In stillness, there is life: Running through a COVID-quieted New York City
*An abbreviated version of this story first appeared in the New York Daily News
Ever wondered what a night in the museum would be like? Or how it would feel to live surrounded by lifeless landmark relics, wander your own version of the “I am Legend” movie, minus the zombies? Suddenly, such flights of fancy don’t seem so remote. For the past month, I’ve run the abandoned streets of America’s largest city, witnessing eerie desolation and haunting beauty. My hometown is locked down, but not broken. It will keep running, and, for that matter, so will I.
My adventures in running actually started off on a positive note. It was a windy grey dreary afternoon on Dublin’s St Benildus school campus. The race had started thirty minutes earlier and already I was covered in mud due to the previous day’s rain showers. The snot was ripping from my nose and a bare singlet did nothing to help mask the cold. In that moment, I did not feel like I had been training all year for this. My legs felt lethargic. I gasped for more air. Mercifully, the odd smattering of support along the sidelines helped keep my spirits up and willed me on to the finish line. I considered myself lucky, being even on this team, they deserved their place in school history. It was 1985 and we had just won the silver medal in the All Ireland Cross Country championships.
A quarter of a century later, I was happily living off the running credits that I had banked in my youth.
What counted for exercise was banging my drums and hauling my gear from gig to gig when I played in my band. The advent of episodic television like Game of Thrones, preceded by The Wire, had given license to the idea that it was ok to lay yourself out on your couch and veg. Or at least, that’s what I told myself. Convinced running credits earned interest, I was shocked to discover my zero balance.
My glory days of running and general fitness were a fast fading memory by the time I got married, mid-life. Worn down from NYC dating, it was a miracle that I found someone at all, especially my beautiful wife to be, unencumbered by baggage. Life was about to change for the better. Except there was one niggling thing that bothered me. When we married, I was about 25 pounds heavier than I should have been. My new best friends were a double chin and a growing pot belly. Bending down and tying my shoelaces was a pain in the hole. My great weakness was sugar. Chocolate biscuits, cola bottles, gummy bears, ice cream, all are great compliments to TV binging. I was well on the way to looking like Fatty Arbuckle. I was barreling towards a health disaster of my own making.
The Wake Up
Wake up calls are a great epiphany. I had two. The first, I was speeding towards being pre-diabetic, next stop diabetes. And the second was the birth of my son. With the twin flames of high blood sugar and kids that I wanted to see grow up singeing my gluteus maximus, I resolved to live longer. And not just live longer, but to live as a healthy old fella. After a cursory consideration of options including biking, swimming and more gym time, I settled on the obvious, running.
I’d be lying if I said the first few weeks were easy. There was nothing more humiliating than watching a 90-year-old in an electric wheelchair pass you by, okay, it was on a hill, but still. Or stopping after two slow miles and trying to convince yourself “job well done!”. Or running an 11-minute mile pace. And yet I persevered. Focused on the goal — health and if I’m lucky, a few extra years tagged on at the end. Then an amazing thing happened, after about eight weeks, my times improved, my weight started to drop noticeably, my stress levels decreased enormously, blood sugar normal and I was sleeping soundly at night. Excited by the results, I was now self-motivated to run at least three times a week. On the rare weeks I couldn’t, it bothered me. The guilty feeling that I was not being good to myself crept in. It was a good guilt. The type of guilt to motivate the week after. I signed up to nearly all the 5k and 10k New York Road Runner races I could. Now three years in I can finish in a respectable top 33% of racers. Last year I ran three half marathons and was on my way to beating my personal best in this year’s New York Half Marathon before New York was shut down and all races cancelled because of COVID-19.
I weathered my fair share of ups and downs along the way. At times it was two steps forward, one step back. I likely contributed a good living to doctors and physical therapists to treat injuries I’d never heard of — iliotibial band syndrome, Morton’s neuroma, Achilles tendonitis, shin splints, Runner’s Knee and the common pulled hamstring. I experienced them all. A badge of honor amongst runners. Occasionally ignoring doctors’ orders to rest “I’ll be damned if I’m not running it now!”, because I’d spent months training for that big race.
The Pause
With the world now on pause, COVID’s timeout has given me a beautiful running experience I thought I’d never have. The world may have been on hold, but that didn’t mean I needed to be. Conscious of social distancing and the fact that my usual running routes through Central Park or Riverside Park were now too crowded with people walking, playing and running in a limited space, I eschewed the usual spots and decided to go where no one else was. And in doing so, I found an ethereal beauty in a mighty city devoid of cars or people.
It sometimes feels like I’m running in a museum. The city is embalmed in a state of suspended animation. A city on pause. But the quietness has allowed me to soak in and observe things that I’ve never appreciated before.
I could now hear the sound of my feet hitting the pavement, the steady rhythmic pattern, a metronome to my breathing. The singing birds, replacing the traffic, provided a chorus. Illicitly choosing to run on the road or the path on a Manhattan midtown Avenue felt bold and oddly liberating. I could even run in the middle of Fifth Avenue and not get mowed down by speeding cabs. Times Square, a kaleidoscope of flashing color and advertising that can attract more than 300,00 visitors a day, has been struck bare by the absence of tourists and residents. It’s a jarring juxtaposition. The majestic Grand Central station, hub to the suburbs, is barren and beautiful in its emptiness. A smattering of vulnerable and homeless people, with nowhere else to go, loitered in corners. My new abnormal “normal”.
Relative to my running friends, I remain a mediocre runner. But I’m still running. I’m still in it, grinding away. It’s the journey not the destination that counts. Some people believe they can do something. Other people believe they can’t. Both are right. Roger Bannister broke the 4-minute mile in 1954. Whether it was thought to be impossible is disputed. But the four-minute barrier had stood for decades. Then just 46 days later, his record was broken. And a year later, it was broken again by 3 runners in a single race. What had changed? What happened? Belief happened. Subsequent runners knew it could be done. So, they believed they could do it.
The first step is always belief, whether it be in running or civic resurgence. NYC has bounced back from near-bankruptcy in the ‘70’s, 9/11 in the 2000’s and the last Recession. I’ve lived through two of them. NYC knows it can be done. NYC believes. New York City will rebound from COVID-19. That belief is on display in the resilience of the people and their financial markets.
Put one foot in front of the other. Don’t stop. Power through and this too shall pass.
Follow on Twitter. I made a two part video series of my NYC runs. You can view them here:
*An abbreviated version of this story first appeared in the NY Daily News
