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Published: November 13th 2008
Friday 31st October to Thursday 6th November, 2008 Struggling to come to my senses upon waking following our Halloween excesses the first thought that entered my head was not only how unusually bright and sunny for six thirty in the morning it was but also how unaturally warm. Seconds later as I struggled to raise my head from the pillow in an attempt to reach for my phone a glance at my wrist caused reality to strike home like a hammer blow to the back of the skull. It wasn’t six thirty in the morning at all, it was eight thirty and just ten minutes to my scheduled take off time from Long Beach airport en route to my New York City rendezvous with the boys from Malpaso, former Council workmate Ian and his four amigos.
In my excitedly inebriated condition as I’d clambered into my pit six hours earlier I’d set the alarm of my English mobile phone to my required wake up time neglecting to remember that the phones' clock was still on GMT. They say every cloud has a silver lining and this big grey one hovering above me about to deposit its load all over
No Sleep 'til Brooklyn.
Paula radcliffe heads for home. After 26 miles she was still going faster than I've ever run in my life.me was no different. Fortunately, not only was I able to rouse Phil from his slumber by means of a few heavy thumps to his door and cadge a lift to the airport but also to grab the last standby seat on the eleven o’clock flight which the girl at check out informed me would be, quite undeservedly I know, at no extra cost whatsoever. Consequently, I was only three hours behind schedule when I emerged from my maiden voyage on the New York Subway into the surprisingly mild evening air before heading to room 1110 of the Belvedere Hotel and my meet up with Ian.
Arrangements for accommodation were a little vague to say the least. Ian had told me via e mail that the four 'athletes' amongst them, and I use that word in the kindest of ways , himself, Craggers, Rammers, at 47 the veteran of the team and Kit who not only had a look but also a sound of Bruce Dickinson would be staying at the Belvedere whilst Gogs or Rodders as he's otherwise known would ‘crash’ at the Queens apartment of the brother of another friend from back home adding that I would
No Sleep 'til Brooklyn.
Celebration. Rammers, Dutts, Kit, moi, ???, Dan, US girl, Craggers and english girl. be welcome to join him. That was good enough for me but the added bonus was that the runners were ludicrously required to report for a three thirty am pick up the following morning to get them to the start point on time which effectively meant that if Gogs and I could manage to stay out beyond that time there would be a bed for both of us waiting in the heart of Manahattan. Neither of us thought that that would be too arduous a call !
NYC is as different to the West Coast America to which I’ve become accustomed as night is to day. For a starter Frankie’s words of “I wanna wake up in a City that never sleeps” have more than a ring of truth to them. It doesn’t sleep, or at least certain parts of it don’t and consequently for the next three days basically neither did we. Danny, the 33 year old brother of Ian’s friend known as ‘the village Idiot’ (don’t ask) arrived in the States ten years ago having carved out a living as a photographer (have a look at www.dancallister.com for examples of his excellent work) and now earns a
No Sleep
The girl with the bike wathces the runners in Central Park. crust being sent on reccies by publications such as the Mail on Sunday and Time Magazine. His tales of being beaten by various celeb minders as well as his experiences at Nine Eleven allied to Gogs’s revelations of his socializing with the ‘Cheshire set’ (he owns the Cheshire Ice Cream Factory in Tattenhall) ensured an entertaining evening aided by Danny’s familiarity with some of the West Side’s better watering holes meaning Gogs and I were treated to sights and sounds we’d probably never have witnessed if left to our own devices.
True to his word Ian and the guys had thankfully departed for the starting line when Gogs and I eventually returned to The Belvedere and after a few hours in the land of the nod we headed off to track them down realising that the chances of actually doing so were less than slim. With over 40,000 runners the the NYC marathon had had to be organised with all the precision of a military operation but quite why they’d had a three thirty pick up when their run start time was ten thirty, an arrangement which had seen them standing shivering in a field for hours on end
was beyond all of us for the rest of the weekend. My only previous trip to NYC, also in November some ten years earlier had seen temperatures hovering around the freezing mark but this morning it was well into the sixties which I can only presume is the reason, unable or unwilling to get out of my California habits that I left the hotel dressed in a tee shirt, shorts and flip flops.
By the time we reached Broadway I’d already received a couple of bewildered looks and one or two quirky quips but still didn’t feel particularily underdressed nor for that matter cold but as we reached Central Park all that changed. As has become the norm wherever you are in this country the police have an omnipresence which was exaggerated on this particular Sunday morning for obvious reasons and as two of New York's boys in blue pulled the tape aside to allow us to cross to the park an amplified by means of a mega phone Bronxian voice rose above the sounds of the crowd.
“And this man, ladies and gentlemen, has just got off a flight direct from Miami, Florida”
I turned to
see half of NYPD not to mention a great percentage of the watching crowds looking at me with an equal mix of incredulity, mirth and pity. Minutes later the public address announcer informed us that the leader of the woman’s race, Britain's Paula Radcliffe was approaching the Park sure enough she soon came around the corner at the speed of light, quite incredible considering she’d already run 26 miles.
