Despite every effort by mayor Giuliani, New York City can still be a dangerous
place. Sure, you can set trails in Washington Heights without fear, pass out
drunk on the subway on occasion, venture into Central Park without an armed
escort. But on the other hand, you can be walking down the street, minding your
own business, and get clocked on the back of the head by a homeless person wielding
a paving stone. That's New York City, full of surprises. During the holiday
season, the city is a seething mass of tourists, lunatics, cab drivers, cranky
natives, more tourists, and people from New Jersey. A volatile mix just waiting
for a spark to ignite the whole mess, the potential for surprises is at its
annual apogee. Take, for instance, Sunday's trail. I was rather surprised to
see three names that weren't at all familiar on the roster. Upon arrival at
the start at 3:15, I was very surprised to see that the pack had already been
sent off, and the hares hadn't even waited for late arrivals. Dropping my bag
off in the bar one block from the start, I was quite unpleasantly surprised
to see that not a single hare was from New York. Starting the run with Ted,
whom I assumed was sweeping, I was totally surprised to find out that he had
no idea whatsoever where the trail went, and was blithely running along without
marks along a random trajectory. Tis the season to be flabbergasted.
Guessing where the trail might be going, we started down a pedestrian ramp toward
the river. Halfway down, Ted mentioned that he was planning to set the hotline
around 4:00. I was a bit concerned that he was setting it so late, after all,
it takes a long time to get so far uptown. Once I pointed this out, Ted called
in from his cell phone, and we were back on our way toward the river, and encountered
a false in short order. While we were debating whether to follow the trail backwards
to encounter the pack, or try to find true trail, Andy Raybould came sprinting
up a set of stairs on the other side of the street. We pointed out the false,
and sent him up another set of stairs. Four marks later, he discovered a false
there, too. The actual trail went north, then turned east into Hudson Heights,
then north again up yet more stairs to the very peak of Manhattan, Hudson Highlands.
Thanks once again to Andy, I managed to avoid running the last fifteen or so
vertical feet, as I arrived just in time to hear him announcing on-on from the
near corner. We ran east on 181st, and the pack began to catch up. The first
odd thing I noticed was Mike "Fur Seal" Bahamonde in long-sleeved top, tights,
gloves and earband. I was gratified that I, for once, wasn't the only one that
thought it was cold. The next odd thing I noticed was Danny, wearing shorts.
Shorts! I'm from the midwest, and I was freezing in winter weight tights. Hawaiian,
my ass. I'm saying Eskimo. The third odd thing was that the trail was heading
down to the brambly, burr-ridden no-man's-land on the slopes between inhabited
Manhattan and the river way down below. I thought only Devo was hare enough
to bring us to this sort of territory. For a while, it wasn't too bad, sticking
mostly to what passed for a trail. Then, after a check under a viaduct near
an abandoned vagrant camp, things started getting really hazardous. The trail
went straight up a cliff, starting with a fairly slick, near-vertical rock face.
Michele caused a bottleneck while she clung to it for dear life, and the rest
of us scrambled up on all fours. For some reason this reminded me of the last
time I skied at Zermatt, wiped out in spectacular fashion losing both skis,
a pole, hat and goggles, and had to crawl back up to get them. Maybe because
finding purchase in the leaves and mud was just as difficult as getting a grip
in icy snow, maybe because half of the pack was visiting from Zurich, maybe
because moving so slowly made me feel as cold as if I were sitting on a chairlift.
Back atop the cliff, Danny led a charge right back down, though Pat and I elected
to stay up, and were rewarded by finding trail fifty feet further on along the
promenade. With a few (ignored) detours back into the bushes, we mostly stuck
to sidewalk until the trail circled a little park with a house in the middle,
and then headed back up along Broadway to the on-in at Coogan's.
Coogan's is a pretty nice place for a hash. It appeared to have been cleaned
at some point recently, which put it several rungs above many of our usual haunts.
Not only that, but the owner is a former runner, and proudly displays a Millrose
Games t-shirt behind the bar. To top it off, there was real food laid out and
waiting, owing to the other half of the place's restaurant status, including
vegetables, chicken wraps, and a fruit and cheese platter. Ed "Lunch" Lynch
immediately helped himself to an appetizer, a crime for which he would be punished
soon enough. With both joint masters off Dog's Bollocksing for the weekend,
Mike and I took over as officiates of the day. First up were the interloping
hares, Tim, Ted and Daniel. Tim drank again for snide remarks at the start,
(Me: "So how long is the trail? I'm already behind, perhaps a shortcut is in
order." Tim, rolling eyes: "Two point one miles."), and Ted for running a wankabout
trail that he was supposed to have set. Next, Mike pointed out that Michele's
malingering on the rock bore a strong resemblance to another type of malingering
altogether. Ed, Fireman Bob and Andrew were punished for sliding down the hill.
A few virgins were spotted. Visitors Boomerang and Chico from Zurich drank.
Sarah, her husband, and Arsenic & Black Lace were all called up for impersonating
civilians. As they were stepping down, A & BL took the opportunity to snag a
chicken wrap, and was immediately recalled to drink alongside Ed for bad manners.
When she finished this one, she decided to paw me for some reason, but I let
it pass for fear of what she might do next. And finally, Danny received the
honorary plunger for obscuring his true ethnic identity.
With down-downs finished, Ed dove headfirst into the food, but not without worrying
that the vegetables would interfere with his beer absorption. While we were
enjoying the repast, Mike called up the bar owner and gave him a down-down for
being a runner and a good host. He not only appeared to be happy about this,
he actually made a little speech about how thrilled he was to host us. I took
off in a hurry before he came to his senses.
On out.