mix, on Petfinder.com. For as long as she can remember, she’s wanted a bloodhound. As a child, two of her favorite books were on sharks and “The Right Dog for You: Choosing a Breed That Matches Your Personality, Family and Lifestyle.” Sharks weren’t an option, and a Bichon, Snowball, adopted us at a Manhattan pet store, and he was the sweetest family dog for eighteen years. But the dog book said bloodhounds are loyal but not needy, which is just like me, little K said. I’d love to have a bloodhound.
Running for Your Life: Steamtown: The Race
Can’t remember when I haven’t been able to sleep like this. Sleepless in Scranton. Well, Moosic. Moosic, Pa. In a Courtyard Marriott, a cul de sac mall where that evening’s carb meal choice, Bella Trattoria, settled on K and me like an alien/scene in “Men in Black.” Instead, it’s the larded-up special at a slice palace, 10 p.m. Saturday and we got the place to ourselves.
Which may explain why my first thought when I saw the corpse was to think I'm having a bad-food delusion or sleep-walking. I’m in my gear (new insoles, taped-up right ankle, thanks Dr. Mollica!, but no PAINKILLERS!, damn, I should have insisted), when I walk up to my car at 5 a.m. for the drive into downtown where I’m told I can get a bus to the starting line. In the hollows, it’s gotta be close to freezing, so no way am I asleep, can’t be, so sure enough that’s a spit-polished-shined shoe at the rear of the car parked near mine in the hotel lot. And, yep, a body’s attached.
Which may explain why my first thought when I saw the corpse was to think I'm having a bad-food delusion or sleep-walking. I’m in my gear (new insoles, taped-up right ankle, thanks Dr. Mollica!, but no PAINKILLERS!, damn, I should have insisted), when I walk up to my car at 5 a.m. for the drive into downtown where I’m told I can get a bus to the starting line. In the hollows, it’s gotta be close to freezing, so no way am I asleep, can’t be, so sure enough that’s a spit-polished-shined shoe at the rear of the car parked near mine in the hotel lot. And, yep, a body’s attached.
Psyched!
All right. It's only a little over 24 hours since Steamtown. More later, but I did want to let everyone know that not only did I finish, but I managed a personal best: 3:33:08, on the runner's chip! They tell me I placed 493rd out of 1,952 finishers, and 15th out of 110 in my age group. And Boston! That time qualifies me so that I can run the Boston Marathon. Now I have finished more marathons (3) than those in which I was forced to stop due to injury (2). Woo Hoo!!!
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