Paddy Runs for Boston

A New Yorker going the distance to raise money for Team Hoyt and help disabled people in Boston and beyond.

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Week Sixty-Three of Paddy Runs for Boston and The Finish Line!

That’s right, friends. We made it!  I’ve run off all my obligations and Paddy Runs for Boston is finished!  Together, we raised several hundred dollarsfor the Hoyt Foundation and helped improve the lives of disabled people in Boston and elsewhere.  You also helped me.  Paddy Runs for Boston was part of my healing process after the 2013 Marathon and I can’t thank you enough for your support.

The final miles of Paddy Runs for Boston unfolded on the back roads near my Dad’s farm in Indiana, bringing us full circle.  I was running those same roads the day after the Haitian earthquake and that’s where I came up with the idea for Paddy Runs for Haiti, which lead in turn to Paddy Runs for Boston.  It was a beautiful place to finish, quiet and peaceful with deer browsing next to the creek and birds singing in the woods.

My horizons were expanded during this journey, both physically and spiritually.  I never dreamed I’d run to the summit of Pikes Peak or find myself slogging through a Texas bayou.  I never dreamed total strangers would come out to support this effort or that just running a race could mean so much to so many people.

I’ve said it before, but it’s still true; if every footstep of this journey were a thank you, I feel like I’d still owe you.

Live good lives, my friends. I’ll see you on the road.  Thank you for coming along.

Gratefully,

-Paddy

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Brian Costello Sponsored a Run Around the Block!

Brian made an extremely generous donation to Paddy Runs for Boston and his request was simply that I run around the block.  Wow!  He let me off easy!

A deal is a deal, though, and yesterday I finally made good on my end of the bargain.  After pounding out six chilly miles through Central Park, I tacked on a quick lap around my block.

From my front door on 47th Street, I headed south past the Queens Finest Barber Shop, a relatively new arrival to the neighborhood.  The guys that work there like to sneak into my building and smoke pot at the top of the stairwell.  I once raced one of them up the stairs while I was training for the Empire State Building Run Up.  He giggled all the way until he collapsed on the 6th floor.  We say hi to one another now if we pass in the street.

I turned east onto 47th Avenue.  Down at the corner sits Fresh Taco, a Mexican restaurant run by Chinese people.  While the food could hardly be called Mexican, it is very cheap and extremely tasty and after running dozens of miles, there’s no better reward than one of their steak burritos.

Another turn put me on 46th Street heading north.  There’s an authentic Chinese Restaurant here, which I’ve never been interested in trying.  I always go to Fresh Taco.  I turned the next corner and triggered the front doors of the world’s most unpleasant Rite Aid.  If you enjoy being ignored or treated like a nuisance, then by all means, come here and try to buy something.  You won’t be disappointed.

The final turn put me back on 47th street and I cruised past the windows of Los Verdes, the restaurant that occupies the corner.  This space has been several things since I’ve lived here, including a Thai Restaurant, another Mexican restaurant and a strange Afghani joint that tried to masquerade as a diner.

I passed the vacant, garbage-strewn lot next door to my building.  Feral cats stepped cautiously through the snowy wastes.  There’s a neighborhood cat lady that leaves them food.  Soon I was pulling up in front of my front door.  It had taken me two minutes, nine seconds to complete the entire voyage, which was .28 miles or slightly longer than a standard running track.  Not a bad way to repay a debt!

Many thanks, Brian!  Both for your donation, and consideration of this creaky old body!

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Madeline at the Hudson Café Made Me Go the Extra Mile!

Madeline was tending bar at the finish line of the 2013 Yonkers Marathon and after the race the two of us got to talking about running and what motivates people to want to do it for hours on end.  I told her about Paddy Runs for Haiti and our adventures with that effort then mentioned I was starting a new fundraiser, Paddy Runs for Boston.  “Let me be your first donor,” she said, and handed me three bucks. 

Madeline’s mile came in the middle of Sunday’s 14-miler.  On my way home, I made a diversion onto the running track in Astoria Park.  Normally, tracks are not my thing.  I get bored and lose count of which lap I’m on.  To make it even less appealing, the track was covered with a layer of packed snow and ice.  People had actually been cross-country skiing on it.

Despite the bad footing, the track was a pleasant place to run Madeline’s mile.  The bridge rises to the north and the east end overlooks the river.  I had it all to myself on this frigid afternoon and ran happily.

So thank you, Madeline!  I am always amazed at human generosity, but it especially floors me when it comes from total strangers!

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Joe Discher Sponsored a Run Around his Yard!

Director, actor, teacher and William Shatner impersonator Joe Discher made a generous donation at last year’s Chamber of Champions fundraiser.  After thanking him heartily, I asked him where he wanted me to run his miles.  Joe, having just purchased a new house, said “My back yard.”  An entire year passed somehow, before I got out to Bloomfield to make good on his suggestion.

You might be thinking that Joe owns some vast, impassible tract, but nope.  His is a modest suburban yard with plantings and a shed.  I had support not only from Joe, who cheered from his back porch, but from Joe’s dog Hugo, who bounded alongside me gleefully for the whole .03 Miles, or 158 feet.  The entire journey took twelve seconds.  I didn’t hurry, though I didn’t linger either since it was fourteen degrees out that night.

I’m sure Joe never thought I’d take his suggestion seriously, but that’s how we roll at Paddy Runs for Boston.  Every step matters.

So many thanks to Joe and his wife Jamie, who was probably woken up by our laughter, and to Hugo as well for his unconditional enthusiasm!

