Run for your life

            I haven’t had much luck with running since I moved here (since before that really) – my right Achilles tendon has been refusing to play nice. Frankly, it’s sucked – not only have I been deprived of my regular endorphin fixes, but it’s also particularly maddening to be out of commission in a city that offers such exciting running venues.

            When I first came here, I thought I’d found heaven on earth at Riverbank State Park, some 12 blocks away. Located directly on the Hudson, Riverbank is built on top of a water treatment plant – at some point, the city decided it was usable land, but the state intervened, and designated it a park before it could be snatched up by developers. It has, among other things, basketball courts, a skating rink, a fitness center, indoor and outdoor pools, a football field, and a gorgeous outdoor running track. Harlem has little to offer in the way of park space, and so its residents flock to Riverbank in droves.  As soon as I discovered its existence, I flocked right along behind them.

            I’ve always turned up my nose at track running, because it just seems so boring – who’d want to run around in circles when you could be out exploring the city? But, especially during my first few weeks here, I found it to be a godsend. Alluring as street running in the city was, it was too much for me to handle as a newbie New Yorker – the first time I tried, I both got desperately lost somewhere in the W. 130s and crashed headlong into a livid Harlem granny’s shopping cart. It was an utterly terrifying experience. So I resigned myself to the much safer track, where I contentedly ran in hamster-like circles (for the few times my faulty tendon would put up with it) and observed the West Harlem-ites in their native habitat. Very often, I would be the only person actually running on the track – I would jog by countless walkers (often entire families, strollers and all), lollygagging teenagers, and ball-chasing toddlers. On some evenings, there would be peewee football practice on the field that the track surrounded, and every so often an awkwardly-padded 10 year-old would tumble into my path. It was something of an obstacle course, but I loved it, thanks both to the fabulous view of downtown and the amusement provided by the pursuits of my peers.

            The Riverbank track, as it turned out, functioned as a sort of runners’ preschool for me. It taught me the basics of how to navigate all sorts of urban obstacles, while serving as a safe haven from the chaotic NY traffic. Eventually, inevitably, I got bored there, and graduated to more thrilling pursuits. One of my housemates, also a runner, likens street running here to playing a video game – not only do you have to dodge countless people, strollers, dogs, mounds of trash bags, random mattresses that litter the sidewalks, and puddles of suspiciously yellow liquids, but the risk of being squashed dead by an oncoming bus is terrifyingly real. I like her analogy, and whenever I don my gym shorts and take to the streets, I pray that this won’t be the run that ends in a flashing “GAME OVER” sign. So far, so good.

            Truth be told, I love street running now, and eagerly await my full recovery so that I can enjoy it more often. I hardly notice how out of breath I am, because there’s so much else I need to be paying attention to: timing the stoplights, making sure I’m going the right way, plotting a course around that slow moving dude in front of me. Running through Harlem and Morningside Heights is like seeing the city on fast forward, and believe me when I say that there’s never a dull moment. If I haven’t yet been run over, it’s because NY pedestrians make Madisonians look calm, predictable, and utterly law-abiding. Consequently, NY drivers are used to people charging out in front of them, even if they have a green light, and despite having made several very dangerous street crossings (in the death-flashing-before-my-eyes kind of way), I have yet to hear anyone even honk at me.

            But by far the most delightful part of street running is sprint training. There’s nothing in the world like zooming down Amsterdam Ave. at top speed – racing past flocks of uniformed schoolchildren, Columbia students hovered over their laptops at MaxCafé, hospital workers still in their scrubs; stirring up clouds of fallen leaves as I go; and truly feeling like I’m flying.