“You’re going to run in those?” The white-guy lawyer pointed at my feet. He had on blue running shorts, the kind that reveal way too much, and expensive sneakers—I couldn’t determine the brand. He wore a corporate-logo T-shirt that read “J & H Marsh & McLennan,” with the number 3786 pinned on it.
“Yeah, I’m gonna run in these.” I was wearing sandals. Big flip-floppy Tevas. About a size too large.*
“Well, good luck,” he snickered. He stepped away to stretch and warm up.
I was at the Chase Corporate Challenge, this thrice-annual race sponsored by Chase Manhattan Bank, which springs corporate cogs from their offices and gets them to run around Central Park for an hour. It’s a 5K race, from Strawberry Fields up around the top of the park to the boathouse. There would be no official winners (or losers) except Chase, which got to publicize its healthy, caring image.
The race wasn’t free; to register, you had to pay Chase twelve dollars. You then got a number and a company T-shirt, which you wore to “support your corporate team.” That mentality prevailed at the Challenge—that we’re-all-in-it-together company brotherhood that men fall back on when they have only their jobs and their TVs. I saw guys slapping each other’s backs, saying, “Let’s win one for Citibank,” and women stretching intensely, chatting up their coworkers. A high school varsity atmosphere.
I was there because earlier that day Erin had asked me to go. I was interning in my parents’ office,* carrying around computer printouts, when she approached. Red hair. Glasses. Blindingly pretty. She was far too old for me—in her late twenties—but talking to her was a thrill.
“Hey, Ned!” Erin smiled, as if just hit by a wonderful idea. “Do you want to run today?”
“Sure!” I nodded. I predicted some office thing, like the annual softball game or running around the block a few times. “Ah, where do I run?”
“In Central Park.”
Oh, boy. “Uh, how far do I run?” I asked.
“Three miles.”
Okay, that sounded easy enough. Erin got my T-shirt and number (4112), and then told me where to go.
“The race starts after work, at Strawberry Fields by the Daniel Webster statue. And bring a raincoat. It’s coming down hard.”
“Oh, it’s raining?” I stuck out my neck, peering through a nearby office window. Thick, nasty-looking drops spattered the glass. Later that night, on the Weather Channel, they’d call it a tropical storm.
Erin tilted her head. “Do you mind running in the rain?”
“No, no, ah, it’s just some rain,” I said, looking down, wondering why I love punishment.
Erin smiled. “You know, Ned—” Oh no, she was going to make eye contact; I could feel it. “I’m really glad you decided to do this.” There it was, open-eye staring. I looked away. “I’m in charge of getting people involved in this race every year. A lot of them quit on me today because of the weather. So, thanks.”
“Anytime, Erin.”
I left the office at 5:00 P.M., carrying an inordinate amount of junk. First, I had the clothes: the T-shirt I was going to wear home, the new T-shirt with the company logo, and my jacket. Then I had an umbrella, an eighties-era Walkman, and The Fellowship of the Ring, a book I’d been reading on and off for two years. It never occurred to me that this stuff might impede my running ability.
When I arrived at the race, a few hundred amateur athletes were already there, their ankles propped up on park benches, stretching. I tried talking to a few, but they brushed me off; I wasn’t from their company. I stood with my coworkers.
“So, Ned, why are you wearing sandals and socks?” one of them asked.
Everyone thought that was funny. I didn’t see what was wrong with sandals and socks. I’d worn them to work because I’d lost my shoes.* “Uh, I just happened to wear ’em today. I didn’t even know about the race until this afternoon.”
“Where’s your number?”
That was another problem. I had forgotten to ask for a pin at work, so I had no way to attach my racing number to my shirt. I figured I’d just tie it on with my extra clothes.
“You better put that number on soon. The race is starting.”
I took my two T-shirts and jacket and tied them around my waist—it almost looked like an inner tube. I slid my running number under this ring of clothing, put the Walkman and book in an oversized pants pocket, and stuck the umbrella in the front of my pants.
