June 9, 1997

Dear Syracuse B-4,

I've been reading your blog for a year now, and I sure could use your advice!

I am a hamlet about five miles outside of the center of Syracuse. In my youth, I was a sight to behold, if I do say so myself. If you don't believe me, here's what was written about me at the time:

[The village] serves as a center for three classes of people. There are the real farmers, who stretch out into the country for miles. There are the Indians, who come to the village in droves for soda-water, and there are the city folks who have built expensive homes on the upper road and who live there the year round solely because they like the village...It is neither a real country village nor yet a city suburb, but it smacks a little of each." (The Syracuse Herald, September 1, 1918)

People were so eager to see me that Syracuse actually extended a trolley line to make me their final stop! Trains ran every half hour, and on summer days, every 15 minutes. (Post-Standard, May 11, 1902) And once the city residents had the opportunity, they came to visit in droves:

The grove at the Springs attracted great crowds yesterday, who partook of the cold spring water with eagerness. In fact the people could not get to the new resort fast enough, and it is believed that the number would have been augmented had there been the two switches in place at the terminus so that more cars could have been run. (Post-Standard, May 19, 1902)

You have to understand: by this time, I had been discovered. Everyone wanted a piece of me; the paper said I was a community "progressing by leaps and bounds" (Syracuse Herald, August 14, 1911). But before this, back when I was just the outsider to Onondaga Valley, I met a gentleman—let's call him "Hine." Hine became completely enamored with 20 acres of my farm land and decided to settle down with me! He built a red brick Italianate home right along South Salina Street. After he passed, his children stayed in the house and were of such great assistance to me (and Syracuse): for example, after the Syracuse Common Council refused to give the Syracuse Amateur Hockey Club (composed mainly of WWII veterans) a place for skating in the city, Hine's son—who then worked as Town of Onondaga supervisor—turned some of my land into a skating rink, and opened it up to all the kids in the area as well (Post-Standard, Nov 29, 1947)! I don't recall them making any fuss when their new neighbors, McDonald's, moved in next door in early 70s. Or Kmart or Fay's in their backyard shortly thereafter. Even when I started to age and lose my luster, Hine House just stood there faithfully, a reminder of my glory days.

But as much as Hine looked the same, I did not age gracefully. Buses replaced the trolley line in June 1940, six months before the final end of all trolleys in Syracuse (Syracuse Herald-American, June 30, 1940). P&C had split by the early '90s; Kmart left in 1995. My longtime neighborhood drugstore—let's call him "Ned," sweet, quirky Ned—abandoned me in 1995 as well. But there was Hine House, looking every bit the same as it did in 1847. Hine and his pals "Hutchinson" and "Gridley" would actually throw open their doors every so often for historic home tours. Not so much historic town tours, as apparently Hine was one of the few connections left to my past. Granted, I may have let myself go over 100 years, but did I rip up the trolley tracks? Did I build the suburban shopping malls? Did I create the exurbs that replaced my longtime reputation as the last stop on the line?

Needless to say, I was feeling rather low and vulnerable when a new suitor—let's call him "Aldi"—came to town a dozen years ago. He was nothing like Hine—no charm, no character— just a concrete box selling discount groceries. But I heard through the grapevine rather quickly that he was interested in me. Usually his type goes for the younger ones—Cicero, Clay—the ones that have taken away so much from my existence. But this time, there he was, asking about me! Wanting me!

He had his conditions, though: lose Hine. Knock him down, pave him over, forget he ever existed.

An 1847 landmark...would have to be demolished under a proposal made by Aldi Inc., the no-frills supermarket chain.

The company's plans surfaced during the past week as Aldi began seeking permits from the town of Onondaga...to build the store. (Syracuse Herald-Journal, June 9, 1997)

Now, Hine wasn't a threat, of course. Aldi could have moved in the old Green Hills Plaza, where Kmart and Fay's sat vacant, or Ned's old place, or the empty P&C. I mean, I had so much other space available for Aldi, but he only wanted the one place where Hine had always occupied:

The ideal location, [Louis] Kibling [director of real estate for Aldi] said, was between Route 173 and Green Hills Plaza. The Hine site is beyond that, but only by a little.

Kibling added that he did not choose a site with the idea of causing a major uproar.

"If it is (not wanted)," he said, "we'll take our money and go where people want us." (Post-Standard, July 24, 1997)

So he wasn't Mr. Right, but he was obviously Mr. Right Now, and I needed him:

"I've been thinking about this for weeks," [Onondaga Town Councilor Suzanne] Belle said. "The area certainly needs a shot in the arm, certainly needs revitalizing. Perhaps this can be the start."

Town Supervisor Thomas Andino said he was aware the community was concerned about traffic and the house, but added, "I'm looking at the property down there, and it appears this property will not alter the character of the neighborhood."

