My son Bradley has an ice hockey practice or a game on Sunday mornings starting somewhere between 6 am and 8 am. I am the usually the designated parent. Nothing makes me happier than waking up at 4.45 am on a weekend and heading downtown to freeze to death watching eight and nine year old children attracted to a puck, following it around the ice, as if it were a magnet.
This past weekend I was blessed with the fact that the practice didn't start until 8 am. Compared to the very early starts this had a feel of a lunchtime session. My alarm went off at 6.15. I showered and got dressed and then awoke Bradley at about 6.45. His clothes had been taken out the night before and he is very adapt in getting dressed and leaving the apartment in about ten minutes. We were car pooling that morning, picking up his friend and co hockey player with his father, a little further North than our street.
The logical thing to have done would have been to head North on First Avenue and cross 87th street to pick up his friend and father. This sensible straightforward plan was put on hold by the demands of my son in sticking exactly to tradition and habit in what we always did, when not car pooling. Instead we had to drive southwards to Dunkin Donuts at 75th street, park up and go get his two chocolate frosted donuts and me my coffee with skim milk. Bradley was quite perturbed that the server who knows Bradley's order off by heart wasn't there . Bradley informed me that this was a really bad sign. I of course ignored his superstitious thoughts and told him that his notion was not only wrong but ridiculous. The fact that the usual donut server had a day off had no bearing whatsoever on anything that could happen going forward. Bradley ordered an extra donut for his friend, we returned to the car and set out on our slightly changed route.
We picked up our car pooling party outside their building and then continued on straight until we couldn't go any further. I took a left onto Fifth Avenue to the sound of donut munching coming from the middle row. The boys were scoffing their faces full of the deep fried dough covered in chocolate sugar and little sprinklings of cholesterol. Most of the frosting missed both of their mouths completely and instead extended horizontally across from their face bi-passing their enticing lips. They both looked like The Joker from Batman, similarly foaming at their mouths and laughing in a slightly evil way. It was clear that operation cleanup would have to commence before either boy could take to the ice.
We reached 85th and Fifth Avenue, a major artery in Manhattan and a point in the journey worthy of at least a mini discussion between the two grown men in the front seats. We were heading for Chelsea piers at 23rd and the River on the West side. We needed to go West but had a choice of either taking the West Side Highway and crossing now or continuing on Fifth Avenue and crossing later or until we reached 23rd street. So I posed the question. "What should we do here?" Logic told me to take the West Side Highway. Not many lights, a faster speed limit and four lanes. My navigator did not express a preference either way so I went with my gut and turned right and headed across town.
Ten minutes later we were turning around and heading back East. The West Side highway was closed for no apparent reason. We had not noticed any of the portable signs telling us so, because we were all either engrossed in deep discussion or knee deep in donuts and had continued along our preferred route until a police car told us to do a 180. The West Side Highway is perhaps the most important road in New York, particularly for those heading downtown from the Upper West Side, West Harlem, Riverdale and the surrounding Bronx areas and Westchester-Connecticut commuters. It is one of the most direct routes in Manhattan. If you want to get anywhere substantial from North to South then this highway normally features in your plans. We were therefore forced to use local avenues en lieu of speedier options. With the closure of this main artery, Western Manhattan came to a complete stand still. We didn't move for ages on West End Avenue. We stood motionless on 9th Avenue for what seemed an eternity and instead of arriving in time to lace the boys up we were now staring at the prospect of being late for practice.
We arrived in Chelsea some forty minutes later. And yes we were running a little tardy. We couldn't even get near the Piers since a half marathon was taking place on the actual highway preventing us from parking at the rink; and hence the road closure. The two thousand participants were doing their best to keep their veins pumping with blood and stay healthy . In the process they had clogged one of Manhattan's main arteries causing a huge blockage and heart failure for residents looking to move around freely on a Sunday morning. I had to park half a mile away from the ice rink and walk in the somewhat cold temperatures and was visibly upset by this whole ordeal. The boys were caked in chocolate and were stuffed, unable to walk fast, as a result of consuming a full dose of heart attack inducing nourishment. I muttered how insane New York City was for staging these types of events when Bradley informed me whilst giving me a 'I told you so kind of look', that it would have been different had the normal server been there at the donut store.
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