In the good old days in brownstone Brooklyn, winter was a sensation for the cross-training athlete. When ice and snow transformed pavement to peril, I went skating before work at the outdoor rink in Prospect Park. Long before I saw my first rat, I considered myself one: a rink rat. M and I grew up skating, and from the 90s until 2010 in the winter it was a special joy.
Now, though, even the real rats don’t come to Wollman Rink, Brooklyn. That’s because that fond ramshackle barn was demolished to make way for what politicians and civic boosters alike said would be a world-class ice palace. Twin ice surfaces, with dramatic views of The Lake in Prospect Park.
Ha! It’s now three seasons and counting with no rink, much less two. Deadlines have come and gone, and there’s no telling when there will be ice skating again in Prospect Park. Street views of the building project itself are blocked by iDesign-like hoarding boards that promise: “Lakeside Is for Skating; Lakeside Is for Ice Hockey; Lakeside Is for Nature; Lakeside Is for Learning . . .”
But a view from the hill that overlooks the building site in winter, without leaves on the trees that have been brutally thinned by a series of storms in recent years, suggests a different story. There is no work going on, only a concrete shell of a structure in place.
The truth is, Lakeside Is for Boondoogle.
So, again, there will be no wintertime ice skating in Prospect Park for athletes like me. Or for children, their parents. And as Valentine’s Day approaches, for lovers, either.
Next: Running for Your Life: Mix It Up
Running for Your Life: The Next Big Run!
Chicago 2013. Save the date: Sunday, Oct. 13, two weeks after the Catalina Island Half, where I have a longstanding plan to run with my daughter, K, seen at below right while on the sidelines of the Pittsburgh Marathon 2010, to honor my first marathon in 23 years. (K’s now in the City of Angels, natch.)
Chicago’s registration is in two weeks, then I’ve got less than eight months before race day. My goal this time: I’d like to improve on my Personal Record of 3:33:08. Good enough, though, is 3:40, which would re-qualify me for the Boston Marathon 2015.
From the beginning there was Chicago. My grandfather’s favorite club, the Blackhawks (Stan Mateeker, he called him), so the Golden Jet, Bobby Hull, was my first hockey god. My wife, M, was born in Chicago, and we were married there, at the Standard Club.
For years, M’s parents lived along the Lake Michigan waterfront, at One Thousand Lakeshore Drive. I know the short jog to the shore very well. For the next few months I’ll be running and training with the idea that I’ll be back home (I grew up on Georgian Bay, Lake Huron) along the Great Lakes shores, where I’ve never run a marathon.
Next: Mix It Up
Chicago’s registration is in two weeks, then I’ve got less than eight months before race day. My goal this time: I’d like to improve on my Personal Record of 3:33:08. Good enough, though, is 3:40, which would re-qualify me for the Boston Marathon 2015.
From the beginning there was Chicago. My grandfather’s favorite club, the Blackhawks (Stan Mateeker, he called him), so the Golden Jet, Bobby Hull, was my first hockey god. My wife, M, was born in Chicago, and we were married there, at the Standard Club.
For years, M’s parents lived along the Lake Michigan waterfront, at One Thousand Lakeshore Drive. I know the short jog to the shore very well. For the next few months I’ll be running and training with the idea that I’ll be back home (I grew up on Georgian Bay, Lake Huron) along the Great Lakes shores, where I’ve never run a marathon.
Next: Mix It Up
Running for Your Life: Rambling Runs in Key West
Key West is a state of mind. A place to bring work and books, that then sit on wicker furniture, untouched. Best to set minimal goals. Like referring to the foliage as fronds, not leaves. Or considering the wisdom of an afternoon rest under a palm tree with ripe-looking coconuts thirty feet above you.
Running in Key West is especially satisfying. For me, who normally trains in flat land-challenged Park Slope, Brooklyn, it’s a dream, either along the sidewalks facing Higgs and Smathers beaches, or up and out on Flagler Avenue, where on a recent visit I saw a spoonbill rooting for grubs, and admired, in the parking lot of Key West High School, a massive conch sculpture made of welded metal that was then painted, one part, lustrous pink, revealing inner space that literally cries out to be pressed to the ear.
Listen to the sea.
Off Flagler, just north of Fifth Avenue, a local told me to take Seventh Avenue and run along the salt marsh park road. The entrance is at Government Road and Flagler. Down this road only the most adventurous tourist comes. The company and sights instead: cove-hugging cormorants, turkey buzzards, egrets, dog walkers, an Air Cubana twin-prop relic that an aviation enthusiast may just be rehabbing, a sad-looking paint ball field, and perhaps most surprising, sign storage for Fantasy Fest (Don’t ask.)
