The Breeze

Given the correct context, and viewed through the right lens, the low, gray, foggy gloom that has descended on Manhattan can be really quite beautiful.

I was struck by what an awesome morning it was while running west on Pier 1 on 70th Street in Riverside Park South. I was happy to be there, to be here, in just one fleeting instant.

I headed out for a run in shorts for the first time since the NYC Marathon, primarily because my long tights (yes, tights) were at the laundromat (my running clothes were beginning to stand on their own). I left my iPod at home. A few blocks and a few minutes later, I was 715 feet into the main channel of the Hudson, surrounded in almost every direction by water: the white-capped river rushing below, the rain-soaked clouds stretching to earth.

For all intents and purposes, it really shouldn’t have seemed so beautiful. Everything was obscured. The city was disappearing. The skyline was awash in gray. The Empire State was completely obscured. Way upriver, the George Washington Bridge was scarcely visible.

And then the wind blew. That’s all it took: a cool, wet, sweet-smelling breeze.

The sun didn’t break through the clouds. The Heavens didn’t open. The rain didn’t stop. Nothing really changed. But something small did. And suddenly I was glad I was there, glad I was here. And glad I got up just a little bit early to catch that little moment to carry with me through the day.