"A Magical Time In Syracuse"

Following the 10 mile Mountain Goat Run in Syracuse...
Sean Kirst's column is a must read for those who wake up in the 'Cuse and for those who admire her from afar.

The Mountain Goat: Running for all the right reasons

Sunday's Mountain Goat Run was 10 miles long, emphasis on long, on a course that rolled up some of the toughest hills in Syracuse. By the time you hit the last uphill at Thornden Park - unless you’ve got an elite runner’s disposition - you may have been asking yourself why you did this thing.
Yet the hill is quickly gone, and the worst is over. Before long, at the finish line, the answers become clear.

You do the Mountain Goat for the older brothers who’ve inspired you: The brother you lost, a tremendous runner in his day, and the brothers you’ve still got, who like you are out there running.

You do the Goat for your kids, just so they know the machine doesn’t need to shut down once you’re 50.

You do the Goat for your wife, who’s always tolerated your strange runs to strange places at all hours of the day and night. You do it for other Central New Yorkers who share the same passion, the ones on the turnpike in all kinds of crazy weather, the ones who understand what it means to be “out there.”

You do it for sweet and sudden flashes of memory, because the scents and sights of a long hard run can abruptly give you back childhood images that seemed forever lost.

You do it for everything you love about your city, for the great views from the hills on both sides of the valley.

You do it because the Goat merges with a magical time in Syracuse, that fleeting window when magnolias explode and maple leaves burst open. Somehow — on city streets — you become a part of that.

You do it for the folks who created this run and for the ones who keep it going, true believers who appreciate what makes this town unique.

You do it because a decade ago you could not run two miles, and this race reignited something that you thought you’d lost.

You do the Goat for what it says about the seasons, for the way you start training in March — when you wear long johns as you slog through wet snow — knowing that by race day the weather will take a glorious turn.

You do it for your parents, who died all too young, behind your hope that being out there might improve the chance for you to someday see your own grandkids.

You do it for the energy you feel along the route — the folks who bring live goats to the race, the little kids who slap your hand as you near East Colvin Street, the mysterious authors of chalk slogans on the hill at Thornden Park.

You do it for the chance to see the regulars, the stalwarts who run the whole way in bare feet, the guy who does the race dribbling a basketball.

You do it for a different look at the mansions of West Onondaga Street, or the roundtop at Onondaga Park, or downtown landmarks on those seemingly endless blocks before the finish.

You do it for friends and family along the route who call your name, for the men and women in church clothes who smile as you pass by, for the keyboard guy who plays “Great Balls of Fire” just when you need it most.

You do it for all your friends running the race for the first time, because you remember what that represents.

You do it because you’re at a point in life where your only competition is yourself, when you race against the time you had a year ago, which amounts to shaking your fist at Father Time.

You do it for anyone toying with the idea of the Goat, folks who are tempted but who tell themselves it cannot be done, because you remember feeling exactly that way.

You do it for the little pleasures at the finish, where bananas and apples have never tasted so sweet.

You do it because the race is so fitting to the ancient homeland of the Onondagas, whose Iroquois name, after all, equates to people of the hills.

And you do it for the triumphant embrace of old friends afterward at Clinton Square, that rare moment when no one is worried about sweat.

Beyond all else, you do it as affirmation for all those hours in the middle of nowhere, running in search of something hard to express.

You do it for everything you take from the Goat, because in some deep way — for yourself and for your town — it speaks to hope.

~ Sean Kirst