Monday, April 14, 2008
Running to the Rescue
Vacations, endlessly hyped, can be a real pain in the ass. Unless, that is, you're a runner. The other week, armed with my trusty Brooks, I saved a long-anticipated getaway from a disappointing outcome with a few strategic strides. Running, I'm now convinced, has the potential to make almost any vacation feel longer, richer, worth it.
Equipped with a weekend plus two delectable days off work, my itinerary--my original itinerary, ahem--consisted of a pair of 12-hour Amtrak journeys (New York City to Montreal and back) sandwiching 50-odd hours that would be spent cavorting with dishy French Canadians. Oui oui!
Things got off to a rousing start. Upon reaching the station, an unsavory announcement reached my ears: "I'm sorry, train 71 from New York City to Montreal has been canceled." You don't say. You don't! Ah, but you just did. Harumpf.
I then learned that the next Canadian-bound train wouldn't depart until the next morning. Yet I was hell-bent on getting out of the city without further delay, so I decided on a half-day and night in Poughkeepsie--a small town two hours north and directly en route to my final destination. Certainly I could imagine worse than a brief stay along the Hudson, river flanked by trees electric with fall colors. Still, pining for Montreal and mourning a day lost there, the sentiment "waste of time" more than crossed my mind. It lingered.
Time would tell.
I put in a call to Amtrak, and minutes later I had an updated itinerary: NYC to Poughkeepsie in T-minus twenty minutes; Poughkeepsie to Montreal at 10:00 a.m. the next day.
By 2:00 p.m., I was settled into my discount motel in, yes, placid Poughkeepsie. Another hour, and I was breathing sweet autumn air, shoes snug, water bottle topped off, watch primed for an hour's worth of crisp afternoon running.
And what an hour it was. At the advice of the motel's front desk attendant, I wove through the nearby campus of Vassar College, marveling at the confluence of old and new architecture. Immense brick dormitories; a library extravagant with turrets, stained glass, and sculptural detail; buildings displaying the clean, sweeping lines of Scandinavian design...
Thirty minutes in, I left campus for more modest surroundings: neighborhoods characterized by colorful ramblers, casually manicured gardens, retrievers barking at who knew what, kids caught up in pre-dinner make-believe... Residents walked by; we exchanged smiles and waves. There was a mayoral race in progress, and there were all sorts of campaign signs, with "Poughkeepsie Needs a Work Horse, Not a Show Horse" standing out in my mind. Toward the end of my workout/tour, my growling tummy, teased by a string of aromatic restaurants--Italian, Chinese, Middle Eastern--demanded a shift in attention, and visions of thick Tuscan bread and sauteed snap peas accompanied me on the home stretch. (Italian won out in the end.)
The next morning, while awaiting the arrival of the taxi that would whisk me to the Amtrak station, I felt vaguely sad to be leaving this riverside burg, with its academic influence, its two-car garages, its energized politics. Halfway to Montreal, drowsy post-nap, I realized what it was: Over the course of an hour--over the course of my run--I'd forged a connection with this "Queen City of the Hudson," as it's known. I was never "supposed" to be there, it was a chance maneuver, a mistake; yet through running, I'd developed a meaningful relationship with it, an affinity for it.
Had I skipped the run, I'm convinced I would have missed this. I wouldn't have received the same range of visual cues, thus my Poughkeepsie schematic would have been comparatively flimsy. Perhaps more significant, had I chosen instead a leisurely stroll along the main drag, my not-quite-a-daytrip would have been absent that binding thread that mysteriously sews itself between runner and nature, the thread that people invoke when they speak of the spiritual aspect of the sport.
The thread that, apparently, saves vacations.
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