Since I have moved to New York, I have taken a taxi cab three times:

(1) To the Queens Half Marathon.

It was a hot and sticky day in September… and it was only ten o’ clock in the morning! When I emerged from the subway tunnel in Flushing, I felt a layer of perspiration form almost instantaneously on my forehead. At least the air outside lacked the rank odor of the unmoving block of air that sat lethargically within the subway station.

I had timed my trip perfectly—or so I thought. According to my documents, I had to walk down the block, catch a bus to get to the park, navigate my way to the finish, and then cheer The Beau before he dashed across the finish line. There was enough time for me to move leisurely towards my destination.

Bus stops occupy nearly every street corner near the subway station in Flushing. I finally located the correct bus stop (”Excuse me, but does this bus go to College Park?” “Yeah.”) and stood in the growing line.

When the bus finally arrived, several of the riders in front of me pulled out their half marathon maps and asked the bus driver, “Excuse me, but does this bus go to College Park?”

“No,” he flatly replied.

“But this,” they corrected, pointing at their sheets of paper, “says that this bus goes to College Park.”

“No,” he repeated.

“This is the [blah blah] bus, right?” they insisted.

“This bus does not go to the park,” the bus driver repeated, obviously annoyed. “It will only go halfway there.”

“But—”

People finally gave up. Those individuals who were not spectators for the half marathon pushed past and boarded the bus while the spectators remained on the curb, vexed. The bus roared away, kicking up a wave of wet air.

I began to worry that I would miss The Beau crossing the finish line. He’s speedy.

On the corner was an unoccupied taxi cab. The center sign was lit, indicating that the taxi was open and available for business.

“Hey,” I said in the general direction of the lost spectators, “you’re all going to the half marathon, right? Do you wanna split a cab?”

“Sure,” one said. A few others looked at us, sizing us up to ensure that we wouldn’t molest them or otherwise try to rob them in broad daylight.

So, four of us piled into the cab:

• A stocky young man wearing track pants (shotgun)
• A young woman with brunette hair that was pulled back in a neat ponytail (rear driver’s side)
• tall man wearing a sling with a baby in it (rear passenger’s side)
• me (rear middle)

I had never shared a car with complete strangers before. Only in New York….

“Can you take us to College Park?” Track Pants asked the the taxi driver.

“Where is that?” Taxi Driver replied.

Those of us packed in the back seat looked at each other. Would we get there in time?

The baby cooed.

Track Pants unfolded the map and showed it to the driver, who scanned it quickly.

“Oh, okay. Sure, sure, I can take you there,” he concluded. And then he stepped on the gas pedal and we lurched forward out of downtown Flushing.

Everyone kindly opened the window next to them (remember, I was squashed in the middle) and no one said a word. We all looked out the windows, acutely aware that legs were mashed against other strange legs (well, not the two in the front), even though we had just met a few moments prior.

Finally, the young woman next to me murmured, “I hope I can see my friend finish. She’s fast—she ran the last half in about an hour and a half.”

We all checked our watches.

“That’s gonna be close,” the man on the other side of me said. The baby in his lap stared out the windows with large, hazel eyes.

The taxi encountered a road block related to the race.

“Oh no,” the driver said. He looked down the street, then asked for the map again. Track Pants took it out, Driver scanned it again, and then the taxi made a sharp left turn.

“We’ll get there,” he assured us.

We were soon bumping through a residential neighborhood and could see runners making their way past. The Young Woman’s phone rang.

“Oh, hi! Really? Oh… well, I’m still in a taxi, but I’ll see you at the finish in a few, okay?” She hung up.

“My friend crossed the finish line a few minutes ago,” she announced. We all made utterances of sympathy.

The taxi made another screeching turn and we were now facing the park.

“This is it,” Driver announced.

“Thanks!” we all said as we spilled out of the cab. He announced the fare and, after some quick calculations, we handed the driver a several bills. We then all looked at each other and said hasty farewells: “Thanks for sharing the ride… and have fun!” “You too!”

And, with that, I dashed towards the corner marked Mile 13. If The Beau was running at the anticipated pace, he would soon reach that corner any minute…

… and, a few minutes later, he came plodding down the shallow hill.

I grinned first, then began to cheer loudly. He looked up and smiled. As he passed me, I began to run alongside him.

“Come on! Pick it up! This isn’t a parade!” I crowed.

The Beau breathlessly laughed, simultaneously amused and tired. I slowed down and he kept running.

From a distance, I saw him turn the corner and cross the finish line. No one heard me, but I cheered for him the entire way.