I (of course) find the logistics of coordinating a marathon as fascinating as someone who’s capable of running in one.  Look at the precision:

Water distribution near Cleveland Circle

The supply list for each water station includes “Cardboard (23×36), 128 pieces” and I absolutely cannot figure out what they’d use that many pieces of cardboard for.  It also includes two shovels, six rakes, and 12 “Gatorade stirrers.”  And, inevitably, four rolls of duct tape.  You can’t do anything without duct tape.

The marathon brings out some local color in all parts of the region.  I caught this pair of bananas being chased by a gorilla toward the end of the race, for example:

Gorilla chasing bananas

But I’ve always been particularly intrigued by the women of Wellesley College.  They traditionally line the route alongside the College, screaming so loudly that their segment of the course is dubbed the “scream tunnel.”  They also offer kisses to the passing runners.

This pair of photographs comes from the Boston Globe:

Kiss a First Year

Kiss a Senior

Notice that “I’m a senior” and “I’m a first year” are both given as added incentives for stopping for a kiss.  Sophomores and juniors are, perhaps, less skilled kissers.  One sign this year read, “I Majored in Kissing.”  Another advertised (and here we step up a few notches on the “disturbing” scale), “I won’t tell your wife.”

It’s easy at first to see the creepy side of this tradition.  Middle-aged men essentially pause in the middle of a race to take advantage of the fact that they do not ordinarily get to kiss 18 year-old women.  And we know from OkTrends that they want to.

But that overlooks why spectators gather for this marathon in general: to encourage these runners who are testing the limits of their own endurance — sometimes beyond the breaking point. And it’s not just a poetic ideal.  Fans shout encouragement to each individual. Many runners write their names on their clothes just to hear thousands of people shout them along the way. Imagine at mile 22 feeling like you can’t possibly take another step only to have a complete stranger start jogging along side you and shouting with the crowd, “Let’s hear it for Sarah!  Come on, Sarah!  You’re almost there!  It’s all downhill now!” I’ve seen it happen.

Twenty-five thousand people run in the Boston Marathon.  Half a million people come to cheer them on.  Volunteers hand out cups of water and clear the streets with their rakes, shovels, and duct tape.  Locals put on absurd costumes to make everyone laugh. Bands perform in the street to make everyone dance. And at Wellesley, the students cheer on the athletes so emphatically that runners actually have to remember to pace themselves through the tunnel.

A couple years ago, Adidas (one of the event’s sponsors) ran ads that showed a bib number along with that runner’s “reason for running.”  One said simply “To hear the Wellesley scream.”  My absolute favorite read:

My muscles were screaming, but the fans were screaming louder.

And if that isn’t enough, you can even stop for a kiss.

With this ScoreCard we begin publishing the same performance metrics that we use internally to measure our progress towards meeting our service quality goals.

It’s 25 pages of mostly graphs, covering statistics on ridership, on-time performance, speed restrictions, dropped trips, maintenance, and safety.  Some of the data are woefully uninteresting.  Some are fascinating.

It’s not clear how often we’ll see updated ScoreCards.  The current document is dated “September 2009,” implying a monthly publication, but some of the graphs cover data dating as far back as January, 2004.  Even if this is the only ScoreCard we see, it’s a nice gesture.  Score one for Mr. Mitchell.

We’ll Need Both Horsepower

I noticed the New York Police Department has purchased some interesting law enforcement vehicles I hadn’t seen before:

NYPD Enforcer

In the words of Mystery Science Theater 3000 (in the episode Space Mutiny), “Put your helmet on!  We’ll be reaching speeds of three!”

Location, Location, Location

On my way up Fifth Avenue, I noticed a suspicious lack of overwhelming crowds in the 34th street area.  On a drizzly, foggy morning, I decided it might be the perfect time to see the top of the Empire State Building for the first time.  I walked straight in past the enormous rooms setup with stanchions to control the usual crowds, all completely empty, and went straight to the top.  Even in bad weather the view is fantastic.

Looking down, I couldn’t help noticing this advertisement pointed straight up at us:

Empire State Building Ad

Since the official website (under Frequently Asked Questions) reports that 3.8 million people visit the building every year, statistically a few were probably looking for an apartment.  On the other hand, about 90% of the people I heard up there were speaking French, suggesting they weren’t from the New York area, and thus were far less likely to be moving in.

Cupcakes!

The Buttercup Bake Shop is as fantastic as its pictures suggest.  No humorous anecdote; just good cupcakes.

The MBTA police, operating undercover, will watch people board at the rear doors, then show their badges and ask to scan everyone’s CharlieCards. Those with valid monthly passes quietly return to their books and newspapers.  Those with only stored-value cards (or no cards at all) get citations.

Although I haven’t seen any news reports on the subject, anecdotal reports from my coworkers and websites suggest the first citation is about $15.  For a second offense, the penalty jumps to $100 or $125.

I wholeheartedly approve!

