A mile or so down the street from my apartment building is the most beautiful park, with some of the most beautiful running, in New York City. The woods are such a world apart from the asphalt jungle that they once tried raising eagles here. There is a grove of giant tulip trees that feel ancient. In summer you usually hear a wood thrush, but with luck it might be a hermit thrush or you’ll see an elusive scarlet tanager. If you want to experience a sense of arboreal grandeur that is only heightened by the fact the A train is a block away, come here.
The park is generally safe, at least for a man, although its emptiness can take some getting used to. Illegally off-leash dogs springing from the bushes is the one hazard. Women tend to run through the park in groups. A woman jogger was indeed once brutally murdered here, but that happened over fifteen years ago.
Reaching the park is an easy run for me. Then again, for whatever reason, I haven’t run through the park for several months. My absence has nothing to do with fear, or with wanting to avoid confrontation with the owners of those off-leash dogs, or any sense that the park is going to seed. I haven’t been in the park exactly because it holds magic, and I’ve been quite a happy guy for several months and haven’t needed that magic. There’s nothing like quitting a job on Wall Street to make you a happy guy.
I have a bottle of very expensive, very delicious single malt scotch at the back of my very small shelf of booze. The dust on the bottle is quietly turning into a fur coat. I think of it as my death scotch, to be broken into only in case of an extreme personal emergency such as a family death or the loss one’s gainful employment. I’m treating Inwood Hill Park like my death scotch. I am keeping it in reserve. I do not want frequent use to dull its potency, turn it into a tune you’ve heard too often like Nessun Dorma or Lay Lady Lay. When I need it, I want the kick to kick me.