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Weeks Sixty Through Sixty-Two of Paddy Runs for Boston

Happy 2015 to you, friends!  I got the New Year off to a running start at the Midnight Run, a four-miler through Central Park that started at the stroke of twelve and was illuminated by an ongoing barrage of fireworks.  It was seriously cold that night.  When the gun fired, the temperature was twenty-four degrees.  Denise, always a trooper, ran too and we celebrated at the halfway point with a cup of partially frozen cider.  (I was disappointed.  They used to offer champagne!)  We ran this one together and finished hand in hand.

The week prior to that was quiet.  Holiday runaround kept me away from running, though my body was probably grateful for the break.

I ran Lou Ciulla’s miles on January 3rd and met his daughter Celeste the next day for a run through Central Park.  Walking to our starting point near the Shakespeare Statue, we caught a glimpse of the Zoo’s Snow Leopard prowling around the back of his cage.  We don’t often see him; perhaps once a year.  We took the sighting as a favorable omen.  It got cold again later in the week and I embarked on my runs in three layers of clothing.  This past weekend, I pounded out fourteen miles in nineteen-degree weather.  Luckily there wasn’t much wind, so crossing the bridges from Queens to Manhattan was relatively painless.

The end is in sight, Friends.  Very soon, I’ll have run off everyone’s donations and Paddy Runs for Boston will be finished.  Let me offer an early thank you to everyone for your generosity and support.

See you at the Finish Line!

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Celeste Ciulla Sponsored a 13-Mile Run in Memory of Lou Ciulla!

No matter who you were, Lou Ciulla was always glad to see you.  The man’s face lit up every time someone entered the room.  Born to Sicilian immigrants in 1929, Lou was the youngest of five brothers.  With that kind of pedigree, you’d think he’d have gone to work for the Mafia, but instead, Lou became an actor.  Though he appeared in musicals and children’s theatre, Lou’s passion was Shakespeare.  He never missed a chance to recite Cassius’s “the fault is in our stars” speech from Act 1 of Julius Caesar.

Lou made it into a few movies, as well.  He had good luck with Jack Lemmon pictures.  If you know where to look, you can catch him in both the Odd Couple and the Out of Towners.  He’s also in the original Producers movie.  At the very end, as the camera pulls back to reveal the inmates in thier kick line, Lou slips into the very edge of the frame.  Next time you watch the movie, look for him.  He’s the prisoner with the biggest smile.

Saturday marked the anniversary of Lou’s passing and despite the miserable weather I ran his thirteen miles with pleasure.  It was also the final long run of Paddy Runs for Boston and I decided to make it something different.  Instead of following a meticulously plotted route, I set a time limit of two hours and ran wherever I felt like going.

Snow was falling when I got off the train at Queens Plaza.  The bridge took me high above the gray-green river.  I saw just one person up there, another hard-core runner type, and he gave me the Nod as he passed.  There were a few more people in Central Park, but most had given up on the day and gone indoors.  By the time I reached the Shakespeare Statue, I had snow sticking to my eyebrows.

At the north end, I decided to head over to Morningside Park and from there to Grant’s tomb.  On a whim, I stopped in to pay my respect to Ulysses and his wife, entombed in red granite beneath the marble dome.  I’ve run by the monument dozens of times, but never gone in.  It was gray and dark in there and the atmosphere obliged people to speak in whispers.  It was gray outside too and getting darker.  The snow changed to sleet, which stung a bit, but there are worse things to endure.

I thought of Lou.  His joy brought me joy, kept my disposition bright despite the gray river, gray clouds, and the looming gray towers of the George Washington Bridge.  The bridge seemed to be my destination.  I was going slowly though.  The sleet had turned to rain and the ground was coated with wet slush.

I still had a half-hour left when I got to the bridge, so I ran over to Fort Lee.  The bridge crossing was damp and loud, with traffic rushing past me on the right.  On the far side, I jogged into Fort Lee historic park, following the snow-covered footpath among the parapets and ramparts.

There was no one here.  Even the visitor’s center seemed deserted.  I felt alone in the world, but in a good way.  It was a pleasant solitude and one I knew wouln’t last.  My clothes were soaked, I was starting to get cold, and night was falling.  It was time to be done.  Crossing back over the bridge was easier with the gravity of the finish pulling me across.

It was my honor to run in Lou’s memory.  Besides his good humor and many kindnesses, I’m most grateful to him for bringing his daughter into the world.  Celeste is my running partner, confidante, and one of my greatest friends.

Therefore our everlasting farewell take:

For ever, and for ever, farewell, Cassius!

If we do meet again, why, we shall smile;

If not, why then, this parting was well made.

                                                                        -Julius Caesar, Act V sc. 1

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An Anonymous Donor sponsored a Fourteen-Mile Run!

Afoot and light-hearted I take to the open road,

Healthy, free, the world before me,

The long brown path before me leading wherever I choose.

These words emboldened my heart last Saturday.  They are the words of Walt Whitman; the opening lines to Song of the Open Road, his panegyric to the spontaneous, immeasurable, eternal journey of the omnipotent “I”.

Henceforth I ask not good-fortune, I myself am good-fortune,

Henceforth I whimper no more, postpone no more, need nothing,

Done with indoor complaints, libraries, querulous criticisms,

Strong and content I travel the open road.

From my apartment in Queens, I jog to the Byrne Bridge and Newtown Creek.  The evening air is damp, cold.  Behind the towers of the city, the setting sun glows feebly as it succumbs to the long December night.  Mass has finished at St. Raphael’s church; Raphael, Archangel and patron of travellers, arranger of happy meetings.  Parishioners shake hands with the priest at the door.