Gogs and I's roughly worked back of a fag packet calculations allied to a questioning of the taxi driver en route back to the hotel to put some clothes on told us that the best chance we’d get to see any of the guys would be as they exited Queensboro’ bridge at 59th and 1st as the runners re-entered Manhattanfrom Queens. This was around the sixteen mile mark and we took up position at the back of the four to five deep crowd that lined every inch of the course and prepared to wait. Less than a minute after stopping, and just having commented to each other that given the numbers of ‘athletes’ swarming off the bridge that the chances of seeing any of the lads would be like finding
No Sleep 'til Brooklyn.
Breakfast at Tiffany's. No sorry, breakfast at some greasy little spoon. We'd only got to bed five hours earlier. the proverbial needle in the haystack around the corner trundled Ian & Kit, the Sid and Eddie of the New York marathon. Actually they weren't so much trundling as being swept along like driftwood in the wave of humanity that was flowing off the bridge and incredibly even managed a smile and wave of surprise at seeing us two on the sidelines screaming our encouragement. For the record Kit, Ian and Rammers finished in that order in just over the four hour mark with Craggers coming in lame just before nightfall !
After their heroic achievements, and make no mistake running twenty six miles is a heck of an achievement, and despite their aching limbs the guys obviously felt they had earned right to celebrate. Gogs and I certainly weren't going to argue with them and we convened to some more of New Yorks millions of watering holes and spent an enjoyable evening doing just that.
Monday morning started for the second day running with an ommelette and hash brown greasy spoon breakfast, the perfect medicine for our condition at one of the cities infamous diners before we set to doing the obligatory tourist thing, a trip to
No Sleep 'til Brooklyn.
Halloween with neighbour Susan. the top of The Rockefeller Center, being agreed by all as an interesting alternative to the Empire State norm, and a stroll up fifth Avenue included before we headed via the subway to Little Italy. I remembered Little Italy as an area more or less untouched since the days of prohibition and that much hadn't changed, the only difference between now and my previous visit being that the majority of people strolling around the place were now not native New Yoikers but foreign visitors proudly if a little crassly exhibiting ribboned medallion statements around their necks that told all and sundry they'd recently completed the worlds most famous long distance race.
With the weather still mild and agreeable we dined al fresco on the street amongst the hubble and bubble of everyday New York life before moving onto a tiny little bar where several scenes of 'The Sopranos' were filmed, where the jukebox like the neighbourhood hadn't changed in decades and where the lavatory was of a design and size similar size to a telephone kiosk. Despite it's rawness and unkempt nature the bar was cosy as darkness and temperatures fell outside but unfortunately for me my time to
No Sleep 'til Brooklyn.
Just how I remembered it. my first sight of NYC having emerged out of the subway. go had unavoidably come and I had to wonder at the bizareness of my situation as I sat hunched with my trousers around my ankles and my feet sticking out through the curtained door in conversation with a Howard Stern lookalike who was peeing against the wall just a couple of feet away. The day finally came to a close twelve hours later in yet another NY watering hole.
Monday was the day we all returned home but not before the lads had participated in a bit of retail therapy with a trip to the Abercrombie and Fitch store on the south east side of Manhattan. I've never really understood the attraction of this particular brand of American clothing, they seem ludicrously overpriced for what you receive but that didn't stop them spending over an hour browsing and purchasing and when we met up later on the bank of the East River Gogs and Craggers hilariously looked at each other aghast as they realised they'd be taking exactly the same sleeveless jackets back to rural Cheshire.
Heading back up into the City we somehow managed to split up and and I sadly never got to see Craggers, Rammers
No Sleep 'til Brooklyn.
my barber shop on halloween. or Gogs again but Kit, Ian and I headed for the famous Oyster Bar and Restaurant in the breathtakingly grand and opulent structure that is Grand Central Station. Like A & F clothing I've never been able to understand the fuss about oysters. If you were swimming in the ocean and took an unfortunate mouthful of water you would instinctively and quite immediately spit it out screwing your face to express your displeasure. Likewise, if you were suffering from bronchial problems and inadvertently brought a lump of mucus into your palate you would, depending on your upbringing, likely either discreetly transfer it to a paper tissue or deposit it directly to the pavement. Consequently if the two sensations were combined there appears little doubt as to what your reaction would be.
Oysters quite simply are that sensation, akin to swallowing a salty lump of phlegm and, at three and a half dollars a piece expensive to boot. But 'when in Rome' is a saying I'm becoming quite familiar with of late and having swallowed three with the aid of a bowl of Clam Chowder and bottle of ice cold beer I bade farewell to Ian and Kit via the
creepy 'whispering wall' and headed for the subway, a brilliant weekend about to end.
Jet Blue, America's budget airline thankfully puts our own Easyjet to shame. Leather seats with plentiful leg room ensured the five and a half hour flight to literally flew by as I amused myself by watching live coverage, yes live coverage of the final few hours of this years unique presidential election which culminated in the appointment by landslide of this countries first coloured premier. God bless America !
PS: To the lads - Thanks for a great weekend.
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Waymo
non-member comment
your making me jealous. why could'nt hollywood be like that! :o(