Well, where to begin?
I guess that would be the morning of Nov. 1 at the Calgary airport. My wife Sue and I were off to New York, where I was intending to run in the New York City Marathon. However, icy fog was preventing any aircraft from landing or taking off. We were told the delay would hopefully only be around two hours, but there was no guarantee we’d be going anywhere. Our plane tried to land, but was diverted to Lethbridge — who'd have known they have an airport?
Sue grabbed two seats in the departure lounge, which was becoming increasingly crowded, and I went to join the queue at the departure desk. I needed to find out if I could re-book our connecting flight from Chicago to New York. Mission accomplished, but we didn’t know if we’d make it. Eventually, our plane landed, managed to leave again and we headed off. Running from one terminal to the next, we caught the connection from Chicago and headed to the Big Apple.
On arrival, we jumped into a taxi and headed to the Westin on 42nd Street. The drive was eerie, parts of the city were in total blackness and there were no lights in the tunnels. The driver told us that many parts of the city were still without power due to the ravages of Hurricane Sandy and we were fortunate to be staying in an area with power. By the time we got to the hotel it was midnight our time and we were ready for bed.
The next morning, we went to the Right To Play (RTP) office to meet with Ally, who worked there, and Sarah, my Right To Play contact, who’d flown in from Toronto. Ally explained that the area where she had her apartment was without power and she had spent two days and nights on her own with nothing but candles and a wind-up radio, listening to the BBC world service. She went back to work on the Thursday, but found it really scary going home, as 70 per cent of people in her area had left. There was no street lighting; the elevator didn’t work in her block. She said it felt like walking into a black cave, not knowing if anyone was there. She decided to spend that night sleeping on the office floor and was then going to book into a hotel. She’d been going to a nearby gym just to use the shower. Fortunately for her, she was flying out to Rwanda on Sunday with RTP.
We said goodbye to Ally and headed to the race expo with Sarah. Now I have to say, we were feeling a bit concerned. The newspapers were opposed to the race going ahead. At Friday lunchtime, Mayor Michael Bloomberg was insisting that the race would be good for the city, lift people’s spirits and must go on.
The press was quite vitriolic in their condemnation, referring to the generators laying idle in Central Park, that would be used to heat the media tents, the blankets, food and water stacked up for the runners and the food for the hot meal that they would have the night before the race. Not to mention the police and volunteers who could otherwise be helping the needy.
All this, when people in Staten Island and the Rockaways had no power, no heat, no hot food. Many houses had been completely destroyed by the storm or fires and people were having to gut their houses, because all their belongings had been ruined by water. We were hearing some truly heartbreaking stories. We could perfectly understand why some people were so angry.
By 5.30 p.m., the race had been cancelled. Good call. Obviously, many runners were disappointed; thousands had travelled long distances and spent a lot of time and money investing in the race. But we didn’t meet one person who didn’t agree it was the right thing to do — but all felt that the mayor should have made the decision days earlier.
On Saturday, it was clear that we weren’t going to be able to get to many places unless we walked. The transit/subway were limited and the buses and trains that were running were so crowded that the police had to provide crowd control.
We met up with Sarah and started making inquiries about ways we could help. On the Sunday morning, a group of 170 Irish runners met in the lobby of the hotel with the intention of going to Central Park and running. Many wore their marathon shirts and race bibs. I decided to join them, as did many others from the hotel. We walked to the park and I headed off on a 10 km loop of Central Park. What I encountered was something I’ll never forget. Literally thousands of runners from all nations, some carrying flags or messages, had turned up to run. So too had supporters.
The noise at times was deafening. The whole atmosphere was overwhelming. I know runners will get it when I talk about the spirit of running together for a cause — and they all had a cause. Afterwards, we went to the south end of the park and donated money and clothing.
Back at the hotel, I found a website that directed me to a location in Brooklyn, where I could help.
Monday morning, I set off for Saint Jacobi Lutheran Church. At Grand Central station the subway was jammed, so I ran 28 blocks south to Union station and jumped on the R train to 53rd street. At the Church, I entered the chapel and had a 10-minute orientation. The organizers were the “Occupy Sandy” group. These were the same individuals involved in the “Occupy Wall Street” event. They were looking for “runners” and I spent the day running up and down stairs, taking donated supplies from a basement and loading them into any vehicle that became available. Torches, batteries, baby food, diapers, pet food, clothing — the list was endless and they were constantly getting requests for more. I have to say the organization was excellent, but I did wonder where the Red Cross was. By the time I got back to the hotel, I was ready for a bath and a hot meal. We turned on the TV — what a stark contrast — images from the devastation in some areas of the city and the hype connected with the Obama/Romney campaign.
The next day, we left for home. It certainly wasn’t the trip we’d hoped for, but it will hold memories of a different kind.
We saw desperation and heartbreak as well as the kindness and generosity of so many. But we also became all too aware of something else — something which we both found frustrating, shocking and so very disappointing. It’s hard to put into words, but maybe I can give you this simple example: On Sunday, we were on our way home and, as it was a bit chilly (we’d donated our gloves and scarves) decided to walk through Bloomingdales. At the Marc Jacobs counter, two young women were trying to decide which of the $600-plus purses they should buy — 30 km away, less than the distance from here to Calgary, people were trying to decide whether to eat what little they had for supper or save it for breakfast, whether or not to walk the hours it would take to get to a polling station the next day to vote for the leader of one of the richest countries on the planet. Sort of makes you think.
The journey home went off without a hitch and it was good to see the lights of Cochrane as we dove down the Big Hill.
We were home and safe. But we’ll definitely be thinking of thousands of New Yorkers, still without power or a place to live when their Thanksgiving comes around.
