PBR- Presidential Blue Ribbon

Recently, on NPR, I think, I heard about the revival of the Presidential Fitness Test. Oh, how our P.E. classes would excite over those exams once a year. I remember in second or third grade beating out all the girls and all the boys for pull-ups. (Sadly, that's now a skill lost, although I have started getting quite good at push-ups, but I digress.) I received the Presidential Fitness award (signed I believe by Reagan) that year.

Now they have reinstated this great challenge and have an online test for adults: The President's Challenge. So, I'm all excited to see just how far I can touch past my toes in the flexibility test and how many sit ups I can do in a minute. But then there's the dreaded running test.

After the Black Keys show last night at McCarren Pool, I felt a spontaneous urge to practice right then. I coerced O to join me in a run around the McCarren track. I was in sandals (so cute, from Greece, but a flimsy, inappropriate running shoe really) but we did .75 of the track before O refused to go no further and collapsed into the grass. Sadly, I was just starting to get my groove.

Now this was exciting for me, because I firmly believe that you should not run unless playing kiss-chase or from bad guys, and since the former has not been revived since 3rd grade and the later is something we hope never happens, I tend to plain not run. But like I said, I was just starting to get my groove and I was really enjoying this after-a-few-beers-and-loud-70s-style-rock-music run around a bright stadium lit track. The music earlier at the pool had O and I talking about road trips, stops at dive bars with dingy pool tables and locals who liked to call themselves Machinegun Kelly, we'd be drinking some cheap beer and music just like this would be blaring out of the jukebox. Maybe all of that paired with the bright lights and lively trackwas just what my non-running spirit needed; I have to say it was quite awe-inspiring.

Once our run halted, we watched the motely crue that takes to the Greenpoint track at 10pm on a Thursday. There were the true runners keeping to the inside lane preparing for their next marathon; the cell-phone talkers in sweats and an occasional lite speed walk; the hasidic husbands walking and talking; the hispanic family led by teenage daughter to keep up the speed all seven of them; the bike riders were cheating obviously and it seemed inappropriate that they had found their way on the track (I scared one kid by asking if I could borrow his bike for a minute, then every time he passed us on the track he took to the inside lane); there was the flamboylantly gay man with swinging hips in cut of black jeans listening to his ipod and keeping to the outer lane should perhaps he make a play for a passer-by - he also quickly hussled to the runaway soccer ball to throw it (overhand with a wrist flick) back to the 'hot' latino football players; there were the competitive couples - mostly bf/gf or husband/wife - urging each other to push a little harder and further; there were plenty of walkers - groups of young girls or singles. It was a happening place to be until the rains came and the crowd dispersed in no time - even the former walkers only, turned into runners.

I had an umbrella, so we continued to watch the events unfold until the winds and rain became too much and it was time to have a Pabst Blue Ribbon - with a brief toast to the Presidential Fitness test and the award that would soon become mine!