Certain matters of local pride in a community invariably become annoyances to particular members of that community. Twenty years ago we bought a delightful Victorian house in a not-untoward section of our city. However, one day a year it feels as if we might as well have set up housekeeping in the path of a locomotive. The occasion is a 15-kilometer footrace that wends its way through our bailiwick and which has, by some miracle of promotion, gained international renown. That race goes right by our house.
Each neighborhood is encouraged to make as much noise as possible to cheer on the runners. It has become a sort of contest in which the prize is the mere distinction of being the Noisiest. Our neighborhood always wins. We got into the spirit of it for maybe two years, after which it became a question of avoidance. The music starts playing on our street at about 6:30 a.m., and it’s not Brahms or Red Nichols. So, community pride notwithstanding, it becomes incumbent upon us to get out of town.
