Walkabout is my exercise of choice; the pace isn’t too intense and the scenery makes the miles fly by. I could log three to four hours walking around the city and not even blink, whereas 10 minutes on a treadmill and I’m bored out of my skull. The other day I headed over to the West Side, starting at Chelsea Piers at 23rd Street along the water. I particularly love the prospect from this direction: the skyscrapers of the financial district looming larger and larger the closer I get to lower Manhattan. The only thing I don’t like about this particular path is sharing it with the weekend warriors on Rollerblades who whiz by in their spandex ensembles, all in control of their limbs and speed. I am jealous of how fast they’re able to fly along the West Side Highway and how tight their buns are thanks to the exercise. But there is a reason I choose to travel on solid ground, and that reason is a near-miss head trauma in Central Park circa 1994.
The first time I lived in New York, Rollerblades were at the height of their popularity. I had bought a cheap pair at closeout and after a few practice runs on the sidewalk decided to take them out for their maiden voyage in the park. Though I knew how to stop, I hadn’t yet figured out how to jam on the proverbial brakes. Not that I thought I would ever need to do so, since the paths in Central Park always seemed flat enough. In reality they’re deceptively hilly, particularly around the 72nd Street cross drive.
I rolled along the main loop without incident for most of the way, but right about the time I reached the Delacorte Theatre, I realized in horror that a significant drop awaited me and there was no way of avoiding it short of crawling down like a child. And so I rolled down the hill, gradually picking up a dangerous velocity as I headed directly toward a gaggle of tourists 100 feet ahead. Any ape can pull on a pair of Rollerblades and figure out how to propel oneself around; the challenge resides in being able to stop on a dime, a move I hadn’t quite mastered. Assessing my current situation, I winced at my imminent demise. I couldn’t veer to the right out of the way of the tourists; I’d run into the skaters rolling along adjacent to me. I couldn’t veer left; I’d launch myself off the sidewalk into the depths of the Ramble. My only recourse was to continue full steam ahead and hope that the unsuspecting park-goers got out of my way.
I took a deep breath and closed my eyes, cursing myself for not having worn a helmet. Bracing myself for impact, I bellowed “HEELLLLLLP!” in one last attempt to warn those in my line of fire that they were about to be plowed into like 10 pins in a bowling lane. But just like that, the red sea of tourists parted and I whooshed through the break in the crowd unscathed. Eventually I rolled to a halt, then – hyperventilating and practically in tears – clomped over to an open bench in front of the Sheep’s Meadow, removed the Rollerblades, tied their laces into a knot, threw them over my shoulder and walked home in my socks.
The skates haven’t seen the light of day since.
Danger on Wheels
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