Fat Man of the Mountains

Ten miles before breakfast, the sun coming up over the breakwater as I head out the door. Maybe it’s because of school vacation week, but I feel like I have the usually busy city to myself, save for a single fishing trawler headed out of the harbor. 

As I move along Rogers Street, the breeze carries the singular mix of scents that makes up a modern working waterfront: Yeast from the brewery, garlic, frying bacon, strong coffee, the indescribable smell from the fish processing plants (fish sticks, maybe?), with just a hint of old-style gurry. Passing by Rocky Neck, I can tell someone’s smoking a joint. 

I turn the corner toward the Back Shore. Looking past Niles Beach and across the water, the Boston skyline is so clear and sharp I feel I could almost reach out and touch it. More than ever, I’m thankful for running and what it’s given me. The last four miles fly by; in my imagination, my shuffling feet are those of an Olympian.

When we run, we run toward something. We run to lose weight or breathe better, to compete against others or, more often, ourselves. We run to feel the sun and the wind and the rain. We run to pierce the black veil of depression, or to feel the spark of life move through our veins as our body does what it was made to do. Less than a week ago, many runners ran toward unimaginable chaos, wanting only to help the injured, lost and frightened; to me, those are the images worth remembering. Always, we run toward something.

To run is to hope.

Yesterday, all over the United States, people celebrated Christopher Columbus and his “discovery” of the Americas in 1492.

Maybe it would be impolite to mention that the Genoan was actually the second person to discover the continent (as much as any place with an indigenous people can actually be discovered). But Columbus was second by almost five centuries, to one Leif Ericson.

Columbus obviously had a better PR guy. But Ericson, a legendary Norse explorer who established a settlement in what is now Canada around the year 1,000, deserves at least equal recognition.

Maybe it’s my Swedish heritage, but I think we should be celebrating Leif Ericson today. Since that’s not likely to happen any time soon, I joined a hardy group of souls in Durham, N.H. ,Sunday morning to celebrate Ericson’s legacy.

For 36 years, a handful of area residents, many in period garb, have gathered for the Leif Ericson Parade. The parade starts at a local all-night laundromat and ends about 25 feet later at the entrance to Young’s restaurant, where everyone gathers to refuel after the 30-second walk. It’s called “the world’s shortest parade” for a good reason. And I should probably mention the parade begins at 6:30 a.m. It’s all over before the sun comes up.

The first parade was “held” in 1977, when two college professors, Noble K. Peterson and Mel Neilson, were doing their laundry and discussing the need to honor Ericson. So they marched to Young’s in his honor.

I’m proud of my heritage — the wedding rings my wife and I wear were worn by my great grandparents,  who came to America from Sweden more than 100 years ago. I’ve wanted to take part in the parade for years, but had never been able to make it — until Sunday.

It was certainly an odd event, but one filled with kind, mellow people with a good sense of humor. I’ve had worse beginnings to a Sunday morning.

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Here’s a video from 2008 I found on the web. I didn’t shoot it, obviously.