Serenity Now

Heading up the hill towards Prospect Park on a 6 mile run seemed fairly innocuous when I left at 6:20 this morning. I love leaving at this time since the sun comes up just as I enter the park and for the first 25 minutes or so it is pretty empty before the crowds join you at about 6:45. Anybody living in the concrete jungle will attest to the tranquility that can only be found when they get to slightly touch a piece of nature. This morning did not disappoint, the weather was brisk, the morning dew glistened off the blades of grass, the birds chirped and the animals scurried back to their hiding places with the sounds of my running shoes hitting the pavement. Prospect Park at Sunrise is a great place to reflect.


By the time I hit mile 3 at roughly 6:45 the park, as it usually does by this time, had gotten quiet lively with joggers, walkers and bikers on the path and easily 30 dogs scampering unleashed around the big lawn by the picnic areas. At this time you realize why certain people are generally more healthy than others both physically and mentally as the value of spending an hour in the park cannot be understated.

All was going well, my heart rate was hovering around 145, my pace had comfortably settled at a 9 minute mile and the cool air felt refreshing against my cleanly shaven face. I knew the day ahead would be hectic but the hour of Righetti time in the morning seemed to help me relieve most of my stress and anxiety. But when I approached the turn heading towards the east side hill I felt something which could only mean trouble. The sweat from the workout started mixing with the sweat from the new found anxiety as I realized that I still had 2.5 miles left and even if I cut the run short I could not safely make it home in time. My mind was racing: what did I eat last night? Did the sell by date on the milk say 9/29 or 9/09? But mostly I thought about that porta john right before the apex of the East Side Hill, the one with the urine on the walls that Mrs Righetti refuses to even walk near.

But the hill was still a quarter mile away and then another mile up and there just wasn't that much time.

And there I did it, I took a choice which will basically erase all that I have done to convince people otherwise. I became "that guy". The guy who just couldn't take it anymore or just didn't give a f*ck. I ran across the path into a patch of woods and lost all credibility as a normal human. And by calling these woods, I am not doing the term woods much justice. There were about as many trees and brush as there were Met fans in the upper decks during Santana's masterful performance on Saturday. But at this point I just did not have a choice.

I give a cursory look around but really it didn't matter. I drop my running pants and drawers and squat, in the slightly obstructed view of every other person who wanted to get just some serenity in the park before a hectic work day. I squat and just let the muscles relax when a combination of relief and utter shame come over me as I realize I might as well be the homeless guy who stinks up the subway car. I stand up and standing with my boxers and running pants around my ankles, I completely undress and proceed to use my boxer shorts to clean up as best I can. I throw my boxers near a tree and stare back at the pile still steaming staring back at me, my morals forever breached. I turn around towards the running path and see the looks of disbelief and disgust and I slowly make it back onto the path to finish the final 2.5 miles of the ultimate run-of-shame. I felt like weeping but knew it wouldn't help the situation much, when I got home and jumped under the shower and tried to pretend it didn't happened.
I did manage to finish the 6 miler in 52:09.

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