Working in New York is going very well. Sleeping and living less so. A twelve hour sentence was passed by some strange travel deity or other and I could not leave my room from 6pm Friday to 6am Saturday for reasons I shall not expand upon. I seriously think the canteen at the BBC may be to blame. I did my time in that peculiar half dream-like situation where the real world falls away and you are reduced to either one of two states of existence. It was quite a marathon ordeal.

1976, when shorts were short.

After 6 am I realised that to salvage something poignant from this trip personal memories wise, I must make the pilgrimage to Central Park and run. Just run. I got the subway from Canal Street and got off at 7th Avenue, like a New Yorker might, maybe. It's the small things that make you feel like you're occupying a different world. I suppose the tube does the same for other people. Emerging right by Carnegie Hall, I made the short way up to Central Park, where I found them. Hundred of runners. Numerous races going on. People everywhere, running. Solace. Americans are mental when it comes to running for fitness. It's like they invented it. I ran at a mid pace and fitted in just fine. I banished any thoughts of bodily weakness and set a course for 15k around the lake and beyond to the reservoir. Salvation was found in sweat. Odd eh, but it worked. I didn't feel robbed of my time in NYC while I was doing this. I ran till I quite exhausted myself and got a Yellow Cab back down to Soho with a driver who kept calling people 'bumper clarts'.

TS is coming back next week, and this time...

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