Five
OCTOBER 3, 2005 • CAMBRIDGE, MASSACHUSETTS
Even If I Had a Long Ponytail Back Then
In the Boston area every summer there are a few days so unpleasant you feel like cursing everything
in sight. If you can get through those, though, it’s not bad the rest of the time. The rich escape the heat
by going to Vermont or Cape Cod, which leaves the city nice and empty. The trees that line the
walking path along the river provide plenty of cool shade, and Harvard and Boston University students
are always out on the glittering river practicing for a regatta. Young girls in revealing bikinis are
sunbathing on beach towels, listening to their Walkmen or iPods. An ice cream van stops and sets up
shop. Someone’s playing a guitar, an old Neil Young tune, and a long-haired dog is single-mindedly
chasing a Frisbee. A Democrat psychiatrist (at least that’s who I imagine he is) drives along the river
road in a russet-colored Saab convertible.
The special New England fall—short and lovely—fades in and out, and finally settles in. Little by
little the deep, overwhelming green that surrounds us gives way to a faint yellow. By the time I need
to wear sweatpants over my running shorts, dead leaves are swirling in the wind and acorns are hitting the
asphalt with a hard, dry crack. Industrious squirrels are running around like crazy trying to gather up
enough provisions to last them through the winter.
Once Halloween is over, winter, like some capable tax collector, sets in, concisely and silently.
Before I realize it the river is covered in thick ice and the boats have disappeared. If you wanted to,
you could walk across the river to the other side. The trees are barren of leaves, and the thin branches
scrape against each other in the wind, rattling like dried-up bones. Way up in the trees you can catch a
glimpse of squirrels’ nests. The squirrels must be fast asleep inside, dreaming. Flocks of geese fly
down from Canada, reminding me that it’s even colder north of here. The wind blowing across the
river is as cold and sharp as a newly honed hatchet. The days get shorter and shorter, the clouds
thicker.
We runners wear gloves, wool caps pulled down to our ears, and face masks. Still, our fingertips
freeze and our earlobes sting. If it’s just the cold wind, that’s all right. If we think we can put up with
it, somehow we can. The fatal blow comes when there’s a snowstorm. During the night the snow
freezes into giant slippery mounds of ice, making the roads impassable. So we give up on running and
instead try to keep in shape by swimming in indoor pools, pedaling away on those worthless bicycling
machines, waiting for spring to come.
The river I’m talking about is the Charles River. People enjoy being around the river. Some take
leisurely walks, walk their dogs, or bicycle or jog, while others enjoy rollerblading. (How such a