Last year, M and I were in Key West and I wrote this post:
Back from Key West, the Conch Republic, where the captains who run the sunset sails thrill their predominantly Boomer clientele with the knee-slapper, “Welcome to North Cuba!”, upon return in the darkness because for most of us land lubbers it’s more than a little disorienting out there, for an hour out of the sandbank and mangrove low-water keys, the Gulf Stream visible the night we see the sun sink into the horizon and the captain blows the conch so that his face glows purple in contrast to the blood-orange of the sunset, all aboard the AppleBone, as poet Billy Collins dubbed it, because it was a literary cruise, not like the Disney one, a floating theme park that moors near our oceanfront balcony, ESPN Sports Center on a giant screen topside blaring into the otherwise romantic night; shallow draught Caribbean port bruisers these beasts; how they get into the slips, water deep as elderly knickers is anybody’s guess, and a frightening thought that the town fathers have been considering allowing 10,000-passenger monsters into port (although the Italian cruise disaster may put an end to that . . .), which if that doesn’t kill whatever charm north-to-central Duval Street has left then I’m a monkey’s uncle, not to mention the dubious safety of the cruiseships themselves, don’t begin to think that the capsizing of the Costa Concordia is an anomaly, the physics of these boats leaving no margin for error, turn away if you see the chalkboard math on the probability of it happening again, and especially in a place like Key West, where admittedly you do have to ask the question, “How many people can drown in two feet of water?”
I didn’t see Gene Hackman when I was in Key West. Or hear about the car accident he was in. But we did see Ricky Williams and marine life:
• Ricky “The Green Mile” Williams is lifting M in the air, her left foot is eighteen inches off the ground, legs helicoptering. Ricky, now playing with the Joe Tenuto Chicago-style blues band. Drummer we heard has been in bands since he was six, but no longer practices between gigs. Ricky does. Ricky, the blind keyboardist, never stops playing .¤.¤.
• With M, watching the minnows and barracuda, pinhead pursuers and slowly, as if the late scene entrance of the graybeard theater veteran, a ray swims with a nonchalance we’ve been waiting for. We stay for a beat then hop abroard our $40-per-week bikes and leave the water’s edge, Martello Tower Museum, just east of the Key West International Airport.
Next: Running for Your Life: The Next Big Run!
Running for Your Life: Why So Smug?
Maybe it’s just me, but this season every human image I see – in subway advertising, in New York Post lifestyle coverage, in glossy magazines – shows a smug expression.
Now that everyone with a phone is a photographer, then both sides, photog and subject, come to expect the smug caricature of their otherwise more complete selves.
I don’t see anything sinister in this, although perhaps a younger-me would. Rather, when we live in an age where each of us in the media-defining elite can easily aspire to be a leader in the constantly dividing and narrowing court of public opinion, smugness is not only our default expression but one that will only deepen and crystallize as this endlessly self-reflecting culture rolls on.
In this vein, beware the power and seduction of zomboid devotees of Ayn Rand and “Atlas Shrugged” (check out “Ayn Rand Nation” by Gary Weiss http://amzn.to/UQuYYB), the mirror image of New York City-style smugness, who in contrast to the complacent lamestream media have a truly sinister plan to dominate the mush we’ve wrought as social and political culture.
Running for Your Life: Rambling Runs in Key West
Running for Your Life: Weekend Cold Weather Running Tips
Current temperature in Brooklyn: 44 degrees F, five-day forecast highs: 47-55 degrees
Current temperature in Edmonton: 3 degrees F, five-day forecast highs: 5-29 degrees
Best airline-ticket price between NYC and Edmonton for Friday, Jan. 11 to Monday, Jan. 14 on Priceline (mid-afternoon Jan. 10): $721.
Pony up the money and fly to Edmonton, where it’s mid-January-appropriate below freezing and in tights and a good pair of gloves run outside on the streets and bridges. (Use Vaseline on your unprotected face and don’t forget your toque).
As for Brooklyn: Put on the same gear you do in April and go outside and run.
Next: Running for Your Life: Why So Smug?
Current temperature in Edmonton: 3 degrees F, five-day forecast highs: 5-29 degrees
Best airline-ticket price between NYC and Edmonton for Friday, Jan. 11 to Monday, Jan. 14 on Priceline (mid-afternoon Jan. 10): $721.
Pony up the money and fly to Edmonton, where it’s mid-January-appropriate below freezing and in tights and a good pair of gloves run outside on the streets and bridges. (Use Vaseline on your unprotected face and don’t forget your toque).
As for Brooklyn: Put on the same gear you do in April and go outside and run.
Next: Running for Your Life: Why So Smug?
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