I carry a valid pass, so I’m entitled to board any MBTA vehicle at any time.  I’ll happily prove that fact to an inspector whenever I’m asked.  Thus, let me board efficiently at any door.  Catching only a few people trying to exploit the leeway granted me and my fellow honest commuters can compensate for any lost fare revenue.

Then there’s this restriction:

Whoever sells, or distributes, or imports, or loans, or possesses with the intent to sell … a book, pamphlet, ballad, printed paper, phonographic record, print, picture, figure, image, or description which depicts or describes … patently offensive representations or descriptions of ultimate sexual acts, normal or perverted, actual or simulated … shall be subject to a fine of fifty ($50.00) dollars….

Then there’s this regulation for street-railway cars (emphasis mine):

No person having control of the speed of a street-railway car passing in a street shall fail to keep a vigilant watch for all teams, carriages, and persons, especially children, nor shall such person fail to strike a bell several times in quick succession on approaching any team, carriage, or person, and no person shall, after such striking of a bell, delay or hinder the passage of the car.

That’s a point to me: my city built its subway and streetcars before anybody dreamed of having automobiles… and it’s still there today.

Sorkin’s West Wing even wove it in:

Josh: Did you get me a flight?
Donna: Yes.
Josh: One that gets me there in time for dinner?
Donna: Yes.
Josh: And I don’t have to change planes in Atlanta?

Donna: No. Even better: you do have to change plans in Atlanta.
Josh: I told you…
Donna: You have to change planes in Atlanta. Deal with it.

(later)

Donna: You don’t know any special, secret flights to Palm Beach today, do you?
Sam: Yeah, but you gotta change planes in Atlanta.

The upside is that the flight from Atlanta to Boston offers a gorgeous view of New York City. At night in particular, it’s clear that Brooklyn has some very orderly-looking streets. Oh, and Manhattan looks pretty good too.

Mr. Smith, Mr. Charles Smith; Mr. Atkins, Mr. Derek Atkins; Mr. Sorkin, Mr. Aaron Sorkin – please dial zero on an airport courtesy telephone.

The familiar rhythm is oddly comforting.

Atlanta’s Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport also demonstrated a distinctive way of paging passengers during my layover there:

Charles Smith, please go to the nearest phone and dial 911 for a very important message.

I’m not sure how Charles Smith reacted, but I sure didn’t find it comforting.

1. A person sits on an airplane and reads Playboy magazine.
2. A person leaves behind their copy of Playboy magazine in the seat-back pocket for the next traveler to enjoy.

(Yes, there was really a copy on board.  No, the airline had not just generously provided it.)

Let’s start with an easy one.  Directional signs are prone to showing an arrow beside words like, “For (dot) service,” where the “dot” is actually a colored circle – to those who aren’t color blind, at least.  To those who are, it’s as descriptive as me writing “dot.”  Signs on, say, the Green Line in Boston are all colored a bright green, but then in black-on-white lettering underneath we see the words, “Green Line.”

I applaud wholeheartedly the words printed at the bottom of the Metrorail system map “Metro is Accessible.”  In Boston the system map carries footnotes like (I swear I’m not making this up), “State: Blue Line wheelchair access outbound side only.”  We absolutely should do everything we can to allow wheelchair users full access to our transit systems (and other places), but why do all the hard work to support wheelchairs and then blow it on color blindness by not adding some simple words to the signs?

What’s worse, station signs seem to be deliberately hidden.  They’re poorly lit, and almost impossible to see from inside the trains.  I ride the T every day and I’ve never had trouble navigating the New York City subway.  When I find myself sitting in a train thinking, “I wish I knew which stop this is,” something has gone wrong.

Compounding this problem, station announcements are still made manually, even on a system whose trains themselves can be operated by computers.  Even Boston’s Green Line, built (in part) in 1867, now features clear, enunciated, automated station announcements.  What keeps Washington from adding this technology?

Washington, you’ve lost my vote in the transit wars.  Sure, Boston could benefit from signs counting down the minutes until the next train’s arrival, but at least we know where our stations are.

First, a scene at the Lincoln Memorial: A girl sits on the massive steps holding a camera in either hand, with her friend holding a third in front of her face.  “What are you talking about?  I’m smiling in all of these!” she insists in a thick Brooklyn accent.

Second, a moment at the Air and Space Museum: a man asks someone else in his party, “What’s that?”  His companion answers, “I don’t know but it has something to do with Saturn.”  This occurs beneath the full-size engine bells from the Saturn S-1C – the first stage of the Saturn V rocket that carried Apollo the moon.

Third, a moment at the Air and Space Museum: a man says, “Hehehehehehehehe!” repeatedly the entire time he explores the Apollo to the Moon exhibit.  Wait, that wasn’t overheard; that was me (and I kept it mostly in my head).  Besides seeing Columbia itself in the main hall, they have the actual flight checklists from several flights, and all manner of other genuine artificats from the Apollo age.

Plus, in the International Spy Museum I got to crawl through an actual air duct and look down at unsuspecting museum visitors.  At the time I was focused on keeping quiet in my role as Peter Wozniak the spy, but in retrospect I should have said, “Come out to the coast!  We’ll get together, have a few laughs…”