The Race That Wasn’t
(Glory Days)
September 20, 2001
by Peter Masullo

            I used to be a runner before I was a runner. You’re probably thinking, “Why does this guy always talk in riddles?”  OK, I’m sorry, but it’s hard for us accounting types to be funny. In order to qualify as an accountant you either have to lack a sense of humor or have a warped one. Take your pick.

            Here’s the truth. In the old days messengers were known as “runners.” Not to be confused with some of my piasanos who were numbers runners, I was a runner for a Wall Street Bank. They called me, “Speedy Petie.”

            Yes, I was fast in my high school days. I was the fastest runner on Wall Street. I would do three routes in the afternoon, and still get back to the bank a half-hour before the other guys returned from lunch.

            I guess I was fanatical about my job even back then. I would run while the others walked. They thought I was crazy because of the way I attacked the stairs despite the fact that there was an elevator in every building. I learned to time my pace to the cadence of the traffic lights, thus minimizing loss of energy and time. I discovered shortcuts through buildings, parking lots, parks, and plazas. I gleaned a thorough knowledge of every nook and cranny in Lower Manhattan . I grew to love those streets and buildings.

            Fond memories of simpler times were some of the reasons I was looking forward to the annual Wall Street Run on September 20. Another reason I loved this race was because the 5k course was flat. The biggest hill rose only about 25 feet in elevation. More importantly, this race was a qualifying race for guaranteed entry into the 2002 NYC Marathon . You see, they let us slow guys qualify for the Marathon by running 9 scored races down in NYC before yearend. This would have been number 6 for me, but not for the fact that the start of the race was at the foot of the World Trade Center .

            There wasn’t much trade being conducted in the World Trade Center back in the old days when I first became a runner. The “Twins” were just getting started in those glory days. So it was not until later years that I became intimately acquainted with those towers. Not until after I became a “real runner.”

            The “Twins” were right in the middle of my out and back course along the banks of the Hudson River . They stood strong and tall, every day as I passed them at precisely 1.75 miles on my way down to the southern tip of Manhattan , then again on the way back uptown at mile 3.5. I had a particular affinity for Tower Number Two. I don’t know why because, in most respects, the towers were identical. I guess it’s because I spent more time in the southern tower. The State Tax Department and other licensing agencies used to be located there. I once had the privilege of being wined and dined on the top floor by a fancy accounting firm (but only to learn that they did not have enough good sense to hire me). Oddly, although I visited Tower Number Two many times, I never had occasion to visit Tower Number One.

            Many times I’d look up in amazement as I passed. I’d wonder what all the busy people were doing. How many of them liked their jobs? Did someone just make a fortune trading futures contracts? If so, who was on the losing end? Is there somebody up there looking down at me with disdain because of my frivolous activity? Or, is someone watching and wishing they could be out there running with me?

             Sometimes I’d look up and I could not see the top halves of the towers. They were invisible above the clouds. Now, all that’s left is a cloud of smoke - a funeral pyre.

            You’ve heard all the politicians claim they couldn’t believe the magnitude of the destruction until they visited Ground Zero. They said, “You have to see it to believe it.”  I would phrase it slightly differently. To me, not seeing was not believing. I am devastated every time I look down Sixth Avenue and the towers are not where they are supposed to be. I still can’t believe it.

            If any good comes out of this tragedy it will be the feelings of unity and patriotism that I now share with my fellow New Yorkers and Americans. I admit that I still have Socialist tendencies.  I am a true follower of Lennon (John, that is). Once, on my daily run, I wandered a few extra yards in order to spit on the bull at the bottom of Broadway. That was the day I lost all my money on those internet stocks. But I am ever more grateful to live in a place where I can think what I want and express myself as I please. 

            I took our President’s advice and attempted to go about my business in a “normal” fashion. I figured I’d conduct my own race in lieu of the canceled “Wall Street Run.” I put on my flag bandana, laced up my sneaks, and headed south. I wasn’t allowed near Wall Street that day but I was allowed on the Brooklyn Bridge . The police had just reopened it, so I had the entire span all to myself. But I wasn’t alone.

            On my way back to Manhattan I was haunted by visions of ruin and carnage. I couldn’t keep my eyes away from the spot where the towers used to be. I wept all the way, thinking of the thousands of innocent, motherless and fatherless children whose lives had just been turned upside down. And all the other poor souls carrying pictures of loved ones, still clinging to hope, when all glimmer of survival had lapsed.

            Then I noticed Ms. Liberty in the distance. She greeted me with the usual wave of the torch – a greeting she has extended to millions. I know I don’t play with a full deck, but I always wave back to her. This time, she actually communicated with me. I’m not going to tell you that the Statue of Liberty talked to me, but I did get a clear and convincing message. She conveyed to me the idea that I should  “Look ahead! Your glory days are in front of you!”

            Could this be true? As a nation, I believe it is. We can take great pride in the way our leaders have prosecuted this unholy war that has been inflicted upon us. Nowhere in history can a more civilized approach toward warfare be found. Not since the days of Pearl Harbor have we seen such a spirit of unanimity of purpose. I know! I’m boring you with all this flag waving. Besides, I do enough of that by wearing it on top of my bald eagle head.

            Now I don’t know if it was Ms. Liberty speaking to me, or if it was Mother Mary. But I took her advice from atop the Brooklyn Bridge . I looked ahead of me and scanned all the buildings and places that I loved. There is the Municipal Building , where Grandpa Vito worked as a porter after earning a Purple Heart in World War I. I always touch the Municipal Building when I pass in remembrance. There is the Woolworth Building with gargoyles intact. There is where I went to school. There is Mommy and Daddy’s building. Those are the streets where I learned to become a runner.

Familiar sights and familiar thoughts began to alleviate my tears and sadness. I took great solace in the fact that no one in my family was physically harmed in this tragic attack. I asked myself, “Why are you crying?”  I reminded myself that I should consider myself the lucky one. While I couldn’t rid myself of the tears, I found myself smiling and crying at the same time. It was a most unusual, bittersweet experience that I cannot adequately describe with words. I was grateful for my good fortune yet deeply dismayed by the losses of others.

I glanced to my right and saw the red, white, and blue lights of the Empire State Building . The rest of the city seemed to light up and there was even some traffic on the FDR. Gazing uptown, my city seemed pretty normal. Perhaps life might get back to normal someday?

Well, maybe not for a while. And remember, “normal” is a relative thing. Take this from a guy who talks to the Statue of Liberty and gives high fives to buildings and bridges.

I hope to run the real “Wall Street Run” next year. I will wear my flag bandana and I will say a prayer for the families of the lost ones. I will try to run strong. I will try to smile. But I will not even try to hold back the tears.