Liberty State Park Walkway
Easy has felt easier. As I runpast this relic railroad terminal,my heart chugga-chuggas,months after a mystery infectionlanded me in Lancaster General,where I learned the meaningof “pulmonary and pericardialeffusions.” These are ruinsof the heart that from Ellis Islandreceived immigrants and pumpedthem home. Trackless rows.A rain shroud atop endlessMoria-like columns. Bad omens?There the Depression,the War, but also the successfultransplant: the interstate system,which, later today, will take us home.The podcast says an average lifeis 74 years, and I’m 37.Guess my long run isn’t the only onehalfway done. Have I been heroic?A decade ago, running here,I caught the filming of a helicopterchasing a black car. The Batmobile?They’d go, back up, go again.I’m far from superhero status unlessthe CVS sign—“heroes work here”—can be trusted. I’m also no Clemenza,pissing here as Rocco shoots Paulie so Ican say “leave the gun; take the cannoli,”although I would love to ad-lib—or even write—that memorably.Too often, life seems to say, “Closedpath [closed to you at least]. Runthataway,” as I was told by the filmcrew peons who kept popping outfrom behind these trees. But nowI reach Lady Liberty, the turnaroundof this out-and-back on the harbor.“You’re free,” she says, “to do a 180,carry on, or go a middle way.”
