It wasn’t a New York bird, black and greasy and fat off of restaurant waste and dropped hot dog buns. It looked more like a bird you would see out in the country, in the hills of New Hampshire or Vermont, with brown wings, soft-looking tan feathers on its belly, and a tiny patch of red right on top of its head. It seemed like a bird that would sing. It made me realize that pigeons don’t sing.

I only saw the dead bird for a second as I walked by, my heels clipping fast against the pavement. I didn’t stop because I wanted to get a cup of coffee before heading into the office. At the corner, I waited at a light and wondered how the bird had died. It looked so perfect I thought maybe it had just dropped, like a stone or a tear, out of the sky, but most likely it had flown into a window.

I thought about ducking into a store and asking for a shoebox. I could pick up the bird, using a tissue as a shroud, and put it inside—a cardboard casket. Then I could walk to the park and bury it at the base of a tree or under a leafy bush. I could use a stick to dig the hole, scraping and scratching into the earth until it was deep enough. I could leave something behind as a marker, an earring or a shiny silver coin.

I imaged going to work, my stockings shredded and my nails caked with dirt, and telling my boss that I was late because I had to conduct a bird funeral. But then the light changed, and I crossed the street.

At five am one morning this past August, I set out on a long run. I was going to go 18 miles, beginning at my apartment in Chelsea, heading south around the base of Manhattan, up along the East Side to Midtown, and then back again.

It was still dark out when I left, and New York felt cavernous, in the way that cities only do at dawn. I ran over to the Westside Highway and then down along the Hudson River. I was alone in the park, except for a few homeless men sleeping in the wet grass, and a couple of teenagers smoking cigarettes at the base of the Christopher St. Pier. The lights of New Jersey glittered across the water, and in the distance I could just barely make out the Statue of Liberty silhouetted against the fog.

I ran, hugging the river, past the trapeze school, the miniature golf course, and the looming financial buildings in TriBeCa. Battery Park was deserted; there were no pretzel carts, no women selling CDs out of suitcases, no lines of tourists waiting to go to Ellis Island. The only sign of the usual crowds were the bits of trash scattering around the sidewalk like mice in the wind.

I passed the Staten Island Ferry and headed north up the East Side. The sun was beginning to rise, pink on the horizon, and I was no longer alone. Dozens of old Chinese men were lined up along the East River, practicing Tai Chi and looking out towards Brooklyn.

I had been running for an hour by then, and had covered a distance of a little over six miles. I felt relaxed and strong, like I could keep on going forever, around and around Manhattan. Each lap would be completely different as the city slept and woke and rattled and hummed.

As I approached Fulton Street the scent of fish filled the air. It wasn’t a bed smell. Later, when the sun was high it would start to stink, but now, at dawn, it just smelled like water and salt and ice.

The men cheered when I ran through the market, dodging their cases of haddock and bass.

“Hey baby, why don’t you run over here?”

One let out a piercing wolf-whistle, “You’ve got beautiful legs darlin’, beautiful legs!”

I smiled and tossed my ponytail. Enjoyed the fishmongers’catcalls.

“Awww. Where you goin’ honey?”

“I’m training for the marathon!” I yelled over my shoulder. My lungs swelled with oxygen and pride.

At that moment, my left foot hit the pavement and I heard a splash. It was a thick, gurgling sound. As my heel rose I felt a suction-like resistance, and then a wave of something cold and wet splattering against the back of my calf. I looked down. My leg was completely covered in fish guts. Chunks of bloody flesh stuck to my skin, and bits of scales clung to the laces of my sneaker.

There was nothing to do except keep going. Only 12 more miles. That’s the thing about running, and about New York. In order to succeed, you have to learn how to roll with the punches. You’ve got to be able to take the fish guts along with the glory.