The women of New York have noticed a change. They are going to work wearing long sleeved tops, something floaty and light still, but no longer revealing the entirety of their arms. They are wearing light jackets, maybe even a light scarf. Why is this? How do they all know that something has occurred? The weather has changed. A light chill has descended over the early hours of Manhattan. It is too cold now to run at 7am in a racer back top. It is mid August. Has the mysterious ‘Fall’ appeared early? I am yet to be convinced that Autumn is called Fall. What is wrong with this place?
Late November on Hampstead Heath. What a beautiful, unique space. Going for my last run (everything is the last at the moment) the colours are amazing: trees the colour of red hot pokers; carpets of leaves cover the grass. One huge, now bare, tree looks like a giant came along and gave it an almighty shake. There are the ubiquitous dog walkers but my favourite sadly absent: the polar opposites of the lolloping Bassett hound with his long legged, horse-like great Dane friend always make me smile. I remember the many British Military Fitness sessions, running in the rain, the snow and the mud. Oh, the mud. I will so miss BMF and lament my failure to persuade anyone of the merits of getting a wet bum on the Heath first thing on a Saturday. Hope there’s something similar in Central Park. Hampstead Heath is 800 acres and Central Park only a little larger. The Heath has its own flasher who we are all warned about; pockets of undergrowth where sadly people end their lives and its toilets have a certain reputation. Regardless of this – I expect Central Park has similar – I will miss the place where I trained pre and post natal in the early morning mists and ran for miles to blow away the cobwebs. I will look to learn to love Central Park in the same way.