Seven
OCTOBER 30, 2005 • CAMBRIDGE, MASSACHUSETTS
Autumn in New York
As if to lament the defeat of the Boston Red Sox in the playoffs (they lost every game in a Sox vs.
Sox series with Chicago), for ten days afterward a cold rain fell on New England. A long autumn rain.
Sometimes it rained hard, sometimes softly; sometimes, it would let up for a time like an
afterthought, but not once did it clear up. From beginning to end the sky was completely covered with
the thick gray clouds particular to this region. Like a dawdling person, the rain lingered for a long
time, then finally made up its mind to turn into a downpour. Towns from New Hampshire to Massachusetts
suffered damage from the rain, and the main highway was cut off in places. (Please understand I’m not
blaming the Red Sox for all this.) I had some work to do at a college in Maine, and all I recall from the
trip was driving in this gloomy rain. Except for the middle of winter, traveling in this region is usually
fun, but unfortunately my trip this time wasn’t very enjoyable. Too late for summer, too early for the fall
colors. It was raining cats and dogs, plus the windshield wiper on my rental car was acting up, and by
the time I returned to Cambridge late at night I was exhausted.
On Sunday, October 9, I ran an early-morning race, and it was still raining. This was a half marathon
held every year at this time by the Boston Athletic Association, the same organization that holds the
Boston Marathon in the spring. The course starts at Roberto Clemente Field, near Fenway Park, goes
past Jamaica Pond, then winds back inside the Franklin Park Zoo and ends up right where it started.
This year some 4,500 people participated.
I ran this race as a kind of warm-up for the New York City Marathon, so I only gave it about 80
percent, really getting fired up only in the final two miles. It’s pretty hard, though, to not give it your
all in a race, to try to hold back. Being surrounded by other runners is bound to have an influence on
you. It’s a lot of fun, after all, to be with so many fellow runners when the starters shout Go!, and
before you know it the old competitive instinct raises its head. This time, though, I tried my best to
suppress it and keep my cool: I’ve got to save my energy, so I can bring it as a carry-on when I board the
plane for New York.
My time was one hour and fifty-five minutes. Not too bad, and about what I expected. The last
couple of miles I floored it, passing about a hundred runners and making it to the finish line with
energy to spare. The other runners around me were mainly Caucasians, especially a lot of women. For
whatever reason, there weren’t many minority runners. It was a cold Sunday morning, with a mistlike
rain falling the entire time. But pinning a number on my back, hearing the other runners’ breathing as