Once the rogues that frequented honkey-tonks and hole in the wall bars have now taken their mis-fits to the wilderness, shooting pickle juice and loading up on salt tabs, fighting the inner tempest, lifting up brothers and sisters brought together by the common mother…pain. They lift each other with words of encouragement whether passing or being passed without difference.

Now we find ourselves moving totally present through the wilderness, drawing from its energy, in existence and flow with its respirations, a part of its constant breathing. We are in touch with the primitive long distance runner. Not the sprinter running from bears, but the endurance hunter and gatherer running down his prey over miles and miles. We are moving, not as prey, but as the predator.

Running In New York is...

Being in rhythm with the perpetual motion of the city. It is a run club of thousands of strangers. It is running under the rackety transit cars and the orchestra of traffic horns then turning into a quiet borough with quaint cafe's and children walking themselves to school. It's a passage through cultures and centuries.