Councilor Charles Petrie agreed, saying, "I don't see any options."

Councilor Donald Hamilton said, "It would help the tax base of the town of Onondaga."

He added that he visited an Aldi store in Cortland and found it to be clean and inexpensive.

"On the day I was there, they had 10 loaves of bread for $1. I was amazed," Hamilton said. (Syracuse Herald-Journal, Sept. 16, 1997)

So, yes: 150 years of history with Hine and I traded him for an amazing 10-cent loaf of bread.

I tried to save him. I thought maybe we could move him to one of the spots Aldi had deemed unacceptable—I mean, Hine wouldn't care, being as he was all about the house, anyway. Aldi said that would be fine, as long as I paid for it:

[Louis Kibling] said Aldi would allow a community group to take possession of the Hine house and move it, if the group provided proof it could pay the cost of moving it. Kibling said he would accept proposals for 30 days. (Syracuse Herald-Journal, Sept. 1, 1997)

Outraged residents who knew of our long relationship tried to save Hine, claiming he was, of course, historic. Before the Aldi plans were approved, the Town of Onondaga Planning Board was required to respond to an environmental impact statement which asked, "Will construction affect any site of historic interest?"

Board members unanimously approved a document that concluded the proposed Aldi Inc. supermarket...would not have a negative environmental impact.

On the advice of planning board chairman Marc Malfitano, board members answered "no" but added, "The home on the site is of interest to the community but of no historic significance." (Post-Standard, July 24, 1997)

Now, Mr. Malfitano may have had an interesting interpretation of homes with "historic significance," as one month after making this statement, his own home dating back to the late eighties—the late nineteen-eighties—was included on the Onondaga Historic House Tour (Syracuse Herald-Journal, August 21, 1997). But board members also consulted with Town Historian L. Jane Tracy, who later said "of course, it's of historic interest and it is on Onondaga County list and the town's list of historic buildings. But, we can't find any reason to say it would even be eligible for the state registry." (Post-Standard July 24, 1997) Of course, maybe they could have found a reason if they actually contacted the appropriate office for such designations, as a concerned citizen finally did:

Kathy Madigan of Ruhamah Avenue wrote to the New York State Office of Parks, Recreation and Historic Preservation.

Mark Peckham, a program analyst, wrote back, saying "Based on our review of these materials, the 1847 house and its dependencies appear to be eligible for listing on the state and national registers of historic places."(Syracuse Herald-Journal, August 28, 1997)

The Office said "the two-story brick house is significant because it is an example of a traditional mid-19th-century farmhouse, detailed in the Italian village style with gabled roofs and an arcade front porch." (Post-Standard, September 19, 1997). But the Planning Board had already heard what they wanted to hear a month earlier, and Planning Board Attorney Kevin Gilligan stated "the letter does not change the board's decision about its historic status but is something to consider." (Syracuse Herald-Journal, August 28, 1997)

Hine may have been nothing more than a Gothic Revival, but what about the land beneath? The environmental impact question asked if construction would affect any site of historical interest:

The archaeologist who is president of the Preservation Association of Central New York told the Aldi Corporation something it didn't want to hear Thursday.

The old farm where it wants to build a new store...is part of a documented village of the Onondaga Nation and may have to be surveyed before the project goes forward...

[This] discovery prompted Onondaga Nation Chief Paul Waterman, whom [Preservation Association of CNY representative and chairman of the anthropology department at Syracuse University Douglas] Armstrong had contacted, to meet with Armstrong and [area] residents.

"I'd like to do all I can to help you," Waterman said. "It's part of our culture there." (Syracuse Herald-Journal, November 14, 1997)

How could it be that Onondaga Town Board forgot about the Onondagas, and that I lived next door to the present-day Onondaga Indian Reservation? Town code enforcement officer Ron Ryan stated "We had no documentation on the Onondaga village." (Syracuse Herald-Journal, November 14, 1997) Did they need the Aldi's built to sell them a map?

Well, you couldn't really expect a store that "specializes in canned produce, snacks, paper products and frozen foods" (Syracuse Herald-Journal, June 9, 1997) to care much about culture: by November 23, 1997, within a span of ten days, every last trace of Hine—the home, smokehouse, icehouse and barn that stood respectfully on a former Onondaga Indian Settlement for over a century—was gone.

So now I've been with Aldi for 12 years, and I guess he's okay. He sells discount groceries to shoppers, which is more than Hine ever did. What did Hine do, anyway? Remind people of a past that is long gone? I mean, that just makes people feel bad, right?