All parts away for the progress of souls,

All religion, all solid things, arts, governments—all that was or is apparent upon this globe or any globe, falls into niches and corners before the procession of souls along the grand roads of the universe.

Now in Brooklyn.  Whitman lived here as a boy, the second son of a failed real-estate speculator.   He was an unhappy boy.  At age eleven, he moved to Long Island to work as a printer’s lackey.

O highway I travel, do you say to me Do not leave me?

Do you say Venture not—if you leave me you are lost?

O public road, I say back I am not afraid to leave you, yet I love you,

You express me better than I can express myself,

You shall be more to me than my poem.

Casting plans aside, I turn down Kingsland Avenue to McGolrick Park, quiet, under-loved patch of serenity.  An angel offers posterity a laurel on behalf of the men of Greenpoint who fought in World War I.  Through residential Greenpoint, with its antique churches, its unshorn hipsters, its Polish bakeries and brick-clad taverns to McCarren Park, full of hipsters and Latin families even on this chilly night.  The mighty Cathedral of the Transfiguration, her onion domes in blazing light.

You flagg’d walks of the cities! you strong curbs at the edges!

You ferries! you planks and posts of wharves! you timber-lined sides! you distant ships!

You rows of houses! you window-pierc’d façades! you roofs!

You porches and entrances! you copings and iron guards!

You windows whose transparent shells might expose so much!

You doors and ascending steps! you arches!

You gray stones of interminable pavements! you trodden crossings!

And to Kent street and the walls of the Navy Yard; its gaping, abandoned brick buildings are eerie and shadowed.  Portland Avenue south, to Fort Greene Park.  Whitman himself lived in this neighborhood, rallying voices to call for “A place of recreation” that would one day be “crowded with people who sought, beneath the blue canopy of heaven and in the freedom of the fields, to worship nature and nature’s God.”  At the summit of the hill, I pause to observe the correspondent symmetry between the distant World Trade Center and the monument to the Prison Ship Martyrs.

Allons! whoever you are come travel with me!

Traveling with me you find what never tires.

Allons! we must not stop here.

Down the park’s thick, uneven stairs to DeKalb Avenue, named for General Johann Kalb.  Shot and bayonetted in battle, he found the soldier’s death he always desired, “fighting for the rights of man.”  Like Whitman, he died in Camden.  On to busy Flatbush, once an Indian highway, to the forest of concrete at Metrotech and then up onto the Brooklyn Bridge, crowded with holiday people.

Stately, solemn, sad, withdrawn, baffled, mad, turbulent, feeble, dissatisfied,

Desperate, proud, fond, sick, accepted by men, rejected by men,

They go! they go! I know that they go, but I know not where they go.

The buildings, waters, and bustling people are shrouded in gray.  The evening sky, a gray slab of cloud.  At the far side, Manhattan, I turn again and run along the river, bottle green and flat as glass.  There are more runners, more of us, I might say; Camerados.

I think whatever I shall meet on the road I shall like, and whoever beholds me shall like me,

I think whoever I see must be happy.

North, along the noisy highway, along the whispering river, past fields and courts, under bridges, past great and useful public works to where the pavement ends.  The pavement ends, but the journey doesn’t end. 

Allons! to that which is endless as it was beginningless.

Inland I go, past the church of Armenian Vartan, alternating streets and avenues, coming to stop at the city’s temple of conveyance, great Mercury’s throne in shining Gotham.  Mercury, the traveller, the poet, the guide, the messenger.

Camerado, I give you my hand!

I give you my love more precious than money,

I give you myself before preaching or law;

Will you give me yourself? will you come travel with me?

Shall we stick by each other as long as we live?

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Week Fifty-Nine of Paddy Runs for Boston

This week started off magnificently.  Sunday’s race, the Frozen Bonsai Half Marathon, was a delight.  The week before had been slow and draggy and the most I hoped for was a pleasant tour of Central Park and a warm cup of cocoa at the finish line.  I relaxed, enjoyed the morning, and ran free of care.  When I finished, I discovered that in addition to my hot chocolate, I’d be walking away with third place in my age group.  Being forty ain’t so bad!

Later in the week, I found myself despairing at things I read in the news.  I was especially affected reading about the terrorists in Pakistan that had attacked a school and murdered 132 children.  Before the executions began, the students were forced to watch as their principal and teachers were set on fire.  I keep going back and forth between shock that anyone would even consider perpetrating such a senseless, monstrous act, and resolution that such is the nature of ignorant fanaticism.

I was pretty gloomy so I went out to Madison to spend time with Denise and the cast of Much Ado About Nothing at the Shakespeare Theatre of New Jersey.  Besides getting a lift from the cheerful company, I did a couple of runs through the Loantaka Brook Preserve.  The woods were painted in a beautiful winter brown.  The trees were bare, the ground carpeted with fallen leaves.  It was very quiet, too.  I spotted a couple of hornet’s nests hanging in the naked branches.  Unlike bees, which spend the winter huddling inside their hive for warmth, most hornets are dead by December.  Only fertilized Queens survive the winter, tending a few eggs in some sheltered crevice.  In the spring, they start building a new nest and give birth to a whole new colony.

In case you ever need to sound really pretentiously smart, a group of hornets is referred to as a “Grist.”  So now you know that.

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Week Fifty-Eight of Paddy Runs for Boston

It was a gray, rainy, cold week, my friends.  Most other runners had the sense to stay indoors and the laps I ran around Central Park were lonely ones.  I had some fun nature sightings, though.  I spotted three sleeping raccoons in the North Woods.  They were just puffy balls of fur draped over a branch.  It took me a minute to figure out what I was looking at.  On Thursday, the Park’s red-tailed hawks were on a rampage.  I saw half a dozen of them swooping through the trees and terrorizing the pigeons.

