Simon Lindberg: Central Park

At the end of last week, spring finally arrived.  Saturday was actually like early summer in Sweden (the good kind). Since the forecast said it would be cold again already by Monday (they were right, it's a horrible day today), I told myself that I have to go jogging in Central Park. What I lacked in character on Friday night I made up for on Saturday morning by suffering a very unpleasant run in the park.

After spending Friday night in the Russian part of Brooklyn, my head and legs were pretty heavy as I embarked on my first jog outside a treadmill for a year. Not only did I have my own physical demons to deal with, but for the most part the course in no way resembles Knalleborg's forest in Ekerö where I used to run. I get 20 blocks of inner city traffic before I even come to the southeast corner of the park. Once I'm there, it's how I imagine Christmas shopping at Macy might be like. I'm obviously not the only one who decided that Central Park seemed like a good idea on a sunny Saturday.

Once I've passed the crowds at the entrance of the park, things are actually pretty smooth for a while. But as my throat is bone dry when I run past the Boat House Restaurant, my character is really put to the test. Luckily, I don't have any money, and I doubt that they would let me put a beer on a tab.

Instead, I continue my strenuous journey towards my destination, the Reservoir. The Reservoir is a big pond with a two kilometer path next to it where everybody has to walk or run counter clockwise. After cursing the park for fifteen minutes, I fall in love with it all over again when I notice the drinking water fountain at the beginning of the path. After drinking too much water and stretching for an unnecessary amount of time, I am finally ready to run one lap with the single goal of not being passed. It works out pretty well in the beginning since most of the people on the path are tourists taking a walk and enjoying the scenery.

However, after three quarters of the lap I hear the dreaded footsteps of someone behind me running a lot faster than I am. 500 meters to go and I figure that's not so bad, so I increase the tempo and manage to keep this person behind me all the way. I stumble over my finish line as my running nemesis gives me a friendly wave and sets off on another lap.

I'm trying to find oxygen, and when I finally get a sip, I ponder if a cab driver would take me home on the promise that I will go inside and get money. I doubt it and instead I hike forty blocks back to 46th Street on legs that respond angrily when my brain tells them to run. Oh well, at least I can say I've jogged in Central Park. Maybe it was a once in a lifetime opportunity to do so. At least I hope so.