A Day in the Park

My eyes opened a little later than I’d hoped for, six thirty the second time, three thirty was the first, but that would have been silly. I’d gotten the bug weeks ago while setting up an event in the observation deck at Rockefeller Center, or “The Top of the Rock”, as it’s commonly known. I’d never been up there before, never even known it existed. I’d stood outside, pressed against the one inch thick sheet of glass that was the only barrier between me and the crowded street fifty or sixty stories below where tourists teemed and the plaza was hosting a netted golf driving challenge featuring men who’d had one or both legs amputated.
The day was clear and the views were spectacular, with every inch of the city visible, from the Verrazano Bridge and Staten Island to the far edge of the Bronx, and just a few blocks north of where I stood, Central Park was laid out as a perfectly contained rectangle, lush and green and as flat and neat and tidy as if it just been freshly planted, a manicured, miniature landscape.
A couple of weeks later I found myself sitting on a rock in that same park with a couple of friends, killing some time before a reading. It was a Saturday afternoon and the place was busy, filled with couples sunning themselves, children on swings and families with their dogs. We watched a variety of birds battling over small crusts of bread, and a squirrel, perched on the tiny knurl of an oak, the entertainment and the activity seemed endless.
The roadway was open only to foot and bicycle traffic and was filled with both. I knew I had to come back here and participate, rather than just watch the others move past, I needed to be a part of this.

I was out the door by seven fifteen, grabbing a quick breakfast at the diner, heading south on the highway by eight. There wouldn’t be any traffic on the weekend so I had a chance of hitting the park by nine thirty, maybe a quarter to ten, that would be all right, I could spend some time there and still get back to the office at a reasonable hour to do the little bit of work that was required of me.
The bridge was clear and the west side highway was moving quickly. As I drove along I saw joggers and riders and thought about maybe running along the river instead, then no, maybe next time, I had a specific goal today. I exited at the seventy ninth street boat basin and cut through the park on eighty first, casually looking for street parking along the way but knowing that fifth avenue on the east side would be wide open at this time on a Sunday morning, and it was. A right turn, one block south and I left the car behind.
I crossed the street and walked along the stone barrier for another block until a gap afforded access, now I was inside, wondering briefly if driving an hour and forty five minutes from my rural area at the foot of the Catskills to run in a city park was an odd thing to do, deciding almost immediately that it was a perfectly reasonable endeavor. The journey has become commonplace for a fifteen minute meeting or just to drop something off that couldn’t wait; certainly this was a far more rational excuse for making the trip.
The sounds of the traffic on the avenue faded quickly as I started off south, moving at a comfortable pace inward along one of the narrow paths, not really having any clue regarding distance or direction, hoping to come upon the main artery that circled the perimeter, understanding that it would be impossible not to. When I eventually did I continued south, going against the general flow of traffic. If I’d been the only one I might have turned around, feeling as if I’d broken some sort of unspoken etiquette, but there were a handful of others so I continued, wanting to get to the southernmost edge, fifty ninth street, which I would consider to be the beginning. I’d entered at seventy sixth so it wasn’t long before The Plaza and the other upscale residences loomed above the tree line and the pungent aroma of horse manure permeated the air as the Hansom Cabs ferried tourists into the park. I can’t say that I ever found this somewhat malodorous form of transportation appealing in any way.
I made my turn, keeping an eye on the ground in this particular spot, not wishing to inadvertently drag any of the equine feces along on my little excursion. Now I was moving with the masses, slower than most but passing others from time to time. I tend to keep my pace down when distance is a mystery, and anyway, I certainly was in no hurry to be done with this one. The sounds now were of bird calls, the gentle slapping of sneakers on the asphalt, and the occasional and distinctive whir of bicycle wheels and roller blades passing quickly to my right.
The crowd was relatively dense, reminding me of the last 10k towards the end, when we were spread out along the course but always had another nearby. It thinned as I traveled north, able to see the signs along the avenue when the road took me close, ninety fifth, one hundred and sixth, mansion row now behind me, and then the curves that would take me along one hundred and tenth and then south, but first circling a pool, a massive swimming pool that was called a rink on the sign preceding it, iced over during the winter months. I thought of it frozen, with the blue painted concrete diffused by the thickness of the ice. It wasn’t open for the day yet, but if it had been I might have been compelled to dive in, then no, I had to keep moving, moving towards a goal that had never existed before today, a goal that I never would have imagined existed for me at all.
I saw things in the park that I knew were here but had never seen, the Boat House, the children’s, Zoo, Tavern on the Green, and one playground after another where young girls and boys swung and giggled noisily. Lakes and ponds, a marionette theater, the entire oasis a world within itself, and there were hills, hills that I never would have guessed were here when I stood so high above and looked down from my vantage point in the sky.
I was heading south now, along the west side, where the majority of the visible buildings seemed older than those on the east side. A man called to me, “do you know the cross street?” he asked, I looked around, just coming off the turn, and said; somewhere around a hundred and seventh, uncertain but somewhat confident in my assessment, suddenly feeling as though I really did know where I was, and of course I did, after living here on and off for years and my six month stint driving a fleet cab in the city we were intimate, the blocks, the park drive, the fur clad women who became indignant at the mere thought of a wrong turn or a missed address.