Some announcer I couldn’t see was saying, “From the Chase family and from everybody who helped organize this race, we want to thank you for coming out in the rain!” People clapped. “We’re ready to begin, so stay safe and have a great time! On your marks … get set … go!”
“Nonserious runners should stay to the side!” someone yelled as I started jogging. My Tevas flip-flopped all over the place, making loud smacking noises; people gave looks. The umbrella in my pants began to chafe my thigh almost immediately. For a while, the only noises I heard were the huffing of breath and slapping of sandals.
“How far are we into the race?” I asked a kindly looking gentleman after what I thought was a long time.
“Oh, a quarter mile.”
“A quarter mile?!” This was going to be much harder than I thought. The Walkman in my pocket was getting heavy; it hit my leg with every stride. My pants were soaked; I used one hand to keep them from falling down.
I started walking fast instead of running. I wanted to give up and just sit down, but three things kept me going. First, those fifty-something balding guys who were in better shape than me, making better time than me. Second, those damn Nike commercials, where the big athlete at the end says, “Believe in yourself.” They always emphasize the self, and I figured, hey, I can do this. And third, more than anything else, there was Erin. Was she somewhere in the race? She’d helped organize it; she must be somewhere nearby. Maybe she was waiting at the finish line, and if she was, I didn’t want to look like a tired, wet, sweaty idiot. I wanted to hold my head high and be a real man.
So I kept running. When I got tired, I hawked up a loogie and smeared it all over my face, which really grossed out the other runners but kept me refreshed. Every time I got my hands on a cup of water, I poured it on my head. I stomped in every puddle. Halfway through the race, I was an orgy of spit, snot, and rainwater.
To pass time, I sang the Doors’* “L.A. Woman” as I ran. That song has the perfect runner’s beat; it was in sync with my slapping sandals. I found myself belting out the lyrics as I rounded corners, “L.A. woman! / You’re my woman!” I cut the volume occasionally, never sure when I’d run into Erin.
Then, suddenly, I was at the finish line. It was a sorry scene. Chase volunteer cheerleader-types patted me on the back, said “Good job,” gave me another T-shirt, and doled out generic soda and Power Bars. (If you can imagine a candy bar with all the good stuff—chocolate, caramel, peanuts—replaced by carob, you’ve got your Power Bar right there.)
I looked around. Erin was nowhere in sight.
I tried to convince myself that the Chase Corporate Challenge had been a good deal. I factored in the free T-shirts, running number, water, soda, Power Bars, and exercise, which was the best I’d received since routinely getting beaten up at Pure Energy Martial Arts. But who was I kidding? After leaving the park, I checked myself out in the mirror of a local Burger King: I was a soppy teenage Frankenstein—snot all over my face, sweat and rain mixed in the armpits of my shirt, socks and sandals covered in mud.
The next day, of course, Erin was at work, all smiles. “So, Ned, how’d you do in the race?”
“Okay, I guess.”
“Great, great! Did you hear how good Jack did?”
Jack was Erin’s boyfriend, who also worked in the office. I tried not to think about him.
“Come, look!” She led me over to the coffee machine, where she had posted a chart with the participants’ names and running times. The other runners had kept track of how long they’d taken and reported to Erin. I guessed this chart was something she did every year.
“There’s Jack!” She pointed. Next to his name was, “27 minutes! WOW!”
“How long did you take, Ned?” Erin asked. “So I can put you on the chart.”
I had probably run for an hour. “Forty minutes,” I said.
“Oh, great. Great job, and I hope you do it if you work here next summer, too.” She put my name on the chart, poured herself a cup of coffee, and sipped, leaving lipstick all over the rim.
*My grandmother always bought me these sandals for Christmas, always a size too large, as if anticipating future foot growth.
*My parents jointly run a family business. Every summer since I was fourteen, they’ve offered me a job at their office, and some years I’ve been so desperate for cash that I agreed to do it. That summer, I worked in research and development to get a little money. Very little money. I think my parents paid me less than minimum wage. Erin was some sort of midlevel manager there.
*I lose my shoes a lot. They get put behind the radiator or something, and I can’t find them for a few days; eventually, they show up.
*Seminal psychedelic rock band.