Runner's Blues
It's defiantly sunny in Boston today and temperatures in the 50s demand a run.
I bounce out my front door and jog to Maverick Station on the Blue Line. It's a five-minute cruise. The three state troopers' cars that were there yesterday are gone now. A single trooper looks intent as he walks the platform. The only military presence is a couple of teens wearing Military Police uniforms. They are carrying Dunkin' Donuts iced drinks. Nobody is going to attack this part of Boston.
One stop down the line, I hop out at Aquarium, located next to Quincy Market. No police, no military. I slog up the cold, shaded State Street, staring at the State House where the Boston Massacre (1700s era) happened. There are black police vans and cops in tactical gear carrying automatic rifles. Inside, a woman in Marine gear is checking Facebook on her iPhone. Priorities.
I hang a left on Tremont and here come the memories. There is the Freedom Trail and the hotel The Wife and I stays at a couple of years ago. On the left is the Beantown Pub, just up the street from the Orpheum Theatre where I saw Led Zeppelin's bass player play with Lumberjack, my high school buddy, in 2001.
Out onto the Common and the State House is to the right, its golden dome radiating in the sun, which is the way I always picture it. Past the Frog Pond where Uncle Tom and I watched skaters on dates last December. Downhill and down wind is the military encampment on the Common. There are maybe a dozen vehicles and tents setup, with a little camp military flag stuck in the ground. Two towers extend 40 feet or more with video cameras and lights atop.
This is where people are usually playing with their off-leash dogs, a minor violation of city ordinance.
Across the Public Garden and onto Commonwealth Avenue I am struck by the trees. The north side of the street has flower trees showing their brilliant whites and pinks. The south, shady side is still in its winter slumber.
Commonwealth avenue might be the most expensive street in Boston for real estate. The old houses on the street are split by a boulevard of grass and trees, with a wide running path down the middle. It reminds me today of Summit Avenue in Minnesota, another pricey stretch of real estate. Maybe Boston inspired Minnesota.
That thought continues as I cut over to Newbury Street, which echoes Grand Avenue in St. Paul. It's normally bustling with tourists and rich people spending thousands of dollars on designer clothing and spa treatments.
For the first time all day, it's eerily quiet. I pass four cops with M-16s. There are four more on the other side of the street. I am walking now as I approach an intersection. The road is blocked. You can't get over to Boylston, the site of the bombing. There are flowers, not many but a good amount, stacked up against a metal fence. A military vehicle sits next to the fence. Signs of courage and love are posted on the fence.
Next intersection and a few more signs. One package of flowers. A garbage can is on its side with all the garbage out and you realize they were looking for more bombs there. At the intersection on Boylston there is a giant white tent where forensics teams are presumably analyzing evidence from a bomber we don't know.
I cut back out to Commonwealth Avenue and it's back to normalcy. Runners have been wearing their Boston Marathon running gear around town before and after the race everywhere they go but seem to be mostly gone now. I spot one ahead of me on the path and notice his backpack says Fargo on it. It's too much Midwest to ignore. I stop in front of the guy and his group. He is from Minnesota and has relatives with him from North Dakota. We acknowledge that it's good to be in Boston; it's snowing today in Minnesota. My sentimentality extends only so far.
Back across the Common, the pace quickens. I am running into the wind and uphill but it doesn't matter. I am having a day and as all runners know, these days are rare. I hit seven-minute mile pace, which I am not remotely in shape for. That's the pace you have to run for 26 miles to qualify for the Boston Marathon.
I run to the Old State House, past the indifferent guards and onto the train. Then a four-minute sprint home. It could not have been more than five miles, roundtrip. It felt like a marathon.
I bounce out my front door and jog to Maverick Station on the Blue Line. It's a five-minute cruise. The three state troopers' cars that were there yesterday are gone now. A single trooper looks intent as he walks the platform. The only military presence is a couple of teens wearing Military Police uniforms. They are carrying Dunkin' Donuts iced drinks. Nobody is going to attack this part of Boston.
One stop down the line, I hop out at Aquarium, located next to Quincy Market. No police, no military. I slog up the cold, shaded State Street, staring at the State House where the Boston Massacre (1700s era) happened. There are black police vans and cops in tactical gear carrying automatic rifles. Inside, a woman in Marine gear is checking Facebook on her iPhone. Priorities.
I hang a left on Tremont and here come the memories. There is the Freedom Trail and the hotel The Wife and I stays at a couple of years ago. On the left is the Beantown Pub, just up the street from the Orpheum Theatre where I saw Led Zeppelin's bass player play with Lumberjack, my high school buddy, in 2001.
Out onto the Common and the State House is to the right, its golden dome radiating in the sun, which is the way I always picture it. Past the Frog Pond where Uncle Tom and I watched skaters on dates last December. Downhill and down wind is the military encampment on the Common. There are maybe a dozen vehicles and tents setup, with a little camp military flag stuck in the ground. Two towers extend 40 feet or more with video cameras and lights atop.
This is where people are usually playing with their off-leash dogs, a minor violation of city ordinance.
Across the Public Garden and onto Commonwealth Avenue I am struck by the trees. The north side of the street has flower trees showing their brilliant whites and pinks. The south, shady side is still in its winter slumber.
Commonwealth avenue might be the most expensive street in Boston for real estate. The old houses on the street are split by a boulevard of grass and trees, with a wide running path down the middle. It reminds me today of Summit Avenue in Minnesota, another pricey stretch of real estate. Maybe Boston inspired Minnesota.
That thought continues as I cut over to Newbury Street, which echoes Grand Avenue in St. Paul. It's normally bustling with tourists and rich people spending thousands of dollars on designer clothing and spa treatments.
For the first time all day, it's eerily quiet. I pass four cops with M-16s. There are four more on the other side of the street. I am walking now as I approach an intersection. The road is blocked. You can't get over to Boylston, the site of the bombing. There are flowers, not many but a good amount, stacked up against a metal fence. A military vehicle sits next to the fence. Signs of courage and love are posted on the fence.
Next intersection and a few more signs. One package of flowers. A garbage can is on its side with all the garbage out and you realize they were looking for more bombs there. At the intersection on Boylston there is a giant white tent where forensics teams are presumably analyzing evidence from a bomber we don't know.
I cut back out to Commonwealth Avenue and it's back to normalcy. Runners have been wearing their Boston Marathon running gear around town before and after the race everywhere they go but seem to be mostly gone now. I spot one ahead of me on the path and notice his backpack says Fargo on it. It's too much Midwest to ignore. I stop in front of the guy and his group. He is from Minnesota and has relatives with him from North Dakota. We acknowledge that it's good to be in Boston; it's snowing today in Minnesota. My sentimentality extends only so far.
Back across the Common, the pace quickens. I am running into the wind and uphill but it doesn't matter. I am having a day and as all runners know, these days are rare. I hit seven-minute mile pace, which I am not remotely in shape for. That's the pace you have to run for 26 miles to qualify for the Boston Marathon.
I run to the Old State House, past the indifferent guards and onto the train. Then a four-minute sprint home. It could not have been more than five miles, roundtrip. It felt like a marathon.
Comments
Post a Comment