I'm good with numbers but these didn't make sense...7:20, 13, 8:30, 135. It was 7:20 this morning as I sat in my 13th Street apartment, calves resting on a heating pad, warming and relaxing them for the 8:30 race starting at 135th Street and St. Nicolas Avenue. Chatting contentedly on the phone, Gracie The Cat purring in my lap, it all felt so good till it struck me...What am I doing here? Not fully dressed, no race bib and number, not on the train to Harlem? I'm going to miss the race!!
Contentedness gone, I yelled to my startled friend that I was way late and had to go. Sending Gracie The Cat unintentionally flying, I threw on my things, hoped I'd not forgotten anything else, raced out the door, up 13th to 6th Avenue (just part of my warm up I reassured myself), got a cab and headed uptown.
One hour till race time. I grumbled at each red light, cursed when Central Park appeared closed to traffic, twisted in frustration each time we stopped at another light on 8th Avenue. Did I have enough cash to pay? How do you use a credit card in a taxi? How could I with no glasses and unable to see where the credit card was supposed to go? We passed 120th Street. Forty minutes to race time. I'll make it...if I can find where to get my race bib. Suddenly we halted at 125th...blocked off for the race.
"Damn these runners," I thought, missing the irony. I paid in cash, leaving a big tip as there was no time for change. I started running the half mile to 135th. Other racers were warming up around me...it felt comforting to be among them. It looked good, if only I could find the place to pick up my race number. There it was! Right across from the start line. In then out. Got everything. Bib, singlet, racing flats on, baggage dropped off. Ready with 20 minutes to spare.
A quick final warm up and stretch. To the start. The loud speaker is on. 50th anniversary of the Civil Rights Act. Chaney, Goodwin and Schwerner. Percy Sutton. Harlem Festival. Trumpet plays America The Beautiful then The Star Spangled Banner. It's time. We're off.
I want to do better than I did 2 years ago. The first mile is narrow and I can't pass anyone. Good. Keeps me under control for the NASTY hills around 1/2 mile in. UP, up, up, turn to the left and up some more. Why hadn't I trained on hills? Another turn left. Mile 1 marker...8:03...9 seconds faster than before. Finally a good number. I'm feeling strong.
But not for long. The course opens up. Mile 2 is fairly flat but I'm suddenly fatigued. Everything feels strained. Pushing on, getting passed by a few but not many, bypassing a couple myself. I think about slowing, want to slow but force myself not to. Mile 3 is easier; just got to get there. The mile 2 marker...8:01. A tiny bit better than last time.
I'm well positioned for a sub 8 minute pace because the final mile is mainly downhill. Gravity will help, I tell myself. Just hang in there. No slacking off so close to the finish. Streets are going by. Where's the damn downhill? I'm about a quarter mile in...have they changed the course? So far just flat. I'm hurting and struggling. There it is! A STEEP downhill. One block. Then 2 blocks. Three. Four. I'm flying! This is the way to race! Left turn at the border of St. Nicolas Park. The downhill had to end sometime. But no! Another lovely downhill block!
I turn downtown towards the finish. It should be soon but this is 127th Street and the race doesn't end till about 135th. I can't see the finish banner. Can't see any more downhills. No more uphills, thankfully, either. But it's a tremendous struggle. WAY too close to the end and my goal to slacken. Just have to push. The streets go by. Still no end in sight. Then there it is! Three mile marker. Got it! 7:39! Gravity is good. Sub 8 minutes in the bag. Tenth of a mile to go. Why is it so long? Don't slow. Instead push. 47 seconds. I'm across the finish line.
24:31 on my watch. A solid 19 seconds quicker than 2 years ago. I've gotten faster. Have I also gotten younger? Exact same time as last week but on a much tougher course. So I'm a better runner now...perhaps a better person? 7:55 pace. Given the state of my training, that's good.
A woman recognizes me and introduces me to her friend: "He's one of the fast ones." I'm pleased. I go to cheer others to the finish. I'm also noting the many who are now ending after me. I especially note the guys and, in particular, the younger guys, which pretty much constitutes ALL the guys.
Another woman, this one wearing a Greater New York singlet like mine, approaches. On the same team but we've never met. She's also recovering from injuries. More runners, including younger guys, stream in. She, too, was late to the start and had no time to get ready. "So mile 1 was your warm up," I observe. "How fast did you run it?"
"7:30," she responds. Damn! Way faster than me and I had several warm ups and I'm also, you know, a guy. She apologizes for telling me all about her injuries. To make her feel better I tell her all about mine, emphasizing that they came not just from running but from softball too. I'm a multi athletic guy is my point though incapable yet of racing a 7:30 on crowded, uphill first miles.
It's all relative, you know. And for me this was relatively good.
Saturday, August 23, 2014
Friday, August 1, 2014
WHY I'M THINKING ABOUT WILBUR HUCKLE
I've been thinking about Wilbur Huckle. Wilbur was an infielder in the Mets' farm system from 1963-1971. He was featured with Cleon Jones on a TOPPS baseball card, 1964 Mets Rookie Stars. Unlike Cleon, however, a star he was never to be.
But what a name! Once I had to give a speech in high school English class. Among the topics I chose: Met players with funny names. Choo Choo Coleman and Duke Carmel got laughs. Cliff Cook and Hot Rod Kanehl not much. Wilbur Huckle? People rolled in the aisles!
I saw great possibilities. Suppose he joined the Mets and lead the team to victory over Pittsburg. Next day headline: Huckle Buries Pirates! Dwelling, perhaps, too much on his inability to get on base (.314 on base percentage), the Mets were blind to the potential.
