Friday, April 09, 2004
Back then, schoolboys ran two and a half miles for Cross Country. There were three courses: the Suffolk County schools raced at Sunken Meadow, the Nassau County schools ran at Bethpage, and races in the City were held at Van Cortland Park. The Meadow was our home course, and there was a little bit of an edge to that: Bethpage was flat as a pancake (the first bit was a loop around a polo field), which favored speedsters. Because Sunken Meadow had hills, it was where the league championships and the big invitational meets were held-- having it as our base meant that we were conditioned to hills, and familiar with the quirks of the course.
It started at the end of a long field-- maybe a couple of hundred yards, before turning right and going over a narrow wooden footbridge. The planks on the bridge are scared with the marks of the millions of spikes that have crossed it over the years-- we used to joke that the bridge had to be replaced every few years because our spikes tore it up so much. The bridge was the first tactical point-- you wanted to be able to break fast from the start to get on the inside, because there was a sharp left on the other end, and you didn't want to get bottlenecked.
In the great tradition of hills, this one had a name: it was "Cardiac Hill", a long incline that gets steeper and steeper as you climb, with a sharp right at the top, where it was almost like climbing a wall. The trail up the hill is narrow, without much more room than it would take to pass another runner. By Long Island standards, or to a Dutchman, I suppose, it is a pretty big hill. Off to the left was the Sound, but I never really was aware of the view. The path widened somewhat for the descent, which is more abrupt than the way up, ending with a left turn then another left into the woods. There's a series of more or less rolling, small hills in there, culminating with "Lil' Cardiac", a shorter, steeper hill that was often the place where people were caught short. A brief downhill, then into a meadow that was flat. You could see Pilgrim State Hospital, at that time the tallest building on Long Island-- a fitting view, given the insanity of the overall endeavor. At this point if there were any speedsters that had anything left, the flat gave them a chance to make up some ground. If you had used the hills wisely you could put some distance behind you. The meadow felt like a respite after the relentless climbing, but you didn't dare use it that way. You emerged from there at the base of the hill, and ran back towards the bridge. There is a gap in the fence, and you go through that, and out along a narrow inlet. The finish chute was on the opposite side, about a half mile away, and spectators lined the fence and watched for glimpses of the runners through the gaps in the trees along the water: the red and white of St. John's, the sky blue of Maria Regina, black and gold for St. Anthony's, red and gold for Chaminade, green for Holy Trinity.
It's funny how memory works-- how many times over four years did I run that course? At least once, and usually twice a week. Was it a ten week season? That sounds about right, and it adds up. Some of it was as familiar to me as the back of my teeth is to my tongue, even though it has changed; some of it could have been another planet.
At the top of the inlet yesterday I surprised a large white wading bird. It flopped its wings and moved off into the middle of the water, and I dug in and tore down the last stretch, serene in the knowledge that it didn't mean anything, that I had cruised through it with more ease than I ever had all that time ago, happy for once that my performance wasn't going to disappoint me.
I do not go in for nostalgia, so I rationalized this by telling myself that I needed a little tune-up before we start our hill training Saturday. Besides, it is not as though I was returning to the site of any past triumph-- far from that.
The bus ride home always smelled like oranges and Atomic Balm.
It started at the end of a long field-- maybe a couple of hundred yards, before turning right and going over a narrow wooden footbridge. The planks on the bridge are scared with the marks of the millions of spikes that have crossed it over the years-- we used to joke that the bridge had to be replaced every few years because our spikes tore it up so much. The bridge was the first tactical point-- you wanted to be able to break fast from the start to get on the inside, because there was a sharp left on the other end, and you didn't want to get bottlenecked.
In the great tradition of hills, this one had a name: it was "Cardiac Hill", a long incline that gets steeper and steeper as you climb, with a sharp right at the top, where it was almost like climbing a wall. The trail up the hill is narrow, without much more room than it would take to pass another runner. By Long Island standards, or to a Dutchman, I suppose, it is a pretty big hill. Off to the left was the Sound, but I never really was aware of the view. The path widened somewhat for the descent, which is more abrupt than the way up, ending with a left turn then another left into the woods. There's a series of more or less rolling, small hills in there, culminating with "Lil' Cardiac", a shorter, steeper hill that was often the place where people were caught short. A brief downhill, then into a meadow that was flat. You could see Pilgrim State Hospital, at that time the tallest building on Long Island-- a fitting view, given the insanity of the overall endeavor. At this point if there were any speedsters that had anything left, the flat gave them a chance to make up some ground. If you had used the hills wisely you could put some distance behind you. The meadow felt like a respite after the relentless climbing, but you didn't dare use it that way. You emerged from there at the base of the hill, and ran back towards the bridge. There is a gap in the fence, and you go through that, and out along a narrow inlet. The finish chute was on the opposite side, about a half mile away, and spectators lined the fence and watched for glimpses of the runners through the gaps in the trees along the water: the red and white of St. John's, the sky blue of Maria Regina, black and gold for St. Anthony's, red and gold for Chaminade, green for Holy Trinity.
It's funny how memory works-- how many times over four years did I run that course? At least once, and usually twice a week. Was it a ten week season? That sounds about right, and it adds up. Some of it was as familiar to me as the back of my teeth is to my tongue, even though it has changed; some of it could have been another planet.
At the top of the inlet yesterday I surprised a large white wading bird. It flopped its wings and moved off into the middle of the water, and I dug in and tore down the last stretch, serene in the knowledge that it didn't mean anything, that I had cruised through it with more ease than I ever had all that time ago, happy for once that my performance wasn't going to disappoint me.
I do not go in for nostalgia, so I rationalized this by telling myself that I needed a little tune-up before we start our hill training Saturday. Besides, it is not as though I was returning to the site of any past triumph-- far from that.
The bus ride home always smelled like oranges and Atomic Balm.
