Reporter's Note: I worked in New York a bit this week, while the president labored away in Washington.

Dear Mr. President,

Something funny happened while I was on a run in Central Park early this morning. I had worked my way from the south end almost all the way up to the north, passing dozens of other runners, cyclists, dog walkers, and the occasional roller blader, when I saw a young, portly guy staggering down from a little side path with a mountain bike. He was sweating like a man under indictment. “Excuse me,” he said, huffing and puffing. “How do I get out of this park?”
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