But my problem is that nothing has changed. Truth be told, giving in to Aldi just gave me a reputation of being somewhat cheap, as three months later my Town Board approved construction of a Save-A-Lot in the old Fay's location, and one year later, a Family Dollar store into the old Kmart space, with Town Supervisor proclaiming Charles Andino proclaiming "That's great...it means more economic growth for the Nedrow area." (Post-Standard, November 26, 1998). And then came a Dollar General in the former P&C! Yet, there is no economic growth, no shot in the arm. What exactly did I think Aldi was going to do for me? Bring more big box stores? Dueling drugstores? My true heyday was when I was a summer picnic area: empty wilderness people came from city on trolley to enjoy. Now I'm empty for entirely different reasons, and shunned for it. And all the while, my one link between past and present is gone.

What should I do now?

Signed,
End Of The Line



Dear End of the Line,

Perhaps if you were going to pin your future hopes on loaves of bread, you should have held out for a bakery. They are cute, comfortable, and the extra care and expense that goes into the product is what makes them cornerstones of a community. Why buy into a town where you can get the bread for nearly free?

That said, you are still a hamlet with much to offer: affordable houses, park, a main thoroughfare leading straight to downtown, a grocery store within walking distance (on sidewalks!) that's local and independent to boot. Do you know how much some people—say, those living in metropolitan areas along the East Coast—would have to pay to get all these amenities? About as much as downtown Syracuse is charging for their renovated condos!

Both you and downtown Syracuse want to bring the magic back: the youthful vitality that you once had, when there could be a "record-breaking day for the street railroads of Syracuse. From 10,000 to 15,000 people rode on the cars of the three roads, beginning in the morning and continuing through with heavy traffic until late at night" (Post-Standard, May 19, 1902) Downtown Syracuse thinks that the way to achieve this is to attract a bunch of young, hip, and apparently, wealthy folks to buy condos with historic exteriors and rather generic-looking interiors, and use the extra cash they have left over after the $365,000+ purchase (or $1,450/month to $1,600/month rent) to eat, drink and shop downtown as well. And if they can't find the retail business they are looking for downtown, well, they should scrape together a few more bucks and hours of their time and open it themselves.

You want change? Well, so do millions of those young people that you are desperately trying to recruit. They don't want the same apartment living: shared walls, less privacy, rules and restrictions. This is not to say they want a circa-2007 McMansion in the exurbs, either. This is where you come in. Though you were once considered the end of the line, you are now an inner-ring suburb, with a fairly urban experience. You are walkable, you have both green space and areas for commercial growth. You have economical houses—circa 1920s-1950s—with yards for dogs and barbecues, not how-TruGreen-is-your-lawn competitions. Enough young people move into your town, and you become the reason for a new trolley or light rail system. Just think: your condo friends can take it out to your home for a breather after single-handedly saving downtown.

Let me leave you with a little story. Once upon a time, there was a girl—let's call her "Syracuse B-4"—who lived not too far from you. She rode a bus from her house every morning to you, and your elementary school. It was there that she first learned about local history: the Onondagas, the early settlers of Syracuse, a tale about how you got your name. Now she rode through the capital of the Iroquois confederacy every morning on the bus, and she fed the ducks at Webster Pond countless times, but the naming tale seemed a little contrived. Yet when she sat down to write this response to you, the girl came across the very account she had been told, time and time again, in a 1918 Syracuse Herald article written mere months after you had received your official name:

But to get back to the name of the village, ask George Ash how Rockwell Springs came to be Nedrow.

"You see we got a postoffice here (George, by the way, is also postmaster) and there were so many Rockwell Springs around the country that the Post office department wouldn't let us have that name. So we sent down the name of Worden, after the man that one owned all this tract of land hereabouts. But there was too many Wordens in the book, and they told us we would have to get another one or go without the post office. So we just spelled the name Worden backwards and see what you get? That's it, Nedrow. And a mighty pretty name, too. It may not mean anything to outsiders, but we know what it means in the town, all right." (The Syracuse Herald, September 1, 1918)

What it means is this: the first time, you aimed for historical significance. When that failed, you just went with a simple, yet unique, alternative. Ninety-one years later, here you are Nedrow. Ready for your second chance, again.

April 22, 1972/May 14, 1982

"I remember realizing that he was thinking in terms of the view of the river, the view that the motorist would have—he was thinking in terms of the motoring public, of automobiles," [William] Exton says. "Well, a motorist spends a few seconds at a spot and maybe he can't even look at it; maybe he has to be looking at the car ahead of him. But the pedestrian spends a long time at a spot. He can sit down and look at it. So it's the pedestrian we should be thinking of." - from The Power Broker, regarding Robert Moses' decision to construct the Henry Hudson Parkway through Inwood Hill Park and Spuyten Duyvil in Riverdale, despite less destructive alternatives

For every marathoner, there is a moment that makes running 26.2 miles worth it. For most, that moment is probably the finish line. For me, it is the highway run. In the several half- and full-marathons I've raced, there has always been a part of the course that is run on a temporarily closed-off highway. If it comes early in the race, the scene looks like nothing short of a pedestrian revolution—a pack of thousands of runners taking over the streets. If it comes at the end— and you are a back of the packer, like myself—the feeling is something much more post-apocalyptic: solitary, slightly dazed runners making their way across abandoned interstate overpasses. Either way, as a car-free person for 17 years, I realize at that moment that I had to pay a $75 entry fee, train six days a week for 18 weeks and commit to completing 26.2 miles on foot to see the same sight that millions of drivers see from the comfort of their car every day.


