Uphill Battle

There is an extraordinarily steep hill in my neighborhood that I trek at least twice a day. The hill is 185th Street, west of St. Nicholas Avenue. At the bottom of the hill, burrowing deep into the guts of Washington Heights, is an A-train entrance, my transport of choice to work and downtown in general. My favorite grocery store, Key Foods, is also nearby.

Like many residents, I can often be found lumbering up the hill at 185th clutching grocery bags bloated with heavies—-a gallon of milk, a sack of cat litter, a six pack. Circulation compromised under the strain of plastic bags, my fingers ache, pudgy and purple. From the stiff crook of my elbow, precariously draped plastic sheaths of dry cleaning threaten to slip. My work bag thumps against my hip with each step. My thighs ache. My shoes slip.

I once told my mom that having a good day in Manhattan feels like you’ve conquered something huge; I very well may have been thinking of this hill when I said it. While I enjoy hiking in the mountains and my morning run has me racing daily up the slopes of Ft. Tyron park, there is something daunting about climbing a peak while burdened with the stuff of every day living. The task seems unwieldy and burdensome. However, each time I arrive breathless at the summit, I am rewarded for my efforts with a surge of gratitude and relief. In a city where a person is required to jump through a million impossible hoops every day, this hill is usually the day’s last obstacle keeping me from the warm snug of home. And I feel a small coin of happiness each time I overcome it.