Out the door at 1:30pm. Brand new shoes. Dirty pants (laundry past due, it’s since been sent out).
9 miles was the plan. Partner at my side. Feel completely comfortable with the attire I’ve chosen given this afternoons gloomy, rain free, gray/blue sky and current temperature. I in fact pride myself in nearly always making the right choices on what clothing to wear on each part of my body for any given temperature.
On the way to the Manhattan Bridge, having not yet passed the Brooklyn Bridge, I’m informed by my running partner that she needs to be dropped at the pharmacy towards the end of the run to pick up a prescription. No problem. We’ll make the necessary adjustments as we go. I am the captain of the ship which I have appropriately name “today’s run” and my loyal deck hand follows me as if I am the leader of an entire nation populated by only the two of us.
Over the Manhattan Bridge we go. I rather enjoy the construction and the reversal of duty between the north and south side of the bridge from run to bike. They are now in fact bike and run. No matter, we ran both the bike and run sides, whichever they happened to be on this particular day. Down the descent, left turn in front of an 18 wheeler anxiously awaiting the light to turn green, which it just has, another left turn up the bike lane – across one, two, three, four lanes of traffic – another left turn in front of yielding traffic at which point i put up my hand to single STOP as my partner has dropped a few steps behind me but that doesn’t mean that I am no longer in control of her destiny as I am, after all, at the helm of this carnival cruise of health drifting through, in the grand scheme of things, a very small area of land populated by so many which must hang their hat in the atmosphere of the 14th floor of their door man apartment buildings. Another left onto the bridge as we dash through the brisk January air of Chinatown inhaling the vapors of all the MSG on our ascent to the top of this monstrous man made bridge which eventually will take us back to where we began, making me wonder what’s the point of such a grueling attempt at travel when the ultimate goal is, in essence, to return to the exact same place in which we started. A greyhound ticket would be a stay at the Soho grand compared to what we’re putting ourselves through, and on that bus you might actually get somewhere other than the point in which you started. Nonetheless we push on, eager to return to each other’s appointed front door, key in hand, right back where we started.
I say to my faithful follower – “I’ve often wondered that if you lived on the Brooklyn side of this bridge, and your favorite Chinese restaurant was on the Manhattan side of this bridge, could you in fact talk the delivery boy in to crossing said bridge in order to bring you your favorite feast?” She laughed as though I was the only human in the history of man that had ever thought such a thought. I pointed out the fact that I spent three and a half years taking delivery orders for a Mexican restaurant doing my best to make the patrons happy in exchange for a very nominal fee.
Approaching the crest of the bridge I ask her if she is ready. Insinuating that we’re about to sprint to reach the top.
“Yeah”
“I said are you ready?!”
“Yes”
“I CAN’T HEAR YOU!”
“YES!”
Off we go. Full speed. Staring at the peak of the bridge as if it were my mortal enemy, thinking to myself that that thought could not be farther from the truth. In fact, that bridge and I couldn’t possibly be better friends.
An easy cruise down the descent of the other side back in to Brooklyn and I think to myself, fuck it, at this point the journey is my partners, so let’s try a route we’ve never taken. (Generally, as a creature of habit, or OCD as you doctor may call it, I like to stick with the path more beaten. Beaten by myself that is.)
We reach the end of the bridge and find ourselves back in civilian territory. And it looks as though school has just gotten out. The chitter-chatter of urban children talking much louder than necessary about things that are incomprehensible to anyone who hasn’t been in high school in recent years.
We make yet another left. Not exactly sure where I’m going and rather happy of that fact.
My compatriot says….
“I love running with you because I never know where we’re going next.”
“I hate to tell you, but I as well have no idea where we’re headed next. I’m making it up as I go.”
We laugh.
Before long we find ourselves at a park. My watch beeps to tell me we’ve reached mile 6. This park is familiar to me. I once had a friend that lived next to this park. I glance to my right and see a staircase and instantly get excited about taking it on. I make a right, holding traffic for my friend to follow. We get closer to the stair case. The park is on my left, therefore I look left. I see a larger staircase. Which gets even larger the closer we get to it. I can’t stop staring at it. Without looking at her I say “we have to do it.” She agrees.
We jump the 2 foot concrete wall surrounding the park and our speed increases out of anticipation as we approach the steps.
3 large tiers of steps. Very steep. Each tier consisting of at least 30-40 steps each. The equivalent of the steps in the Rocky movies. I know, because I have run up those steps myself in real life.
We approach the first step and I slow down a bit. I scream “Take two at a time” and off we go.
We reach the top, and can’t help but stop to look around and admire the view. A few moments later and I point out the fact that I came in #17 in the world in the 2011 Empire State Building stair-climb.
“I’m going again are you coming?” I head back down.
We did the steps three times. The third time, my partner stood at the top. Admiring the view. A huge smile on her face. I, on the other side of the tower which must have stretched 200 feet above head, informed her that it was time to move on.
“Don’t worry, we’ll be back.”
Off we went to find our destination, which we will likely be searching for our entire lives.