I've lived in four cities since my childhood in Syracuse, and in every one, I only know the landscape from a street-level view. Which is to say, while the actual area I am familiar with in these cities is usually limited in scope, I know every last detail of the homes and building—sight, smell and sound included—because I've walked them all on foot. Quite the opposite is true for Syracuse: while I can drive 81 and point out the hospital where I was born, I have never walked Adams Street or Irving Ave. All my years at Fairmount Fair and I've not a clue about the surrounding neighborhood other than the street signs and homes I've seen from the car window. In the context of Syracuse, this isn't particularly shocking—it's not so much a question of where would I go on foot, but why? Given that everyone needs a car in Syracuse to get from their home to any destination, only the brave would attempt to "explore" around any given location:

Beggars, if any, as well as horse drawn vehicles, baby carriages, bicycles, Henrys, push carts and foot passengers, must now not only stand aside on the main highway, but must thereafter advance cautiously, with one eye in the back of head to see what is approaching from behind. The main highway, interesting as it is for those who sit beside it, as Will O the Mill did in Stevenson's great story, provides poor picking for foot passengers (Syracuse Herald, September 5, 1920)

Of course, the situation becomes a little more disconcerting when the reality is that I've never even walked the roads in my own backyard:

We who go afoot have been crowded off into the back roads, but that is not a real privation, for the explorer of back roads finds plenty of adventure and reward...Onondaga Hill, not the highest, but the most interesting elevation in this part of God's green earth, is covered with back roads...Here's the information...about a few walks across and upon Onondaga Hill...

Go by Auburn trolley to Olney's, 2 3/4 miles south to Wellington's Corners on the old Genesee road, now called the Seneca turnpike. Turn towards Onondaga Valley for half a mile, then take the road south through Cedar Vale, one of the loveliest glens in Onondaga. At foot of the glen turn left and follow Pumpkin Hollow road to Marcellus, a walk full of interest every step of the way...If 13 miles is better than 7 1/2, turn to the left instead of the right at the foot of Cedar Vale and return by way of South Onondaga, Budlong's Corners and the Indian village to Rockwell Springs. The Hog's Back hill is within reach of South Onondaga, and Hitchings' orchards are only a mile from Budlong's Corner." (Syracuse Herald, September 5, 1920 and September 12, 1920)

Growing up, the roads described above—the roads of my neighborhood—might as well have been considered tributaries to Killer Creek: stand too close to the edge, and risk getting sucked into the wake of a speeding automobile. Nature meant scenery, a pretty backdrop for home and car windows. For this reason, I am grateful that of the many suburban/rural areas of Syracuse, I grew up in the one that is—as commented above—the most interesting elevation in this part of God's green earth. I mean, if the only time you can ever leave the perimeter of your property involves getting into an enclosed vehicle, you might as well have a nice, sweeping view.

And yet, it was only when more houses were built on the back roads off Seneca Turnpike that I got an opportunity to walk unencumbered along them. Although Syracuse now refers to any new building as green because it has choose-your-own-flush toilets, back in the '70s, similar developments were viewed as a threat to the very low-tech green innovations Syracuse already had to offer:

"The natural beauty of Onondaga County is in danger of being destroyed by real estate development, commercial enterprise and paved highways. Will you help us promote the preservation of a 'necklace of green' in the county?"

