Idylls of Running

Clap, clap, clap...my feet hit the pavement in regular rhythm as I run through the streets of New York. My running mix is keeping time in my ears while I unobtrusively take in the humanity around me. It is times like these that my imagination takes flight. Perhaps it is the duration of the run (10mls) that makes it a necessity, perhaps the beauty of the day, perhaps the heterogenicity of the people around me, but my mind is spinning stories about everyone I see, faster than my running pace. A man walks by, 80ish, stooped, with a cane, being supported, or perhaps supporting, someone whom I assume to be his wife. She is equally bent, equally old. Together, they are the epitome of an award-winning black and white photo montage of the people of New York. I name them Irma and Ted, transplants from the Ukraine, who together have seen the rise and fall of many great leaders and ideologies over their long lives. He used to work as small bookstore owner in the old country; she cooked, cleaned, and raised the children until WWII made it imperative for them to leave and start afresh in America. A homeless man with an amputated leg is lying on newspapers on the ground. Swish-swish my pants rustle in the breeze as I pass him by. His name is George, a very aged 40, raised in prosperity but due to some bad choices and risky investments has become one of the street people. He went to Nam and came back a changed man; no longer knew who he was or what he was doing. Does anyone really see him as they pass by? Does anyone want to know his name, his story? I make up tales in my mind, but how far from the truth am I really? The sun sinks lower over the Hudson as I continue my trek to South Ferry. To my left, a couple is running, much faster than I. Annaliese and Jacob, I name them. Inconspicuous, unassuming, seemingly an ordinary middle-aged couple out for their daily run along Riverside Dr. However, they are actually spies, in the employ of a foreign government. I don't know their mission or how long they've been here, but I keep a wary eye on them as I imagine all of the intrigues they must have gotten into in their lives thus far. Perhaps it is because of my diet of Murder She Wrotes or Matlocks, but I think of spies being everywhere. The man picking up the tomato and sniffing it appreciatively, furtively glancing around as he puts it down. The woman with a child in tow who seems to have a lot on her mind; she casually drops a newspaper as she bends over to tend to her child. Is it a newspaper containing a secret message for a contact? Who looks the most normal, the most overlooked? Perhaps the pair of cute little old ladies, knitting away and talking of their great grandchildren. They are much more shrewd and world-wise than their dotty appearance would otherwise indicate. Could they be following the young 20-something with long hair and an iPod who talks to himself? Probably a spy, think I, as I weave a tale of deception and mystery to keep myself company on this long run.
One always reads books of spyish things happening in big cities; such-and-such an event happened in NYC, say, in the 70's. Well, there had to be people walking by when it happened. There had to be someone who noticed something or saw something as the events unfolded. Perhaps someone will write a book in 30 years about some great spy event (what is that even?) that took place in September 2008 in New York City, and I, jogging along, making up stories, will have seen it without even knowing what I am seeing. And I'll read about it years from now. In a city teeming with people from all venues and aspects of life, and with each person such a novel unto himself, there are bound to be many secrets that are being played out today, as I write this. Rather an intriguing thought, I think.
I kick through some early fall leaves and survey the scene before me: sun glistening on the Hudson, people laughing and talking about weekend plans, old men playing checkers in the park, children running and kicking along on their scooters. It is a glorious day, and couldn't be more perfect for running or making up stories.