So I was impressively ready for this ‘Trot’ on Thursday: all my clothes laid out, my fanny pack packed, iPod on my treadmill mix, and I’m up bright and early.
The park looks really…beautiful in the fall. Since I’ve moved further uptown in Brooklyn, it’s not as accessible to me and I miss it. I passed it all the time on the way to high school and took it for granted for years, even as an adult. It was just that huge green place across the street from the cooler stuff like the library and the museum.
I see some friends and make it clear they are not to wait for me. They all chuckle warmly and I can’t find a way to convince them I’m not being that jokester BSC who’s always winking and jabbing someone with my elbow. I do NOT want them to wait. They are all petite and are Runners™, and I am not. We’re in the front of the pack as the Trot starts and for all the bullsh*t I’ve heard about families and all these people who will be walking it out, I feel like I’m being set upon by those berserker fast zombies from 28 Days Later. These people take off like there are bars of gold at the finish line. Among the groups who breeze past me in the first 20 minutes alone: those chicks and/or dudes with the running strollers; parents with children ages six and up, keeping pace with mom and dad; a lot of tall women with dogs; and a few blind folks fast-walking with an assistant. I think the six year olds cut me the deepest.
I’ve never walked so much of the park, and was not anticipating the first bit to be uphill. The first mile was such a grind I thought there were no mile markers and I’d simply see the finish line. Nope! I see a sign with a 1 on it and ask the volunteer, “Does that mean one mile?” He nods and my reaction is a long and hearty “F******ck!”