On the Waterfront2

On The Waterfront

By Peter Masullo – September 2002

“I came down to keep a promise. I gave Uncle Mario my word. I told him that if he stood up to the mob that I’d stand up to the mob. Now, Uncle Mario is dead.”

Mario would stand up to anybody. He stood about six feet tall, which made him a giant in my family. He was just about the toughest Masullo that ever lived. Only his “Papa” could put him in his place. My grandfather Vito stood only about five feet tall, yet he also would stand up to anybody. I seem to have inherited some of this hot blood from my forbearers. Unfortunately, I’m not as tough as Mario or Vito which explains why my nose gets broken so frequently.

Not only did Mario stand up to the mob, he stood up for the mob. Really! He was “Chin’s” (a/k/a “The Odd-Father”) best man. I have no doubt that Mario was tougher than Chin. He could have been a contender. But Chin was a contender, so Mario took a rap for him. Mario got hard time and a habit. Chin got the neighborhood, followed by unimaginable power and wealth, followed by notoriety and now, in his waning years, hard time.

Chin and his ilk controlled the neighborhood, and the waterfront, and the garment district, and the trucking industry, and the construction industry, and the refuse industry, and just about every union and politician around. But now, largely as the result of the efforts of notables such as Karl Malden and Rudi Guliani, the waterfront is clean. It’s so clean that we now even run races there.

You wouldn’t believe the change. When I was a kid, anytime we went “down the docks” it meant trouble. There were rats, prostitutes, and dopers. The stench of garbage, soot, and pollution mixed with the brackish waters could knock you out. I was a much faster runner in those days - usually because somebody was chasing me. Now, I chase all the pretty ladies in what is called Hudson River Park .

It’s great to be able to share my old stomping grounds with other runners. Unlike Central Park , it’s not too crowded. Thus, I can usually elicit a smile or other greeting from half the runners I encounter. Obviously, the other half are not New Yorkers.

My father used to take me fishing near Pier 40. I never caught anything, but once, the guy next to me caught an eel. I guess the fish didn’t like the pollution and grime either. However, on a recent, easy paced run I witnessed a handful of Asian men plucking striped bass out of the Hudson as if they were spawning salmon. A few steps later I saw a white guy reel in this humongous black fish. I asked, “Hey Yo – what kind of fish is that?” He replied, “It’s a Blackfish!”

I swear I wasn’t tripping. The fish and fishermen were real. You can see them yourself on any given day. Just follow the West Side Highway about a mile past the outdoor trapeze school. You’ll know you’re at the right trapeze school because there is a kayaking school directly across the street. Keep going south toward the yacht basin. The yachts are all gone, but you will see three large cops, fully loaded with riot gear, shotguns, and body armor. Tell them I didn’t murder my ex-wife. (However, I’ll take the Fifth with regard to her new boy friend, “Short Eyes”). All of a sudden, I wish I was tripping instead of grappling with this new reality in the shadow of what used to be the World Trade Center . If you ever run there please do me a favor - touch the stones of the police memorial and observe a moment of remembrance for those departed, and a moment of gratitude for those in body armor.

It’s just another quarter mile to the park with blue lights. This is a beautifully landscaped section that includes a circular stairway that goes no place but back down again. I usually do a few reps of these stairs at full speed – not because it’s good training, but rather, because it’s a lot of fun. With all the trees, rocks, and tall grasses you might forget you were in Manhattan but not for the Statue of Liberty beaming in the bay.

Anyway, here is where the fishing begins. From here down to South Ferry you’ll see more fishermen then runners. For reasons unbeknownst to me, you will not see a single fisherwoman.

This new, bucolic setting stretches all the way up the west side of Manhattan . I didn’t get to run the entire 14 miles yet. The last time I tried I got thirsty when I reached 79^th Street and had to turn around. Somebody forgot the water fountains! The brilliant city planners spent trillions of dollars on this running path. There’s a separate two lane, paved and painted biking path adjacent to the running path. They planted trees, shrubs, lawns, and flower gardens along the entire waterfront. Fourteen miles of newly installed street lamps, street signs, traffic lights, stone walls, fences and rodent traps, but no water.

There is water in Battery Park and in Battery Park City. A blind running friend taught me to smell these water fountains years ago. But these fountains were there way before the new Hudson River Park . So it is safe to say the genius who designed the running trail was not a runner.

It reminded me of a poem I once read:

“Water, water everywhere.
Masullo’s brain did shriek.
Water, water everywhere.
But na’er a drop to drink.”

Oh yeah, I almost forgot. I knew there was something I wanted to tell you about – the races on the waterfront. I had the pleasure of running three races in three weeks along the streets where I learned to run.

NYC Run To Liberty – August 31, 2002

A small race by NYC standards – only 3,205 finishers. This run was organized by the NY Road Runners, NYC & Company, and the NYC Sports Commission to drum up some business in the Financial District. Despite the plethora of visitors and well-wishers, people just ain’t spending money the way they used to. In fact, some of the downtown restaurants are starving.

I finished at the back of the middle of the pack in the slowest 10k of my life. I knew it was going to be a slow day from the get go. Thus, I started out at a very conservative pace with the intention of picking it up during the last couple of miles. But something happened when we approached Ground Zero. I just couldn’t contain my exuberance and I sprinted at my top speed all the way up to Chambers Street . I was reduced to a slow jog by the time I got to mile three after expending all my energy in this half mile sprint. But it was worth it.