This Sunday, I’m running the Frozen Bonsai Half Marathon in Central Park.  It’s been a while since I’ve gone that far and my runs this week did not come easy.  I’m not sure what to expect during the race.  I was hoping the race swag might include a little tree, but nope.  Just a red shirt and four safety pins. 

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Jonathan and Janine Wentz Sponsored a 13-Mile Run!

Jonathan just got back from Colorado Springs where he designed and built the set for THEATREWORKS holiday show, The Lying Kind, a play about two London policemen, a lynch mob, and a Chihuahua.  He flew back to New Jersey last week, but he’s only here for so long.  In January, Jonathan will head back for THEATREWORKS’ next show, Detroit.  While he’s there, perhaps he’ll find an opportunity to drive to the top of Pikes Peak.  Dude, the donuts alone are worth it!

On Sunday, while Jonathan was baking cookies in Toms River, I was in Madison, New Jersey, plonking out a chilly thirteen-miler.  The day was sunny, but there was no warmth in the air.  A constant breeze made an already raw day seem downright frigid.

I started from the Shakespeare Theatre of New Jersey’s company house, followed the bike path along Madison Avenue, and headed over to the Traction Line trail, a recreation path that parallels the New Jersey Transit train tracks.  It’s not super-scenic, but it does provide a paved, car-free route from Madison to Morristown.  The path skirts the grounds of Fairleigh Dickenson University whose aristocratic-sounding name led me to assume it was founded in colonial times.  Turns out, the school was chartered in 1942.  Next door to FDU is the Convent of St. Elizabeth, whose campus includes a girl’s prep school and university.  Unlike its neighbor, this place has been here a while.  The convent was established in 1859.  It’s a peaceful place, with lots of trees and grass.  The Shakespeare Theatre of New Jersey stages its yearly outdoor production at the college’s Greek amphitheater, so both Jonathan and I have had plenty of chances to experience the convent’s bucolic setting firsthand.  As I ran pas the front gate, a set of belltower chimes rang out the tune of We Three Kings, which stayed in my head for the rest of the run.  I didn’t mind; I like those old-timey sounding carols.

Still proceeding, I made my way into Morristown.  Near the end of the path, a Blue Jay sat squawking on a barren tree limb.  It was reproducing the call of the Red-Tailed Hawk, which Jays sometimes impersonate either to trick a real hawk into answering and thus revealing his presence, or to frighten off other birds that are in the Jay’s territory.

The Traction Line brought me to Morris Avenue, which I followed past the train station and into Morristown proper.  On the way, I passed a veterans memorial, which reminded me that today was the 73rd anniversary of the attack on Pearl Harbor.  I spent some time thinking about how that day changed the destiny of an entire generation.  It was our grandparent’s 9/11, a day when everyone woke up and faced the fact that a single event was going to alter their lives and the world around them forever.

I ran across the Morristown Green, which was decked out with holiday lights and garland.  There was a small line of people waiting to see Santa, who was receiving visitors inside a small, enclosed shed with blacked out windows.  Creepy.  Ft. Nonsense was a tough, lonely climb, but the view from the top rewarded the effort.  I could see for miles.  Even the Freedom Tower, or 1 World Trade Center as it’s now called, was visible poking up over Bergen Hill more than twenty miles away.

I could have enjoyed the view for longer, but I got cold standing still.  I ran back through town on South Street, heading towards the well-trodden paths of the Loantaka Brook Preserve.  The woods were quiet and still.   By the time I got to them at mile seven, I had slipped into the runners zen.  My mind sort of glazed over and I lived from one footfall to the next.  Before I knew it, I was crossing Woodland Avenue and turning onto the Giralda Farms bike path.  I barely noticed the climb up the hill and soon I was nearing my starting point by the house.  Only thing was, I still had two miles to go, so I set out for one more lap around the corporate office complex.

It was a strange day.  I’d had the running paths entirely to myself and even Morristown was unusually empty and quiet.  It felt like everyone had packed up and left for the winter.  Even the sun seemed reluctant to participate.  The entire day, it seemed to be on the verge of setting.  Nevertheless, it was thirteen miles finished.  They were chilly and a bit slow, but doing them made me happy.  I celebrated with a Clif bar, though I would rather have had some of the Tollhouse M&M cookies Jonathan was pulling out of the oven at about the same time!

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Weeks Fifty-Four through Fifty-Seven of Paddy Runs for Boston

Yes, I realize how shameful it is to let a whole month go by without updating the blog, but in my defense…did you read the Choose Your Own Adventure post I wrote for Paige and Richard?  That thing was thirty-seven pages long!  Like most endeavors I undertake, it entailed a lot more time, thought, and energy than I’d anticipated.

Though I’ve been away from the keyboard, I have been running regularly over these past four weeks though and it feels good to be in a rhythm.  After the Pikes Peak Marathon, I went into a slump.  With no big events to train for, it was hard to motivate myself to go out and run.  It’s disgraceful to admit that, since working off my debts to the Paddy Runs donors should be ample motivation, but it’s true.  I needed a little time away.  I feel like I’m back in the groove now and promise to run off my obligations as quickly as possible.