It had been a while now and there were no volunteers along the street handing out little paper cups filled with water as they do during organized races. The next available fountain would be a very brief but necessary stop, not wanting to break stride, but with dehydration imminent. Others walked along wearing elaborate belts over their designer sportswear that housed small bottles of various colored liquids in elastic compartments. The next turn brought relief and I was on my way, fifty or sixty blocks to go. I was the one to pass now, while others slowed and walked, keeping ahead of the few that had been along on the northern tier, they were fading as I picked up the pace. I knew that my goal was achievable, careful not too get too carried away as I still didn’t quite know the distance.
The back of the boat house and another small lake, I wanted to go down the path and circle the water, but again, next time, I’ll do this again. The crowd was thickening again and the din of the conversations, birds, and the nearby avenue was growing, the quiet of the hundred and tenth street s curves a memory.
I could see the buildings again now, the ones along the south side of fifty ninth street and I looked over the trees to try and spot the observation deck that had started all of this, maybe a reflection off of the glass, or the cell towers that projected from the roof, the ones that made reception impossible upstairs due to their proximity. It wasn’t readily visible but I wasn’t disappointed, it was really just curiosity.
Arriving back at the south side of the park was suddenly unfulfilling so seventy sixth, where I’d entered, would be my new end, but that wasn’t it either and I turned back west, through a wide gravel path lined with bronze statues, iron benches, and a woman in a blue chiffon dress and white pumps singing to tunes that sprang from a karaoke box on the bench behind her.
The next water fountain would really be the end, I was spent and as it turned out it was a little south, on a side trail, just before the stairs that led down to a shelter with a newly renovated tile ceiling and a couple playing violin and guitar in the shade of the entrance, another new discovery whose other end spilled out onto a plaza where three cellos and a bongo played to the constant applause of the water that cascaded from the second tier of a three tiered fountain, splashing convincingly into the reservoir below. I walked to the edge of the terra cotta colored paving stones where stairs led directly into a pond where row boats were steered around in an almost comically congested array, nearly colliding in the small body of water.
I decided it was time to go now, there were other things I wanted to do today, and I went back past the fountain where the breeze pushed the falling liquid awkwardly to the left, stopping briefly to listen to the cellos, and then up the stairs and the woman in the blue dress and another guitar and then a saxophone, and finally back to fifth avenue, six blocks south of where I’d entered, feeling like I had a little more life left in me, breaking into a trot along the scaffolding shrouded sidewalk on the opposite side of the street from the stone park surround, stopping only when I reached my car.
I got in, took my sneakers off, changed my shirt in the front seat and then pulled my jeans back on over my shorts, sat for just a minute and then walked the four blocks north to the Metropolitan Museum and the newly reopened Greek and Roman galleries.
Judging by the length of time I’d been out, eight or nine miles of pavement had passed beneath me, I couldn’t be sure and it didn’t really matter anyway, I had once again done what I had set out to do. This is a new way of life for me, this setting of achievable goals, rather than the impossibly lofty ones that were set for me in my youth. I will come back here, maybe along the river, maybe across the bridge, wherever the next one begins I know how it will end, I know I’ll finish and that is one thing she can never take from me.