Idling behind the forever signal at Gateway’s exit intersection, Hylan Boulevard traffic surges by.. dense and rapid. Untimely heat on this late May afternoon, 4PM sun is amplified through my windshield. I am waiting in two lanes of park-leavers.
After riding the windy road for hours..bike now bungied onto a rack, thoughts beyond to, schedules, tasks, obligations, I peripherally notice a runner approaching. Short and strong…late thirties, he rhythmically moves along a worn dirt path that parallels the Boulevard, a teal shadow gliding beside him in the matted grass. He turns in, heading towards Great Kills Beach, loose clothing perspiration darkened, neck and face flushed. His even pace abruptly breaks as he stops to examine an iron and wood bench that’s been recently installed. He is standing solidly, only his back visible.., motionless as he reads the marigold wreathed plaque angled underneath.
My blinker ticks, ticks, I am impatient to make my turn, head home. The runner tightens, draws himself even straighter, slowly reaching up to the bill of his faded blue baseball cap. No longer straining to will the light green, instead, I watch and pull a slow breath.
He tugs twice with his right hand and stands at attention for about thirty seconds before pivoting to the right and continuing down the long park road.