On November 23rd, I traveled up to the Bronx to run the Pete McArdle 15k, a rugged, nine-mile ramble through Van Cortlandt Park.  This was my fourth time running the event and the weather has always been terrible, which, perversely, I enjoy.  Slogging through mud, ice, torrents of chilling rain, and winds gusting up to 45 mph, makes you feel like a hard-core, unstoppable warrior.  This year, it was disappointingly pleasant.  The sun was out, the winds were down, and temperatures were in the 50’s.  I went out too fast, but found some energy over the last three miles.  The favorable conditions helped me to a personal best: 1 hour, 4 Minutes, 8 Seconds.  My friend Celeste ran, too.  Her goal was to finish in an hour and a half and she made it, skating under the wire with a minute to spare.  It was a homecoming of sorts for her.  Back when she ran cross-country for Dwight Morrow High School, she used to compete here on the Park’s venerable Tortoise and Hare trail.

A few days later, I was in San Diego for another leg of the ReEntry tour. With miles of waterfront, a mild climate, and one of America’s most beautiful public parks, San Diego is a runner’s paradise.  I went nuts while I was there, running over twenty-eight miles in three days.

The first chance I got, I headed straight for Balboa Park, a 1,200-acre rectangle of public land that’s home to the city’s world-renowned zoo as well as sixteen museums, more than a dozen unique gardens, one of the country’s most prestigious regional theatres, outdoor performance spaces, dog runs, a velodrome, and miles of trails and paths.  It’s the second-oldest city park in America, and would be the first but for the fact that in 1835 when the land was originally set aside for public use, California was still part of the Spanish Empire.

I started out on the park’s bridle path, which dropped down into Cabrillo Canyon and paralleled the highway for a bit.  It wound back up the hill on the Park’s north side, where the sweet odor of eucalyptus floated in the mist.  It was an overcast, rainy day, very un-Californian, even for winter.  I turned south again and ran past the Lawn Bowling courts down to the Cabrillo Bridge, a narrow span built for the Panama-California Exposition of 1915.  Staged to celebrate the opening of the Panama Canal, construction for the Exposition completely transformed the park, right down to its very name.  What had been known as City Park, was renamed to honor Vasco Núñez de Balboa, the first European explorer to cross the Isthmus of Panama and lay eyes on the Pacific Ocean.  In addition to the name change, the park was extensively landscaped and crowned with a colony of lavishly decorated Spanish Baroque buildings and a formal promenade lined with fountains and foliage.  Everything was designed to uphold the highest standards of taste and visual appeal.  Visitors could enjoy cultural and educational exhibits that included, oddly, an ostrich farm.  There were concerts, lectures, military parades, and even the Liberty Bell was sent out and put on display.  During its two year run, the fair attracted close to 4 million visitors, including notables such as Henry Ford, Thomas Edison, Teddy Roosevelt and William Howard Taft.

I ran through an imposing arched gateway and passed the California Building, flagship of the 1915 Exhibition.  With its adjoining 200-foot bell tower and baroque design, the domed building is easily mistaken for a church, but actually houses an anthropological museum.  From there, I made a quick diversion onto the grounds of the Old Globe Theatre, where I’d once seen Paddy Runs donor Celeste Ciulla ham it up one night as Lucetta in Two Gentlemen of Verona and break hearts the next as Hamlet’s foredoomed mother Gertrude.

The original Old Globe was built as part of the California Pacific International Exposition of 1935, another grand fair that took place in the park.  The 1935 Exposition had all the usual scientific and cultural attractions, but also featured a nudist colony, which drew controversy, not only for its frank display of human anatomy, but also because the so-called “nudists” were really just actors.  These nudists-for-hire cavorted around the Zoro garden performing quasi-religious rituals that were both wholly bogus and indubitably titillating.  The exhibit outraged moral conservatives of course, but also prompted an official protest from several groups of authentic nudists.

Across the road from the Globe sits the Alcazar, a beautiful formal garden that, even on this December day, was dripping with purple and pink flowers.  Two Paddy Runs donors, Jeff Bender and Christine Whalen, found the place so beautiful that they chose to be married here.

From there, I continued down the Prado, the main drag of both expositions and still the Park’s focal point.  If I had an estate on Fantasy Island, it would probably look like the Prado.  Lined with museums that look like churches and palaces and impeccably landscaped with fountains, palm trees and flowering shrubs, you can’t help but feel like a king when you stroll down the broad avenue.  The mission-style buildings with names such as the House of Charm and the House of Hospitality transport you to another time and place.  At the far end of the Prado I made a left turn and headed down into Florida Canyon.  The trails were muddy and wet but I ran the length of the canyon before heading back up to the Prado.  A left turn took me past the Spreckles Organ Pavilion, built for the 1915 Exposition with funds donated by John D. Spreckles, a local businessman and civic booster.  The pavilion seats 2,500 and free concerts are given every Sunday by San Diego’s official civic Organist.

The next day, my castmates and I went up to Mission Beach.  This was the California of TV, with girls in bikinis playing volleyball and dudes on surfboards.  I did a few miles around Mission bay, then went north into Pacific Beach.  My turn-around point was the tip of Crystal Pier where a Christmas Tree glowed like a lighthouse in the twilight.

I couldn’t seem to get enough of San Diego.  My last day there, I woke up at 6:30am and squeezed in one last run before flying home.

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Paige Blansfield and Richard Lovejoy Sponsored a 26-Mile Run!

Not long ago, a bunch of us gathered at an old warehouse in Brooklyn to see Paige and Richard jump the broom. Their wedding featured sweeping views of New York Bay, a Greek Chorus of loving friends...

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Weeks Fifty-Two and Fifty-Three of Paddy Runs for Boston

Holy Cow!  We’ve been at this a whole year?!

Believe it or not, we’re still not finished.  There are some outstanding donations left for me to run off and I’ll be addressing those debts presently.  I’d better get them done soon, or I’ll be freezing my butt off running in the winter cold.