This plea, sent out by Onondaga Audubon Society member Karen Slotnick in 1972 to school children throughout Syracuse, served as the initial launch for the Walk to Save the County, a fundraiser designed to "raise funds for the purchase of lands to keep areas of the county forever green and a natural haven for bird and animal wildlife...[to create] a 'necklace of green' to serve as a buffer against air and water pollution and to preserve and protect the natural habitat." (Syracuse Herald-American, April 27, 1980). The first year, students were asked to walk one of four routes "12 to 15 miles long" (Syracuse Herald-Journal, April 22, 1972), with secured pledges from sponsors who promised to pay at least 25 cents per mile completed. Participants were also given bags for litter pickup along the way. The event would be held rain or shine, and on Earth Day, 1972, despite a "cold pouring rain that at times was mixed with hail and snow," (Syracuse Herald-Journal, March 1, 1973), over 3,000 school children and their parents showed up at one of the four starting points: Van Buren Elementary School in Baldwinsville, Jamesville Elementary School, the Bear Road Elementary School in North Syracuse and Marcellus High School. The large majority—2,000 of the 3,000 total—walked the Marcellus route. The following year, the walk was moved to a new date in hopes of better weather, and over 5,000 walkers turned out on a sunny day in early May. Once again, the greatest number of walkers showed up on the Cedarvale/South Onondaga route, the new route for Southern Onondaga County schools. Throughout the '70s and early '80s, the walks were an annual success; by the mid-80s, the walks had raised over half-million dollars, and 630 acres of land had been bought and preserved for public use, including Baltimore Woods in Marcellus, Beaver Forest Wetland in Cicero, Old Fly Marsh in Pompey and Carpenter's Pond in Fabius. (Post-Standard, May 2, 1986). Though there are plenty of cause-related 3Ks and 5Ks these days (which led to the decline and eventual end of the Walks in 1997), there is something remarkable about several thousand students giving up their entire Sunday afternoon to walk ten miles to raise money for the rather abstract idea of "saving the county." Maybe it was the sense of competition: the Golden Boot trophy was awarded to the school with the greatest percentage of student participation (my district, Onondaga Central, won the award for several years; in 1975, for example, one-third of the student population walked (Syracuse Herald-Journal, July 8, 1975)). Or maybe it was because for the first time, kids—with "crossing guards, uniformed policemen, adult supervision, trained first-aid personnel and medics" (Syracuse Herald-Journal, April 17, 1972) as protection from passing traffic—could explore the very roads they had lived on all their lives. Maybe it's as simple as Karen Slotnick wrote in a letter to the editor to Herald-Journal on August 18, 1980: "We do not delude ourselves that all students know, or even care, why they are walking. Some just have a wonderful time."

Or maybe it was the Slotnicks themselves:

"When you go into your first marathon it seems like it's an unattainable goal to run 26 miles," Slotnick reminisced. "But when you complete it — well, there's no feeling that can duplicate what you feel after running a marathon...There is a great deal of exhilaration, a feeling of euphoria. Something happens to you psychologically and emotionally after running that far. I realized it at that finish line in 1971, and I knew there was no turning back." (Post-Standard, December 14, 1978)

At the same time Karen Slotnick was organizing the Walk to Save the County, her husband Mel Slotnick—lawyer and son of the founder of Slotnick Enterprises (owner of Carrols Restaurants and several movie theaters, including Lakeshore Drive-In and Cinema North)—played a vital role in drawing attention to Syracuse as a potential running mecca.

In 1970, Syracuse hosted the first annual Salt City Marathon. While the marathon only drew 40 entrants, most notable was that it was one of the few marathons in the world at the time that welcomed women participants—a year earlier than the Boston and New York Marathons opened their fields to women. (In fact, the amateur rules at the time prevented women from running for more than a mile and a half in competitive races.) Syracuse had reason to be progressive: Syracuse University student Kathy Switzer had been the first official woman runner at the Boston Marathon three years earlier, having entered the race under the name "K.V. Switzer." Though Boston attempted to literally pull her from the race, Syracuse welcomed her with open arms, and she was the sole female runner in 1970. The race—run along a loop route from Liverpool to Baldwinsville and back again—took on new sponsorship the following year (First Trust and Deposit Company, now Key Bank), and the number of entrants more than doubled to ninety-six. After this race was termed "an artistic success by competitors and officials," the North Area YMCA, coordinator of the marathon, and Mel Slotnick, YMCA volunteer, "made [plans] immediately to bring a world-class event to Syracuse" the following year, extending an invitation to the National Amateur Athletic Union to hold their 1972 Marathon Championship in Syracuse (the winner of which would gain a spot in the Olympic Marathon Trials)(Post-Standard, May 10, 1971). Not only were they successful in this campaign, but the Championship race also turned out to be the first in which the NAAU recognized women as competitors, drawing even greater attention to the race and Syracuse. The marathon registered 200 runners (including four women)—another 100 percent increase in participation.

Throughout the 1970s, the marathon continued, although with various changes in sponsorship (most comically, the 1978 and 1979 Burger King Marathon—though this may have also been a Slotnick connection). Entrant totals increased, with a few notable runners toeing the line: Kathy Switzer (who ran the race several times), Pete Pfitzinger (ran the course as part of the National Sports Festival) and former Syracuse City School Superintendent Lionel "Skip" Meno, who ran the inaugural race. Other races and promotional events were held in tandem with the marathon: mini-marathons for county schoolchildren, 1 and 5 mile runs, 10K road races, a 30K and 50K cycling competition. In 1981, the course hosted three separate marathons during the course of the summer: the newly-sponsored Milk Run, Empire State Games and National Sports Festival. Once again, Syracuse was on record pace to becoming the "national amateur sports capital."

And then they hit the wall.

