Tag: Funny

Walking. In rush hour traffic…

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It’s been 2,149 consecutive (well, almost) days on this morning walk at The Cove. Like in a row.

The highlight of the morning were the Atlantic Brants. The photo time stamp on the shot above was 6:47 am, just minutes before the Sun’s lift-off. There is nothing like the sound of the battalion’s wing flaps and their distinctive call (you really must listen here). Watching them just feet above the water, I couldn’t help but think: “You look marvelous! Absolutely marvelous!“

I stood on the break wall watching the sunrise.

Momentarily at peace.

And then it was The Cove’s rush hour traffic. A new phenomenon. DK’s groupies. 5 years ago, you wouldn’t find a soul at this park at this hour, now I’m mobbed.

Susan’s to my left snapping at the sun (without our Wally, who was left behind at home — the horror!) She’s slinging two cameras over her shoulder, yes, two. (Note to Self – Susan to Dave in 2023: “You always have to take things to the extreme, do you really need two cameras?” Elephant never forgets.)

Cara’s next to Susan, sporting designer Tall Boots akin to a rider in a Dressage event. She’s criss-crossing back and forth, violently snapping at everything that moves. Oh the young-uns, they do everything with such flourish.

Then came the rest: the walkers, the dog walkers and the runners.

I pack my gear and head back.

Look at you DK — The Pied Piper of The Cove.

God, I miss the good ole’ days.

Notes: Shots from this morning’s walk can be found here.

Walking. I’m lost. I’m lost. I’m lost.

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It’s 6:15 a.m, 61° F with light rain, on a dreary Friday morning.

61° F (!) in August, after several weeks of blistering heat, imagine that. I lift my face to the sky, and let the cool morning breeze and light rain work themselves into my bones.

I cracked open a new book last night, Linn Ullmann’s “Girl, 1983.” Hypnotic scenes drift in and out as I walk.

But sometimes there’s a blessed respite – like a sudden breath of cool wind from an open window…I shook the duvets and smoothed the sheets, tidied the bedside table, opened the window wide and flung the curtains apart. I wanted air and light to stream in to where I lay in the white linen – and sounds that told of a city that was awake. (Linn Ullmann)

It’s been 1,914 consecutive (almost) days on this morning walk at Cove Island Park. Like in a row.

And even though I’ve been walking in this same park, on the same track for 1,914 consecutive days (like 5.25 years now), I’ve stepped foot in the Cove Island Park Wildlife Sanctuary, maybe 10x. This small refuge is less than 1000 feet from where I park my car at the entrance of Cove Island Park.

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Walking. These boots are made for walkin’…

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I don’t stroll. I don’t meander. Or stop to catch-up. Or walk sipping coffee. I don’t sit on park benches contemplating my fate.

Move fast, talk straight, get it done. Next! #BePatient? Ahhhh, no.

Late March. It’s still fresh, oh so very fresh. I’m marching through the Park at 4 a.m., pre-dawn, usual story. Just another morning on the same path I’ve walked a thousand + times. Pitch black.

Kate Fagan: “You just never f****** know what’s going to happen next in this life—okay?

I walk…

These boots are made for walkin’
And that’s just what they’ll do
One of these days, these boots are gonna walk all over you (Nancy Sinatra, 1966)

Nope, I didn’t see it. No sixth sense, no gut intuition, no unconscious memory map of treacherous obstacles.

My toecap catches a large rock, and I’m airborne. Yes, in that split second, it was all in slow motion. Instinctively, the body did respond:

  1. Clutch cameras (PROTECT THE GEAR AT ALL COSTS NO MATTER WHAT DAMAGE TO BODY)
  2. WAIT! Wait just one millisecond. I can’t FACE-PLANT. I twist my right shoulder inward to absorb the blow.
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Dear Santa…

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Wally said that while he is grateful for the itchy and awful holiday sweater that Mom bought for him for Christmas, he has pleaded with me to write Santa and tell him that we can do better than this given how great he has been all year. We’re working on it.

Walking. With my Religion.

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4:00 a.m. I check the weather app: 18° F, wind speed 15 mph from the North, wind gusts up to 28 mph. Temperature feels like – 1° F. Winds from The Great White North, a reminder of Home. Add the presence of high tide, cloud cover of < 5% and there would be less-than-zero reason to be going out this morning, except one of the three requirements of a great morning trifecta being present, No Humans. Wally snuggles close, belly so warm, he snores. I tip toe out of the room, wood floors cold, body and bones resist, this Earth won’t stop spinning if I take the day off.

Last Night. Rachel asks if we would drive into the city to pick her up. Luggage, Sully, Christmas gifts, just way too much to haul solo on Metro North. The response was swift: Absolutely Not. Google Maps estimates ~90 minutes in both directions, if all goes well. Holiday traffic snarling. Tolls subject to surge pricing add to the misery. Now, why would anyone subject themselves to this? Well…It’s 8 p.m., and here I am, in the car, driving into Manhattan. Madness. 30 minutes to travel 30 miles. 60 minutes to navigate the last 10 minutes into Gotham. Think Mad Max in Thunderdome. Eastside highway traffic moving 55-70 mph, along NARROW, I mean a NARROW three lanes on something closer to a gravel country road than highway. Reach out your window and touch the yellow cab next to you. Reach out the passenger side, you’d be skimming the restraining wall of the East River. It’s less than one hour from bedtime, and here I am, bleary-eyed, hands clenching the steering wheel — the body knows, stomach cramps signaling high anxiety. I shift in my seat conscious of one errant move right or left and there is a pile up of massive proportions — followed by a 2 hour delay with cops, and accident reports. But, there’s something to prove here. Man-Child from small town Western Canada still has it — can make it on these tough streets of NYC. Cab driver behind me has his hand on the horn urging me to speed up, I’m going 60 mph. He passes giving me the bird, must be the Connecticut plates. I reciprocate with genuine kindness, turning on my high beams and tailgating him for the next mile or two, high beams flickering in his rear view mirror. Don’t mess with Country. He turns off at Exit 15. Still got it. Man-child.

4:30 a.m. I settle into my office chair. No longer reading the papers, nothing uplifting there. No longer following politics. I check the box scores. Check blog posts. Read another chapter or two, and then close my eyes reflecting on the drive into Manhattan, operating on < 5 hours sleep. “Yes, Lord, I am thankful today again for every reminder of how I have outlived my worst imagination. I will walk slowly through the garden of all that could have killed me but didn’t.” — Hanif Abdurraqib

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