I capped a year of Paddy Runs for Boston modestly with a few relaxing laps around Central Park, taking time to enjoy the gorgeous fall foliage.  The west drive was congested near Tavern on the Green with crews setting up the finish line for the New York City Marathon, which took place on November 1st.  Kenya’s Wilson Kipsang took first with a time of two hours, ten minutes.  Dear old Meb Keflezighi who won Boston so dramatically, came in fourth.  I actually saw Meb running in the park two days earlier, jogging past the empty bleachers towards the yet-to-be-constructed finish line.

On Sunday, I was in transit again, flying to California for another tour of ReEntry.  This time we performed at a Navy base in Ventura County about an hour north of L.A.  The town, Port Hueneme, (“Way-Nee-Mee” or “Hew-Nee-Mee” or “Why-Nem-Mee”; opinions differ) is right on the shore.  I enjoyed a lovely run along the beach, but the real treat came the next day when I drove a few minutes south to Point Mugu State Park.  (Sounds like “Muh-Goo”)

These towns, by the way, got their names from the Chumash, the people who lived in the area prior to European settlement.  Hueneme meant “resting place” and Mugu is derived from the Chumash word for “beach”.  Malibu, Ojai, Lompoc and Pismo Beach are all Chumash derivatives as well.

Point Mugu is the western terminus of the Santa Moncia mountain range, a string of brown, scrubby hills that begin in Hollywood and extend forty miles to the coast.  I parked at the La Jolla Canyon Campground and headed up into the hills on a well-packed, switchbacking path called the Backbone Trail.  There were some breathtaking views out over the ocean and far across the sparkling blue water, the Channel Islands lurked in pockets of midday haze.  I stopped for a moment to watch a Red-Shouldered Hawk swirl upwards on the breeze.  Eventually the trail took me to a dirt road snaking inland across the top of a ridge.   The Santa Ana winds were up, roaring across the tops of the hills and shoving me back and forth across the road.  I turned onto the La Jolla Canyon trail, which was straight and level before becoming stony and technical once it dropped into the notch of the canyon.

It had been a hot, windy, dusty run, but also an incredibly beautiful one.  And though for most of the run, the wind was rushing in my ears, it was also oddly quiet and peaceful.  Lucky me, I got to do it all again a day later.

[paddyrunsforboston]

Week Fifty-One of Paddy Runs for Boston

More travelling, friends.  Two days after we got back from Mississippi, Denise and I hopped in a car and drove to Ohio.  Our first stop was Lorain, a small town on the west side of Cleveland.   Despite its steel-toed, industrial character, Lorain has some pretty spots and on Thursday I persuaded not only Denise, but also her parents, Pat and Ron, to join me on an outing through the Black River Reservation, a beautiful preserve just south of the town’s sprawling steel mill.

The four of us split up and went at our own paces.  Pat took a leisurely stroll, Ron cranked out a brisk powerwalk, Denise ran for three miles and I did six.  As far as runs go, this one was pretty good.

The park did not disappoint.  The trees bore a profusion of colors, from bright yellow to deep russet to beet red.  At times, I ran through gentle showers of falling leaves.  The valley smelled like autumn.

A few days later, Denise and I drove to Loveland, Ohio to spend a few days with my folks and run the Paw Joggers Rescue Run, a 5k to raise money for animal welfare organizations.  As the name implies, it’s a canine-centric event and you can even run with your dog if you want.  Last year, my stepdad’s poodle Gonzo and I won the thing, so this year was about defending the title.  Denise was running too, with Mom’s dog, Hoolie.

The race took place in Sharon Woods, a lovely park on the north side of Cincinnati.  The course was hilly, but attractive with a long curving section skirting the lake. It was a crazy start.  A trio of dogs and their respective owners got tangled up right out of the gate and people ended up on the ground.  (Luckily we started on grass)  Gonzo and I danced around the flailing legs and leashes, but another dog/human duo charged past us.  It took us the whole first mile to catch up to them.  The run next to the lake was gorgeous, though Gonzo would have rather stopped to play with the ducks.  The two of us were flying!  We passed Denise and Hoolie going the other way and she cheered as we went by.  I was too focused to respond though; not so much on running, but on trying to read Gonzo’s mind.  I was afraid he’d suddenly cut across and take my legs out from under me.  Another runner recognized us from last year, but I was working too hard to say anything more than a breathless, “Howyadoin.”

As we closed in on the finish, I began to feel a presence.  I could sense another dog and runner creeping up behind us.  It came down to a sprint over the last fifty yards.  Joe was cheering, I was yelling, and Gonzo kept trying to stop, but despite all that, we managed to cross the line first.  Gonzo celebrated with an epic pee.

As it was, our joy was short-lived.  During the awards ceremony, the MC declared Gonzo and me the winners, then announced that there’d been an error.  Turns out, the challenger’s chip time was actually faster than mine.  I had the first place trophy literally yanked out of my hands.  Ouch.  So it goes.

In a way, I’m glad.  Running with the expectation of a result was stressful and trying to deal with the dog made the race even more difficult.  I like running to see what I can do, no to prove anything.  Now that I’ve been de-throned, there’s no pressure to come back and do it again next year.  And Gonzo and I still came away with a swell box of swag.  He got tennis balls, I got a coupon for yogurt.

[paddyrunsforboston]

Weeks Forty-Seven to Fifty of Paddy Runs for Boston

Week forty-seven saw the start of rehearsal for my next show, ReEntry, a play about military people and their families.  There was a lot to learn, and if I wasn’t in rehearsal, I was working on lines.  Running had to take a back seat.