They gave out small flags to all the runners during the last mile, again in the shadow of Ground Zero. There were flags everywhere! Runners were waving them by the fistful. Some of the ladies wore the flags in their hair. I would have reciprocated, but, …you know… At least I was able to wear my flag bandana.

At the finish line, I gave my flag to a little kid. You should have seen her eyes glisten. You would have thought I gave her a diamond ring or something. I wonder if that trick would work with a girl closer to my age.

There was plenty of water and Gatorade on the course and the refreshments after the race were adequate. You got two patriotic t-shirts and a poster. On my way out of Battery Park I was accosted by a woman protesting gun control. She insisted that I accept a free gun lock on behalf of the NRA. I told her I hated guns and I assured her I would put the lock to good use on my mountain bike.

This race had a special significance for me. The course covered my old training route as well as the streets where I was born and raised. Thus, I’ll probably run this one again (if it is continued). I’d highly recommend it to anyone who doesn’t mind crowds. It’s a great site-seeing tour of lower Manhattan .

Let Freedom Run – September 14, 2002

Organized by the Achilles Track Club (for athletes with disabilities), Hudson River Park Trust, and the NYC Sports Commission, this four-miler was another first-time event. The purpose of this race was to “Run to Remember & Honor” those who had fallen a year earlier. Again, it was a very patriotic affair.

I thought I’d take a leisurely, two mile, warm-up jog from my apartment to the start on 44^th Street near Pier 84. I got there early and decided to stay warm by continuing up to the Intrepid Air Craft Carrier/Museum. I got back to the start and watched the others do some “Hip-Hop” stretching. Then I noticed something was wrong. They kept playing Springstein’s “Born In the USA” over and over again. It’s a good thing nobody ever listens to the rest of the words to that song because it really isn’t that patriotic.

After twenty minutes of Bruce the organizers announced there was a bomb scare downtown. Thus, traffic was stopped and the race was delayed. I was all ready to run and I didn’t want to just sit there and wait. So I ventured downtown to see what was happening for myself. I got down to 23^rd Street and noticed they had opened up the West Side Highway to traffic. So I raced back uptown in fear the race would start without me.

No such luck! The organizers candidly admitted they didn’t know what was going on downtown or how long it would be before the race could start. Back down to 23^rd Street I ran. Again, it looked clear, so, back up to 44^th Street I ran. After about ten miles and two hours of repeating this process I was ready to beg, “Please start this race without me.” And they did!

That was OK – I only missed the start by a minute or two. And I met a lot of nice runners on my way back up to the middle of the pack. There were representatives from every branch of our armed services. I seemed to fit in well with this one Army platoon. At first, I thought I was just running with another bunch of bald guys. When they started these chants about “Home” and “Mama” I realized I was in the wrong place. I just couldn’t talk and keep the cadence at the same time.

I caught up to a group of Marines. The drill sergeant shouted orders and encouragements to his team. He looked a lot like Lawrence Taylor, and I think he ran the entire four miles backwards, at my frontward pace. They were all very friendly, including the drill sergeant. I decided to tuck in with them for a while. After a few moments of joking back and forth, I asked the sole female member of this unit if she thought they would accept me into booty camp. She laughed, but in kindness, did not reply.

After the race and my two hour warm-up I was too tired to partake in the party and refreshments. I still had another two miles to get back home. It sounded like they had some really good rock bands and I noticed a number of runners dancing on my way back.

I had a great time, despite the delay. This race will surely become one of my annual favorites.

Wall Street Run – September 19, 2002

This is the one I promised to run last year. Remember? I told you about it in my story about 9/11. I wore my flag bandana and I ran as hard as I could, just like I said I would. When we passed Ground Zero I raised my hands in salute and I shed some tears. Every time I pass the site I am reminded of how insignificant I am in the major scheme of things. I always express my gratitude to the powers above for allowing me to partake in activities as frivolous as a road race. This is the one I promised to run last year. Remember? I told you about it in my story about 9/11. I wore my flag bandana and I ran as hard as I could, just like I said I would. When we passed Ground Zero I raised my hands in salute and I shed some tears. Every time I pass the site I am reminded of how insignificant I am in the major scheme of things. I always express my gratitude to the powers above for allowing me to partake in activities as frivolous as a road race.

Despite the crowds, the narrow streets, all the turns on the course, and all the time I spent praying at the WTC, I ran my best 5k of the year. It was satisfying, but not as much fun as the prior two races. I think my mind was set on running a somber race on account of last year. I didn’t even go for my free drink at the South Street Seaport. Instead, I took a slow jog by Ground Zero on my way home. I stopped for a moment to gaze into the sixteen acre pit. Before I could shed another tear, a tourist came up to me and asked, “Can you tell me where Ground Zero is?” I laughed as I told her, “You’re looking at it!” For the first time in a year, I left Ground Zero with a smile on my face.

I’m going to take that as a positive omen. It’s time for us to stand up and stride forward, although we must never forget what happened here. I promise to rise out of this funk I’ve been in. Thus, I will be inflicting my warped sense of humor upon anyone who will listen. Does anybody want to hear about the Garbage Wars of Greenwich Village?