Ripping
I’m back in Manhattan again this summer because of the generousity of my friend who has an apartment in the leafy part of this concrete, wedge-shaped island. It’s always hotter earlier in the summer on the east coast than the west coast but I love the humidity and its stickiness because that’s the feeling of home and comfort and the walls of green leaves makes me feel small and happy and well taken care of.
The first night I was here I got my city run timing back across two miles down one side of Broadway and back up the other side. The sidewalks were crowded and got more so as I headed south. Lincoln Center has a huge stage set up for Summer for the City. Merchant’s Gate at Columbus Circle, Central is a hash of pedicabs and smelly hot dog vendors. Sidewalk cafes-goers, dog walkers, dates, and workers of all kinds power walked, dawdled, and strolled as I criss-crossed between them. No one gave me a second look and I loved it.
The second night I turned north and ripped. It was cooler than the night before because of the wind that portends another big storm and I took advantage of it to kick my heels high behind me and blow through red light intersections after clocking the traffic through the windscreens of the parallel parked cars that block direct views at every intersection.
I reached the gates of Columbia after ignoring the painful, relentless incline that marches for miles up this island. The gates are 20 feet high, shiny-black, heavy wrought iron. They are fronted by stone statues of philosophers that benevolently face one of the windiest corridors in Manhattan day after day, year after year.
The gates had always been open when I was there but now they are now closed. A cold, serpentine path of galvanized safety barrier leads up to a folding table where two bored security men sit. Signs announce that Columbia University IDs must be shown to enter the wide park that used to be 116th St until President Eisenhower, both the former President of the United States and of Columbia University, enclosed it for pedestrian use.
I looked at the gates and thought about all the times I had run through them into the outside world. I feel bad for the kids who have to go in and out of them now, isolated more and more in an increasingly isolated world. I don’t know what to do for them, though, except to continue to be free and to show others how I do it. Maybe they’ll see me and do the same and it’ll work for them.
I turned myself south and leaned again into my first strides and reflected as I ran that the mere act of being out on the street is radical. I’ve been told that I’m wild and not being safe on my lonesome night runs more times than I can count, but what I’ve always thought is that I’m being part of something that most people want to do but can’t find an outlet for. Freedom of movement has to meet the will to move to be meaningful. Every step we take as runners makes that meaning. Whether shuffling through long, slow distance, pounding out middle distance, or ripping through city streets, getting out is what matters. Leave your phone behind if you can stand it. Leave your watch and your ID and even your keys if you have some place to stash them. Go out for yourself, with only yourself. Show yourself you can. You can. Go run.