I’d like to share my routine regarding my weekly runs in Central Park. I know what you’re going to say: thanks but no thanks. I’m sure it’s interesting but we’re awfully busy. I’m having a lettuce sandwich for lunch.
Think of it as being less about me and more a slice of New York City life.
I was boasting to my daughter that on a recent morning I believed I was the second oldest person out there. And by out there I mean running around the Central Park reservoir and being lapped by every conceivable runner. Even a few energetic walkers.
The distance of one revolution is 1.58 miles. Really? It feels more like a half marathon.
In any case, Lucy challenged my status as second most senior athlete on the soft, extremely forgiving crushed gravel surface. This being the Upper East Side she said that there were probably lots of runners that, due to relentless exercise, spa vacations and plastic surgery were far older than me, even if they still looked like teenagers.
I took offense at the suggestion. Not regarding my age status but that I don’t recognize people who have had work done. I’ve lived in The Big Apple most of my life and I think I know the difference between someone who’s been nipped and tucked, no matter how artfully, and the rest of us who proudly let nature take its course.
I’m still running because I didn’t overdue it in my youth. Also, because I’m foolishly goal oriented. Sometimes while I’m struggling, especially at the start of my run, when I think there’s no conceivable circumstance under which I’m going to make it all the way around without breaking into a crawl, I wonder whether a more sensible individual would find a less traumatic way to stay in shape.
I’ve never been self-destructive enough to attempt a marathon. If humans were meant to run twenty-six miles civilization wouldn’t have felt the need to invent the golf cart. I frequently meet former marathoners my age or even younger. Typically, awaiting their physical therapy sessions.
But exercise is but one virtue of the reservoir running experience. There’s people watching. I get to do lots of that because most everybody passes me. I don’t take it personally. I was never known for my stamina. I was an explosive runner in grammar school at very short distances. Ask me to travel much further and classmates were passing me on both the left and the right.
Another reason to run around the reservoir is the view. In my opinion there’s no finer view of Manhattan’s skyline than from the top of the loop. I’m tempted to inform tourists taking selfies at less scenic spots that it’s worth the investment in time to travel to the top of the arc where you can see the entire sweep of the midtown skyline, all the way to the southern tip of Manhattan.
How’s that possible? There’s one spot where you can peer between various skyscrapers, it comes and goes in but an instant, though slightly longer at my lethargic pace — if there were awards for the twelve-minute mile I’d be on the podium — where you can gaze all the way south to 1 World Trade Center, gleaming in the morning light.
I neglected to mention that I never run alone. I’m accompanied by my antique Apple iPod. I take almost as much pride in the relic as I do in my own endurance. The longevity of its battery life continue to shock and thrill me.
It goes haywire on occasion skipping from one song to the next after playing only a few bars. I have no idea what that’s all about. And I certainly wouldn’t describe it as entertaining. But since the rest of me isn’t exactly in peak working order why should my devices be any different?
Were it not for the encouragement of the Rolling Stones, the Doors, the Who, and a few other bands threatening my hearing I don’t know whether I’d make it all the way around. And even with their companionship there are points where braking into a walk seems the more sensible course of action.
But I never do. At least not so far. Like the tortoise and the hare there are runners who blast past me only to have me pass them a bit later. I don’t know whether that’s because they’re doing intervals, taking business calls or because, as I prefer to frame it, they’re unconscionable wimps.
I wish I could report that at the conclusion of my run I feel refreshed, rejuvenated, ready to conquer the world. Actually, it’s the opposite. I hobble home, stopping at one of several fine bakeries along the way to claim my caloric prize, and then spend the rest of the day in recovery.
There will come a day when I’ll know that it’s time to trade my running shoes for slippers and a smoking jacket. I just hope that revelation doesn’t occur when I’m being wheeled into the ER.
Ralph Gardner, Jr. is a journalist who divides his time between New York City and Columbia County. More of his work can be found be found on Substack.
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