The fans were displeased, but had limited means of self expression. They created a button to be worn to games: "Wilbur Huckle For President," read one, but LBJ was elected instead and no major party nominated Huckle. Despite his name, the Rookie Card, my imagination and the buttons he played out his 9 year career without ever joining the Mets.
He became our disappeared hero.
Which brings me to Wilmer Flores. His similarities with Wilbur are obvious. Almost the same first name. Both have been righty batting infielders playing for a bunch of Met minor league teams. Oh, and a difference: Where Wilbur couldn't hit or hit for power (14 home runs in 746 games), Wilmer can (13 this season alone in 55 AAA games with Las Vegas).
You'd think this would make Wilmer of interest to the big club. We've struggled for runs and have a shortstop, Reuben Tejada, who is a limited hitter with no power. His .289 slugging average is dwarfed by Flores' monumental .568 for Las Vegas this season. Heck, even Huckle slugged better, at .324 lifetime! As Wilmer was born in Venezuela, we can't nominate him for President, but he could be an upgrade at shortstop, right? Only common sense that he deserves a chance. The Mets, apparently, disagree.
Wilmer has been called up 4 times over the last 2 seasons. The first, in August of 2013, came when David Wright was injured. Flores played until he stepped on third base the wrong way...hey, at least he'd made it to third...and sprained his ankle. Season over. This year he didn't make the squad out of spring training, but got called up...for 1 game at second base...then sent back to Las Vegas. About a month later, with the team having trouble scoring, back he came to play shortstop. In fact he played only sporadically and was soon returned to the minors so he could play regularly. That he did and well, amassing a 23 game hitting streak and driving in more than a run per game. Enough to earn a recall? Nope. Not till Tejada took a fastball to the helmet.
Up came Flores, but not to play regularly. Since that recent recall he's not started more than 1 game in a row. The Mets must be waiting to make sure Tejada is okay and hasn't lost any of his power. Then they can ship out Wilmer again or relegate him to the bench.
Many Mets fans are unhappy. There's a "Free Wilmer" campaign bubbling on line. Met blogs and twitter are filled with angry, uncomprehending, comments. For all the good that it's done, next we might try buttons.
Flores has been treated like a yoyo. While it may seem he's had more of a chance than Huckle who never rode all the way up, the opportunity is largely illusory. Without anything approaching regular time, Flores has been placed in a situation most likely to bring on failure. Then he can continue to yoyo till he quietly fades away. Disappears.
Wilmer Flores is becoming the new Wilbur Huckle!
But what a name! Once I had to give a speech in high school English class. Among the topics I chose: Met players with funny names. Choo Choo Coleman and Duke Carmel got laughs. Cliff Cook and Hot Rod Kanehl not much. Wilbur Huckle? People rolled in the aisles!
I saw great possibilities. Suppose he joined the Mets and lead the team to victory over Pittsburg. Next day headline: Huckle Buries Pirates! Dwelling, perhaps, too much on his inability to get on base (.314 on base percentage), the Mets were blind to the potential.
The fans were displeased, but had limited means of self expression. They created a button to be worn to games: "Wilbur Huckle For President," read one, but LBJ was elected instead and no major party nominated Huckle. Despite his name, the Rookie Card, my imagination and the buttons he played out his 9 year career without ever joining the Mets.
He became our disappeared hero.
Which brings me to Wilmer Flores. His similarities with Wilbur are obvious. Almost the same first name. Both have been righty batting infielders playing for a bunch of Met minor league teams. Oh, and a difference: Where Wilbur couldn't hit or hit for power (14 home runs in 746 games), Wilmer can (13 this season alone in 55 AAA games with Las Vegas).
You'd think this would make Wilmer of interest to the big club. We've struggled for runs and have a shortstop, Reuben Tejada, who is a limited hitter with no power. His .289 slugging average is dwarfed by Flores' monumental .568 for Las Vegas this season. Heck, even Huckle slugged better, at .324 lifetime! As Wilmer was born in Venezuela, we can't nominate him for President, but he could be an upgrade at shortstop, right? Only common sense that he deserves a chance. The Mets, apparently, disagree.
Wilmer has been called up 4 times over the last 2 seasons. The first, in August of 2013, came when David Wright was injured. Flores played until he stepped on third base the wrong way...hey, at least he'd made it to third...and sprained his ankle. Season over. This year he didn't make the squad out of spring training, but got called up...for 1 game at second base...then sent back to Las Vegas. About a month later, with the team having trouble scoring, back he came to play shortstop. In fact he played only sporadically and was soon returned to the minors so he could play regularly. That he did and well, amassing a 23 game hitting streak and driving in more than a run per game. Enough to earn a recall? Nope. Not till Tejada took a fastball to the helmet.
Up came Flores, but not to play regularly. Since that recent recall he's not started more than 1 game in a row. The Mets must be waiting to make sure Tejada is okay and hasn't lost any of his power. Then they can ship out Wilmer again or relegate him to the bench.
Many Mets fans are unhappy. There's a "Free Wilmer" campaign bubbling on line. Met blogs and twitter are filled with angry, uncomprehending, comments. For all the good that it's done, next we might try buttons.
Flores has been treated like a yoyo. While it may seem he's had more of a chance than Huckle who never rode all the way up, the opportunity is largely illusory. Without anything approaching regular time, Flores has been placed in a situation most likely to bring on failure. Then he can continue to yoyo till he quietly fades away. Disappears.
Wilmer Flores is becoming the new Wilbur Huckle!
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