When I arrive at Central Park to run, she’s my destination. There is something reassuring about having this routine, a designated beginning to my run. And it gets me in the habit of warming up, without which I would be in enormous pain. I use her for balance to stretch my quads, and I lunge against her to keep my calves from getting too tight. When I lean down to reach for my toes, she hides my ass from the masses of park patrons and tourists. I appreciate that she values modesty. Her branches give me enough shade so I can delay sweating for just a few more minutes, something that doesn’t go unnoticed (Thank you, dear tree). I never have to share her with anyone either.

My post-run stretching doesn’t always find me by my tree. Sometimes I take a different path or don’t loop around and I have to find another place to stretch. I’m a bit out of sorts, stumbling to find another sturdy tree to aid in my cool down. None have ever been as “just right” as mine.

With so many people in this city that I have to share everything else with, it’s nice to have a tree. If only she had a water fountain nearby. Then it’d be perfection.