In 1980, the American Dairy Association and Dairy Council assumed sole sponsorship of the Syracuse spring marathon (the North Area YMCA was a co-sponsor with varying corporate sponsors from 1971-1977). Based on the successful 1981 season, Dr. Donald Maron, a local podiatrist who had served as one of three selected podiatrists for the 1980 Olympic Marathon Trials, suggested to Race Director and Dairy Association employee Christine Hubbard to submit an application to The Athletic Congress (an outgrowth of the Amateur Athletic Union and then- governing body for the sport of track and field) to bid for the TAC National Championship. Just like a decade earlier, Syracuse was chosen to play host, selected over cities such as Cleveland and Ottawa that also ran marathons at the same time (and still do). Unlike 1972, the sport had undergone many political and financial changes. Although runners did have corporate sponsors, much of their income came from prize monies or appearance fees. The top runners of 1982, such as Alberto Salazar and Bill Rogers, had nothing to gain from running a championship race where the prize was the mere honor of winning (and a "trip to the Catskills," the prize for the top four male and female finishers); at the time, Salazar had just won the Boston Marathon a month earlier, and was world-record holder for the fastest marathon time (run six months earlier at the New York Marathon). Without the appearance of these runners, the championship was just that in name only, and would not draw any national attention to Syracuse.

From the beginning, Hubbard insisted she would not pay big name runners to enter.

"My main concern is for the average runner—they're happy to break 3:30—not for the person who can run 2:15," Hubbard said. "This marathon is really for the average runner." (Post-Standard, May 14, 1982)

It's true that Hubbard had a very prescient point—recent commentaries have called into question the necessity of appearance fees for elite marathoners, as there is not necessarily more money to be made by doing so, and the increased popularity of marathons for various other criteria reduces or eliminates the need for elite marathoners for publicity. However, at the time, Hubbard had placed a bid for a national championship, and then publicly championed runners who could barely run three and half hour marathons. Needless to say, Maron, who pushed for the bid, voiced his anger:

"We couldn't have gotten a Salazar, I know that," said Maron, "but we could have gotten world-class in here...she had nothing (advertised) in Boston. She had nothing in Buffalo. All of it is an embarrassment to a lot of people, even the city of Syracuse. She made this thing into a nothing." (Post-Standard, May 14, 1982)

Hubbard's response:

"I'm going to do what I always do, which is run a good race. I'm providing the arena for a championship event, but I don't feel it's up to me to go out and recruit the runners." (Post-Standard, May 14, 1982)

Both then and now, it actually would be the job of the race director—Hubbard's title—to recruit the runners, even those of average status. A race director would have difficulty gaining corporate sponsors—Hubbard's other title—if the runners weren't there to make sponsorship worthwhile. And yet, Hubbard was both race director and corporate sponsor, which meant that as soon as corporate sponsorship disappeared, so too would the race. So when Maron "promised..to bring the marathon championship back to Syracuse next year, preferably on a different date with a different sponsor...going to try and talk Budweiser into sponsoring it next year," it's not surprising to learn that after the results (won by 24-year old federal employee Joel Menges, in 2:32:37, approximately 24 minutes slower than Salazar's Boston Marathon time), there is no further mention of a Syracuse spring marathon in the newspapers.

As we know, notable races did not disappear entirely from Syracuse: the Mountain Goat Run, started during the late '70s running boom, continues to this day, as well as many local shorter distance races. The week following the May 16, 1982 marathon debacle saw the inaugural running of the Dynamis 15K, a road race held in Manlius that featured Dick Beardsley, one month after his second-place finish in the Boston Marathon, and winner Herb Lindsay, who was on pace to finish in American record time, until—in what only seems appropriate for car-centric Syracuse—a tanker truck allowed to travel along the race route forced Lindsay to stop and let the truck pass. In a complete twist from the Milk Run scenario, Dynamis was willing to spend $5000 for top runners (the reported appearance fee for Bill Rogers for the 1983 race)(Post-Standard, May 20, 1983), but Manlius fought holding the race in the town, citing concerns of "vandalism" by spectators (Post-Standard, April 29, 1982). The race reached national status as one of Runner magazine's "top competitive men's master races," but was discontinued in 1985, due to lack of funding.

In the 1970s, when the city looked arguably worse (there was a gaping hole in the ground, for goodness sake!), Syracuse celebrated the outdoors. Yet as the willingness to pay disappeared, so too did the opportunities. Not the payment of cash to elite athletes or neighborhood schoolkids for walks or races, but payment of time, risk and comfort to get a pedestrian (runner, cycling, etc. friendly) community. Just as school kids didn't walk 10 miles without giving up their Sunday afternoon, or marathoners didn't run 26.2 miles without giving up every day but their Sunday afternoon, Syracusans may have to give up some commuting time and take down the elevated 81 in order to get a thriving downtown. Runners risk injuries from minor muscle strains to major stress fractures just to cross the finish line; Syracusans may have to risk a bad hair day by walking in a shopping environment that is not climate-controlled. But maybe to get to that Syracuse of tomorrow, we have to hold a walkathon or marathon on the streets of downtown Syracuse—including the elevated stretch of 81—today. At the very least, it would guarantee an annual cleanup of the streets (after all, you can't expect thousands of cars to drive over discarded water cups the next day). Most importantly, it would allow people to fully experience the street-level views of Syracuse, both good and bad. To appreciate what works, and as for what does not—well, there would be 26.2 miles of running and walking to think of what could be.

