Somewhere between the end of the 1st lap and the start of the 2nd lap in Central Park today, I started thinking of being home. More accurately desperately wishing it were 7:20am, and I was in the elevator on the way up to my apartment. This was a lot better than most days. Ride 300 laps a year (give or take), and see how quickly your thoughts turn to anything that might helps stave off the monotony. Which is why I’m dumbfounded that some guy would walk around his block in Brooklyn 75 times (which was 26.4 miles). Actually the guy was Andy Newman, a writer for the New York Times and of course it was for an article, but still, Andy, there’s got to be a better way to make a living. Then again, at least Newman walked around his block for a day because he is making a living. Can’t really say the same now, can I?
“This is pathetic — I’m walking miles every day without getting anywhere” morphed into “What if we kept walking — without going anywhere? Wouldn’t that be kind of cool?” That’s what training in Central Park is, riding without going anywhere. And it’s anything but cool.
04:56 – Hit Tavern and I circle around waiting to see who shows up. It’s really dark out. Make sure I don’t hit the one other idiot already doing laps who says “good morning” (why is it that everyone who rides a bike feels obligated to say good morning to everyone else on a bike? You wouldn’t say hello to me if you saw me walking down the street or if I got into the same elevator as you, would you?) Anyway, it’s not morning yet. It’s still night as far as I can tell. And it’s not that good. I’m bleary eyed, freezing and I have to pee because it’s so cold out.
5:00 am – start rolling because no one showed up (have they seen the error of our ways finally and are all sleeping in like the rest of the city that never sleeps?) Start talking to myself about nothing in particular. At least it makes me feel like I have company, because there’s no one around except for the occasional odd runner, emphasis on odd.
5:05 am – See blonde woman who is in the park every single day running by backwards to meet the three guys she runs with every single day. Guess she wasn’t training for the marathon, my bad. Which means she actually likes running and running at 5:00am no less. Now that’s weird.
5:07 am – Roll by Boathouse and look longingly at the locked bathrooms. If it’s illegal to urinate in public which includes the any part of the park, couldn’t they at least open the bathrooms when the park opens? Yes, I know the park doesn’t officially open until 6 am, but the bathrooms aren’t open then either. That leaves the unenviable choice of the using the boathouse parking lot and taking your chances with the RoUS’s (raccoons of unusual size) or a special spot near the entrance to the cut-off at the top of the park (note: be careful where you step if you ever find yourself walking on the trails near the cutoff.)
5:xx – (I’ve given up trying to figure out what time it is when I get to different spots as it requires too much effort to a) do and b) remember.) Oh, the sweetness of the warm spot on the 86th street overpass. Who cares if it’s our own little proof of global warming? It’s warm and that has momentarily helped me forget that I’d rather be home.
5:xx – Still pitch black out. Why does Harlem Hill seem so much harder than it really is? Still no one around, except for the occasional odd runner. Well at least, I’ve turned the corner and have one lap done. I count by the number of times I’ve gone up the hill even though I’ve only done a half-lap at that point. This must be why invariable I lose count. Counting laps being the only real thing to do in the park, I ought to be able to remember. I think I’m too young for Alzheimer’s but you never know because I never remember.
5:xx – First tri person passes me on the downhill on their way to Tavern for their 5:30 meeting with other bad tri riders. Are there any triathlons left to do this year? If not, can’t you all put your bikes away for the winter?
5:22 – End of lap 1. Still dark out. Still no one out. I know what time it is because of the CNN clock which also lets me know that it’s 43o. Darn Accuweather.com – you said 46o and I dressed light. I hate you.
5:23 – Doubt starts to creep in about the feasibility of doing another lap without going completely insane. Just as I decide it’s time to head in, lying to myself that I’ll hit the trainer later in the afternoon, Omar shows up. That ought to take the edge off until the Boathouse.
I’d go on, but I’m even bored just writing about it. That’s the conundrum of Central Park. Without it, those of us who live in city would be totally screwed as far as training goes. Where else (apart from Prospect Park except there there’s even less to keep you occupied and you have to ride twice as many laps) in the middle of one of the busiest metropolises can your ride more or less traffic free more or less any time you want without the need for light (sunlight or the rechargeable kind?) And yet, the monotony of turning laps in the park will put you off your bike.
That’s why I can’t imagine how anyone, even someone getting paid, could possibly walk around the same four corners for the better part of a day. That sounds as bad as the Empire State Games qualifier in Prospect Park. 22 laps. About the only thing you get from that race is dizzy.
That’s today’s view from the back.
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