Running Late

While in New York, Craig and I went to see the Mets host the Phillies. I looked forward to seeing Citi Field for the first time, while Craig looked forward to seeing rowdy New York fans. Craig and I planned to walk the 1.5 miles to the train station and ride the rails to the game. I wore jeans because I knew I might get cold. I packed water and some food because I knew we might get hungry. We hustled out the door a few minutes behind schedule, which has been typical behavior for the two of us lately. Aware that we were running late, I walked the best speed-walk that my short legs could carry me. 

I checked the time after we had walked about half a mile. It was just past five and we were hoping to make the 5:13 train. With the realization that speed-walking simply wasn't going to be good enough, we began to run. Craig offered to take my backpack and I handed it off to him as he broke into a near sprint. I trailed behind, jogging in my jeans and hiking sandals. My jeans complained about being used inappropriately, while my heavy sandals slapped loudly with each step. Craig tried to encourage me to run faster, but I didn't feel the urgency that he did. He gave up on me and sprinted ahead in hopes that he could buy our train tickets while I caught up. He flew down the sidewalk, hopped over curbs, and dashed across the street. As he rushed across the road, the contents of my backpack turned on him. A water bottle splatted to the ground and an apple rolled into the street. Pedestrians in my home town are a rare sight to see, but Craig was lucky to have one near enough who picked up the apple and tossed it back to Craig. Craig fumbled the apple due to the pedestrian's throwing error, but this did not prevent Craig from continuing his sprint. He rounded the corner and stayed focused on his goal. By the time I neared the train station, Craig was out of sight. I checked the time once more and saw that it was 5:12. I reached the home stretch and knew I still had a chance. I lunged across the final street that separated me from the train station, while making sure the cars would be kind enough to let me cross. I turned the final bend and took the stairs two at a time up to the tracks. I crossed my fingers that Craig would be waiting there with tickets in hand. 

Instead I found a dozen or so Mets fans among other passengers standing impatiently by the tracks. With a glance to the overhead sign I learned that the train was delayed by fourteen minutes. I walked slowly down the stairs to find Craig. We calmly bought our tickets and headed back upstairs to wait with the others. As sweat poured down our faces and through our clothes on the especially humid July day, we concluded that we could have walked and still made the train. But where's the fun in that?