Adventures on an early morning run.
Lost: 3 hours of sleep.
Gained: 18 miles and a new perspective. My alarm rings at 3:45am and I wake immediately, as if my body knew it was going to ring - knew that it was time. I feel no grogginess, despite the lack of sleep, just ready. I perform the morning steps I had been going over in my head: Bathroom. Drink water. Wash face. Dress. Go.

When I exit my building I see my running partner across the street, stretching on the trashcan. My 24-hour neighborhood deli is the only thing open - its yellow lights bathe the sidewalk, reaching out to the darkness. A few men sit hunched over at the tables inside, their quiet sounds fill the trafficless intersection. It’s like a secret time at this hour, when the city shrinks to a handful. Those who are up expect to see no one else, but there is a sense of connection amongst those that are; as if in the eye contact we make as we pass there is a silent nod of acceptance. While most New Yorkers have retreated to the confines of their pre-war walk-ups, their brownstones, their luxury high-rises, the homeless take real-estate under scaffolding, in abandoned doorways, and under bridges. There is no space. Everywhere is our bedroom.

The city sleeps. The homeless, the rich and famous, and the rest of us contained within these fortress walls. There is a sense of relaxed energy – a collective slowed breathing. A city this big on an island this small radiates energy even at its most quiet hour: Tuesday, before 4am.

My running partner and I make our way down 59th street to the Westside highway and begin our run on the riverside park trail. My goal is to make it across the George Washington Bridge and back plus an extra loop near the marina to complete the 18 miles. The beginning of the Westside highway trail reminds me of a boardwalk in Florida. Here, at the waters edge, the city opens up. Tall grass and willows sway gently in the breeze and moonlight, and soft Hudson River waves, sparkling in black and yellow, lap at the walls of the city.

Our strides are swift and easy, the air is soft and cool. I feel light, and each mile passes almost effortlessly. My favorite part comes at 150th street. I say,

“Amit, this is it, this is the view I was talking about! There’s nothing like it!”

After a moment of silence, he agrees, “It’s amazing.”

At 150th street, the trees obscuring the view of the Hudson River fall away, and before us is a canvas of black sky and the grand George Washington Bridge, suspended in darkness, illuminating the stretch of water beneath it. It is majestic and fills the entire view. It appears almost close enough to touch.

My partner leaves me here, he will wait for me to run the next 6 miles and return with me on my way back. He gives me his cell phone as a safety precaution and I continue on alone. I am revived by the sight before me, and by the peacefulness silence. I imagine myself crossing the bridge - the most exciting and challenging part of the run lies ahead.

I did not make it over the bridge that morning; I got lost somewhere around 170th street and could not find the pedestrian walk way. I got stuck on a narrowing shoulder in the maze of roadways leading onto the bridge and realized the danger of being in a place where cars are not looking out for people, thinking “I could die here at any moment.” I carefully turned around and found my way out.
I abandoned my goal; although I was disappointed at not achieving what I had set out to do, I felt I had made the right decision. And the experience of crossing the bridge in the morning darkness is still something I can look forward too.

The end of the run was a challenge with pain and stiffness setting in, but the morning’s journey proved to be everything I imaged it would be, and more. I exited the Westside highway trail and reentered the city through the columns of steel and glass; the city had swelled to its usual morning hustle. I reached my door just in time to get ready for work, and begin the day.

Photo by Paul Baily