“By 6:00 A.M., I was ready to run. I crossed Beacon Street and over the footbridge, only two or three cars passing on the usually clogged Storrow Drive beneath me. I turned left and moved upriver. The banks of the Charles are eerie at dawn. The ghost of a full moon, looking embarrassed to be still visible, stares down upon homeless men and women. They sleep on hard slatted benches, wrapped cocoon-like in stained blankets against the damp air. Four or five push shopping carts full of cans and bot...tles, rummaging through trash barrels and abandoned paper bags to collect enough returnables for the day’s food or drink. Interspersed are the severely mentally disturbed, also without shelter following the wholesale release of the supposedly harmless ones from the Commonwealth’s institutions. They meander slowly and mutter, or march like storm troopers and shout, their strings of obscenities provoked by inner, private devils. Toss in fifteen or twenty fitness-conscious, fast-lane urbanites who sweat and swerve along the macadam running paths, wearing designer jogging outfits and “Have a nice day”MoreLessRead More Read Less
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