May 6, 1979

Well, this infection certainly came out of nowhere, didn't it? Frightening that this one rarity has come to dominate the lives of previously unsuspecting millions, yourself included. Suddenly you're spending countless hours scouring the internet, finding out about its history, its movement, studying past behavior to predict its future. Calling toll-free hotlines late at night because the question of safety is at stake. Despite talk of pay freezes and furloughs at work, you don't think twice about spending money on every item that's associated with this worldwide fever. Yes, if there is one thing Adam Lambert has taught this country in the past few weeks, it is that obsessions are recession-proof.

This has certainly always been the case in the world of sports. Neither swine flu nor a troubled economy has kept Fenway Park from continuing to hold the major league record for consecutive sellouts (476 since May 15, 2003). 55,000 Patriots fans continue to wait for the opportunity to pay up to $169 per seat per game for season tickets. And in Downtown Syracuse, 800 runners showed up every Saturday this spring to train for the Mountain Goat Run, which drew almost 2000 runners to Clinton Square last Sunday. As a runner myself, I witnessed a similar phenomenon also this past Sunday in Providence, as 3300 runners (and hundreds more non-running relatives and friends) gathered in an otherwise sleepy Downtown Providence at 8 am for the 2nd annual Providence Rhode Races. If you build it, they will come, and perhaps nowhere is this more true than running. (Except for baseball stadiums, of course.)

Unfortunately, Syracuse has long been obsessed with a national pasttime that is about as tired as American Idol sans Adam: the enclosed shopping mall. You might say that I'm obsessed with the topic myself, being as I've touched on it many times before, but I can't help to contemplate why it is that 36 years after Syracuse leaders suggested building a glass roof over Salina Street as an improvement for Downtown, current Syracuse residents are still suggesting building a glass roof over Salina Street as an improvement for Downtown:

[suggestion for beautifying Downtown on the CNY Speaks Arts & Aesthetics agenda]
1) Enclose a portion of a downtown street with a roof similar to the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele in Milan or downtown Las Vegas.

And let's not forget, in 1979, when a Syracuse architect expressed his own unique vision for the revitalization of downtown:

"Picture it: You're in a two-level mall running the length of Salina Street. Sunshine streams in through a glass roof...This enclosure would cover Salina from Water Street to Fayette; Fayette to Jefferson; Jefferson to Onondaga and include the floor area across the street."

Yes, much like a snowglobe, where everything that's shaken up always settles exactly the same, Syracuse has long been obsessed with enclosing the city with glass.

In spring 1979, major retailers were abandoning Downtown Syracuse at a rapid pace. One year earlier, both Woolworth and Kmart announced their plans to leave downtown as soon as their leases were up. Witherell's closed their downtown store on January 31, 1979. In the May 6, 1979 edition of Empire Magazine, a supplement to the Syracuse Herald-American, architect David Ashley discussed his proposal to stop this retail hemorrhage : the Syracuse Regional Shopping Center.

"Walkways on the upper level are as wide as the sidewalk, with cross-overs at "street corners" and in the middle of blocks...Existing sidewalks on the lower level would remain but the street portion, about 50 feet wide, would be split into retail areas similar in size, but not in character, to the Center of Progress Building booths during State Fair week. Plans call for 50,000 square feet of such mini-mall space for hundreds of tenants, artists, craftsmen, food dealers, even shops selling insurance or snowmobiles, adding variety and interest. The upper deck would double the available street level store front area and would allow retail development in empty second floors, even third floors--which might also be turned into high-price apartments."

Sound familiar? No, not the mall and office complex downtown that promised to be "the focal point for the entire region, particularly because of the quality of its design...the design includes a large glass enclosed area "(Syracuse Herald-Journal, December 23, 1981), nor the DeWitt mall with "the glass, 26-foot cathedral ceilings will make you feel like you're walking through an open-air market" (Advertising Supplement to the Post-Standard, August 22, 1991). Ashley believed this downtown shopping center would "turn Syracuse into a major tourist attraction, luring visitors in unprecedented numbers," stating "'cities such as Toronto, Philadelphia, Salt Lake City and Boston have reversed a trend. The major downtown redevelopment projects there have been more successful than some of the suburban centers.'" One of the mall projects featured prominently in a sidebar in the article is Philadelphia's Gallery:

In Philadelphia, a long-range, $500 million project will transform five blocks of run down, century-old structures into a new shopping-office-hotel district.
The Gallery Shopping Complex is the first step in the plan, consisting of a four-level enclosed mall anchored by two large department stores, with landscaped courts and specialty shops. Since the Gallery, a $55 million project, opened, nearly 100 percent of its space has been rented.
"It certainly is bringing a lot of revenue into the city of Philadelphia," noted Frances Paciotti of the Greater Philadelphia Chamber of Commerce.
Paciotti is convinced downtown malls will become more and more popular in the future.