The cast and I flew to Gulfport, Mississippi on October 6th and the next day, I went for a run across the Biloxi Bay Bridge, a, graceful, two-mile span at the mouth of Biloxi Bay.  The bridge features a wide pedestrian lane and great views out towards the Gulf of Mexico.  I started on the east side in Ocean Springs and headed across in the heat of the midday sun.  The miles went by quickly and soon I was off the bridge and running along the beaches, which, on this October day were deserted though temperatures were in the high 80’s.

Hurricane Katrina was not kind to this area and I ran past the spot where an enormous casino barge had been thrown two hundred feet inland, leveling a swath of houses a quarter-mile wide.  The barge is gone now and the site is occupied by a trippy museum complex designed by Frank Gehry.  I also passed St. Michael’s church, a conspicuous, white, domed, circus tent-looking building built in the 60’s that was also damaged during the storm and whose priest conducts the yearly blessing of the local Shrimping Fleet.

A couple miles up the road (though I didn’t have the legs to get there) sits Beauvoir, the house where former confederate president Jefferson Davis spent his final years.   Biloxi didn’t play a big part in the Civil War.  The city was essentially removed from play early on after the Union captured Fort Massachusetts, which sits on an island guarding the mouth of the bay.

I conked out on the way back and took a walk break.  The sun and humidity kicked my butt, but the bridge got me moving again.  Seabirds soared across the water and I watched a massive Coast Guard C-130 transport plane angle up and disappear into the clouds.

I ran again on Thursday, with a jaunt across the bridge followed by a quick spin along the beaches of Ocean Springs.  Denise and our friend Jessie came along and I had to give them mad props.  It was really hot!  Not a day for the faint of heart.  We split up, but I passed them late in the run and they were doing great, especially Jessie, who is not a regular runner.  It was a tough day, but they were tougher.

I paused for some water at Fort Maurepas State Park, which preserves the site the earliest French settlement in the area, dating to 1699.  The fort was built under the supervision of French explorer Pierre Le Moyne d'Iberville, whose statue, along with an informative plaque, graces one of the park’s flowerbeds.  D’Iberville was the first European to encounter the native Biloxi people.  At the time of the Frenchman’s arrival, the tribe had been decimated by a smallpox epidemic.  They never really recovered and were eventually pushed out of their territory by European settlers.  Family identification was apparently a big deal to the Biloxi.  Their language contained as many as sixty-five different words to illustrate degrees of kinship.

Fort Maurepas was the administrative capitol of New France until 1719, when it was moved to Mobile and then to New Orleans.  Later that year, the fort caught fire and burned and the whole settlement was moved across the bay to the city’s current site.

The park once featured a full size replica of the Fort, but that also fell victim to Katrina.  The base is still there, though, and I wandered over for a look before heading back onto the sunbaked strip of pavement running along the beach.  I caught up to Denise and Jessie just before the car and an hour later we celebrated our fortitude with oysters and beer.

We ran together again on Saturday morning, and this time, there was something on the line.  The three of us signed up for the inaugural Milk Run 5k, a race that would benefit the Mother’s Milk Bank of Mississippi, a non-profit that provides pasteurized breast milk to premature babies.  This was going to be Jessie’s first race, but she didn’t seem nervous at all.

 We woke up before dawn and drove to a housing development way out in the middle of nowhere.  There were about fifty people signed up and the race director informed us that it was not a closed course.  “Cars may be on the road.  Try not to get run over!” she joked.   When the horn sounded, the pack thinned out pretty quickly.  After the first half-mile, to my great shock and surprise, I found myself alone and in the lead, which was a little scary, since I didn’t really know where I was going.  I hoped they had the course well marked!

I got a little nervous when the pavement fizzled out and turned into a dirt road.  After rounding a bend, though, I could see the water table at the end of mile one.  The dirt road ended and I made the turn onto State Route 605.  Cars zoomed past me freely in the left lane.  It occurred to me that I was now running on a highway that had not been closed to traffic.  It was a little bit crazy.  Two fears went through my mind.  One: that I would somehow miss the turn-around, and Two: that I would get run over. But, wait!  Up ahead…I could see a cone!

I made the turn and started heading back, giving props to the other runners on the way and high-fives to Denise and Jessie.  They looked great!  Bad footing on the dirt road slowed me down a bit, but I held on for first with a time of twenty minutes, two seconds.  First place!  Wow!

The girls had an amazing, hand-in-hand finish, which was only outdone by the subsequent, triumphal dance.  They had every reason to celebrate, too.  The course had been tough, and the weather, hot and humid.  They’d done great!

The ladies from the milk bank were extremely grateful to everyone who came out and found it a charming novelty that we were from New York.  Besides the swell trophy, they sent me home with a delicious breakfast sandwich, a bottle of chocolate milk, and fond memories of Mississippi.

We flew home that evening and the very next day, Denise and I laced up our shoes to run the Get to the Point 5k in Greenpoint, Brooklyn.  Celeste joined us for this one.  She and I had run the race before, but this was Denise’s first time.  The course is pleasant enough, but what really makes the event memorable is the post race party.  Local families and restaurants donate food and there’s plenty of beer on offer from the Brooklyn Brewery.  Proceeds go to the St. Stanislaus Kostka School, whose auditorium hosts the awards ceremony.

A Polish folk-dance trio in full regalia entertained us while we waited for the start and we had to hold while one of them changed into his running clothes.  Finally, everyone was ready and they let us go.  We ran around McCarren Park and by the time we turned onto Lorimer Street, I’d left the pack behind and was jumping from person to person.  I was really surprised! 

