By Christina Bebeau

Photo: Briana E. Heard

I run three slightly uphill blocks to the middle of the hill at 181st and Fort Washington, on the way observing the buildings with Art Deco doors, front courtyards, and engraved names. The building on the southeast corner even has a wide variety of gargoyles that aren’t voiced by Jason Alexander but will probably be sold at an absurd markup at Olde Good Things in the event that the building is ever scrapped, salvaged by shabby chic enthusiasts, and then replaced with overpriced condos too expensive for the rest of the neighborhood, whose trendy inhabitants will seek to decorate their apartments with these quaint artifacts from the building that previously occupied where they now live. I look at the content reading gargoyles when I stretch my legs and wonder how long it will be before their books will be updated to iPhones so the gargoyles can text even though they can’t be more than twenty feet away from each other.

When my legs can’t take me any further on my daily run, I sit down, soak up the sun, and watch high schoolers play ball. When the sun goes over the hill, I go home. I catch the sun again when I reach the top of the hill in Fort Tryon and bid it adieu as it leaves me at the entrance to the George Washington Bridge on its way to visit family in New Jersey, but the traffic is such a hassle (“I was in waiting half hour at the toll booth last time,” complains the sun).

I think my butt has gotten bigger since I’ve been running around the neighborhood. I guess it would be impossible for it to get smaller as I already practically wear children’s pants, but now I have a muscle butt from running up and down the various trails in Inwood and Fort Tryon.

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