The Gallery was originally anchored by two downtown department stores (Strawbridge & Clothiers and Gimbels), which ultimately meant disaster for the mall:

I probably don't NEED to reiterate what so many have said here, but hell, it's fun, and I want to offer my take. This is about as bad as downtown Philly gets, which to me is actually saying quite a lot. As soon as you step foot into The Gallery, you instantly feel like you need a shower. It just has that imposing grimy feel to it that you can't quite place, but you know if you held one of those groovy UV lights up in it when it was all dark, you'd see the most disgusting proof of humanity's existence splashed all over everything.

Sure, there are stores like Old Navy, Burlington Coat Factory, and Kmart (see accompanying review for that turd as well), but you don't really want to go into any of them at The Gallery. All the versions of those stores at this weirdo excuse for a mall (really it seems more like the reality of some lousy urban planner's lunch that he vomited up one day) came straight from Hell. If you've ever seen the movie Jacob's Ladder, you'll instantly know what I mean. This place is just skeevy beyond belief.

The only reason I'm usually at this place is because one of the trains I take plops me off at Market East Station, which is featured in the very bowels of The Gallery. But it's actually the nicest thing there, because you know you'll be getting away from there soon when heading outbound.

While Philadelphia's Gallery currently has a large number of vacancies and considered a notorious hangout for teenagers, it does continue to serve one important purpose: Market East Station, a SEPTA regional rail station, opened at the mall in 1984. The station serves as a transfer point for several local trains, as well as NJ Transit buses. The Philadelphia Greyhound Bus Station is also located just north of the station. Similarly, architect Ashley envisioned the construction of an "ultra-modern transportation system" as critical to the success of the Syracuse Regional Shopping Center:

[Ashley] suggests a rapid transit bus center. This would service express buses from suburban "park and ride" lots, complete with small heated stations. It would be easily accessible and have an enclosed connection, via moving sidewalk, to the mall...In addition, existing rail lines on the west side of downtown could lead into a new rail transportation center, creating a regional rapid transit system with possibilities for future expansion...A suspended cable car system, similar to those at many ski areas, would start at the south end. It would go to the Syracuse University area with stops at the hospitals...('It would be a big asset for the domed stadium," Ashley said.)

Although David Ashley's Syracuse Regional Shopping Center vision never came to pass, it is interesting to note that Ashley is now the in-house Director of Environmental Design at Ashley McGraw Architects, and referred to as "godfather of green design" in Central New York. His firm highlights their experience in sustainable design, with one of their major projects being the new Syracuse Center of Excellence building. While I honestly don't know much about the Center of Excellence, I do understand that it is a centerpiece of Syracuse as the Emerald City. What I don't understand is why every discussion of the green initiative in Syracuse always mentions Carousel Center addition/Arendi/DestiNY USA.

"We have DestiNY, which is focused on building the largest green shopping mall in the country. Or the world?" Schumer said.

The senator peered out into the crowd seeking the answer, but got no help.

"Anyway, it's very big and very green," Schumer said to a round of laughter.

No new enclosed malls have opened in the country since 2006, but Syracuse is not only celebrating whatever is currently being built at Carousel Center, but then acting as if this is on the forefront of environmentalism as well. Even thirty years ago, Ashley realized "the mall with sophisticated public transit link-up will be more attractive as the energy crises forces motorists to cut back on auto travel." Nowhere on the current DestiNY green initiatives list do I see any mention of a link-up with railroad tracks or the Regional Transportation Center, although there are those 60 special green parking spots for those with enough disposable cash to buy a new hybrid car. And the 19,000,000 kWhs of electricity coming from renewable sources at the Carousel Center--apparently equivalent to taking more than 2,300 cars off the road for one year--which is especially significant, given that the vision of DestiNY USA is to be "a place some 130 million people can reach within a single day’s drive." (But perhaps some of the trash thrown from the cars from those millions of visitors onto Interstates 81 and 690 can be recycled into renewable energy!)

Why is it that a city that chose to pursue green technology because it identified environmental and energy systems as its strongest regional assets still wants to spend its leisure time under a glass roof? Is it the obsession, or have Syracusans been in enclosed malls for so long that they can no longer think outside the box?

COMING SOON: PART II
May 14, 1982
The Road Race Less Traveled