There’s a family on Kent Street that must look forward to this day every year.  They’d written encouraging messages all over the pavement in chalk.  They were out on their stoop cheering, too and I gave them a big “Thank You!” when I ran by.  We turned onto the gentle slope of Manhattan Avenue where the afternoon service was at old Saint Anthony’s church was letting out.  Across the street, a smiling cop smoked a stogie and assured parishioners the street would be open soon.  On Monitor Street, we passed a house that had been completely obscured by Halloween decorations, remade into the “Undead Graveyard.”

I started to conk out at mile two, but managed to come in 11th overall and snag 3rd in my age group with a time of eighteen minutes, thirty-seven seconds!  I couldn’t believe it!  Denise and Celeste finished in just over half an hour and crossed the line with a high-five.  They’d done great, too!

It was fun getting go up on stage to collect my trophy, but the best part was celebrating with my friends.  There was a lot to enjoy!  The food was predictably awesome and my plate was piled high with ziti, meatballs, roasted potatoes, a grilled hotdog, traditional Polish sausages, penne alla vodka, and, just because it was there, a White Castle. You can’t beat this race!  We thanked the MC and volunteers and left the building dancing.

[paddyrunsforboston]

Jay Leibowitz Sponsored a Three-Mile Run!

A few days after I got back from Indiana, I found myself in New Jersey to run the Friends and Neighbors in Action 5k in Monroe Township.  I was running this one at the request of Jay Leibowitz, who grew up in the area and used to come to Thompson Park, where the race was being held, to drink and smoke cigarettes while he was still in high school.  Good times.  He still turned out alright.

While Jay’s generous donation helped disabled people in Boston, my entry fee for the FNA 5k was helping a local family whose son had suffered a severe spinal cord injury.  The guy’s Dad gave a heartfelt speech before the race and you could tell he was genuinely grateful to everyone for coming out.  He also handed out the medals afterwards.

I had a lot of support in my corner for this one.  In addition to Denise’s unwavering enthusiasm, my friends Jeff, Christine and Zoe came down to cheer me on, too.  Just seeing my friends was a great start to the morning!  Where was Jay?  Oh, he was there in spirit.  I imagined a teenaged version of him sitting under the gazebo singing Thunder Road while feeling sullen and misunderstood.

We lined up on a park road, all 225 of us, ready to set off on our three-mile journey.  The course was a big loop followed by a little loop and from what I’d overheard, it was quite hilly.  This turned out to be true.  Within half a mile, a long climb broke up the leading group of runners.  It came down to one other guy and myself and we’d pulled away completely after a mile.  He looked pretty darned fit and even though I drifted past him on the downhills, once the ground leveled out, he easily reclaimed his position three feet ahead of me.  We circled back to the start area and I admit, it felt pretty good to hear my friends’ cheers as I set out on the second leg.  I just knew the other guy was going to take this one, though and with a mile to go, he shifted into another gear and left me in the dust.  I held on for 2nd overall with a time of 19:25.  This was the first year that anyone finished the race in less than twenty minutes and I shared a fist bump with the guy who won.

It was a fun race, and between all of us, especially Jay, we helped a lot of people.  Jay is a hero.  An American hero.  Maybe the Greatest American Hero?  You be the judge…

  Thanks, Jay!

[paddyrunsforboston]

Weeks Forty-Two to Forty-Six of Paddy Runs for Boston

Busy weeks, indeed, friends.  Work and travel kept me hopping and in addition, it took a long time to get the Pikes Peak Marathon post hammered into shape.

The week before the Pikes Peak Race was an easy one.  Two journeys up the Incline and lots of protein and beer.  I was actually hung over on race day morning and gulped down fruit juice and Clif Bars hoping I could shake it off by the start.  The race went pretty well, all things considered, and opening Rich Wahler’s flag at the summit was an honor.

I didn’t run at all the next week, but took naps instead.  The marathon took a lot out of this forty-year old body. 

I was back in New York on August 27th.  I wanted to see if being at altitude would affect on my performance at sea level so I entered a couple of races right after I got back.  One of them was the Harriers Sundown Classic, a 5k in Riverside Park.  The race started and I hoped for the best.  I realized pretty quickly that any advantage I had from the altitude was cancelled out by the humidity.  I was struggling by mile two.  Still, I hung on to claim 16th place and 2nd in my age group with a finish just shy of nineteen minutes.  I went home with a pint glass and a plaque.

Labor Day was five days later and I celebrated by laboring around Roosevelt Island in the NYC Runs Labor Day 10k.  It was a hot, sticky morning and I sweated through my shirt just walking from the train to the staging area.  Last year, the race had to be diverted due to a fire on the deck of the Queensboro Bridge.  This year, it was more likely that the blazing sun would cause one of us to burst into flames.  The course was basically two laps around the island.  I felt great for the first mile, then tanked, markedly, clobbered by the heat and humidity.  I was near the front, though and as I finished my first lap I got a cheer and Woof from my friends Kristi and Prufrock, who live on the island.  The second lap was a struggle and at mile four I reached the point of “I cannot continue at this pace.”  I had to slow down, despite repeating Neal Freeman’s mantra of “You can put up with anything for two miles.”  I managed to finish in 40 minutes, 52 seconds, good enough for a top 10th place and first in my age group.  I showed up at Jeff Bender’s Labor Day picnic with a nifty statue.

The week rounded out with a pleasant run through the Loantaka Brook Preserve in New Jersey and a free flowing, relaxed lap around Central Park.  On September 10th, I went home to sell pottery at the Indianapolis Irish Festival, which normally holds a 5k on Friday night.  They cancelled it this year, however, changing it to a shorter “Kilted Mile.”  Mom suggested I tie a tablecloth around my waist, but in the end, I passed.