Four Miles, One City
Wings in motion. Feathers keeping time.
Making Strides — Central Park, October 19, 2025
Photographs and text by Just Gonz
I arrive before the drums, when the Naumburg Bandshell is still a soft shell holding its breath. The air has that early‑October bite that wakes you up from the inside. Volunteers open tape, stack shirts, and make eye contact you can feel. A day like this is built by a thousand small yeses.
A tribute wall goes up—hands, ribbons, names. A knot is just a knot until it’s for your person. I watch someone press the ribbon flat and leave their hand there for a beat. That small pause says everything.
Teams find me. Families in bright hoodies. A hospital tee from Mount Sinai. A woman whose hair is the exact shade of hope. A singer throws a note into the trees and the morning warms around it. None of this is performative. It’s ordinary bravery, repeated until it becomes ritual.
“We are the future.” - Volunteers preparing the stage for the day’s presenters.
Then the symbol that always stops the road: wings. A survivor steps toward the railings, pink wings bright against the leaves. Later I fall in behind another pair and match their pace. Not costume—message.
The rolling start loosens the railings. The loop becomes a river. A cheering line lifts a chant that gathers walkers the way wind gathers leaves. Four miles here isn’t a race; it’s a practice—showing up again and again until showing up is the habit that holds you. (Event organizers list a rolling start between 8:00 and 10:30 a.m. from the Bandshell; the 4‑mile route circles back to where it began. This year’s NYC materials name Novartis as presenting sponsor.) Secret NYC
I carry a quiet reason for walking. On February 4, 2018, my fiancée—my wife in every way that mattered—Luba died of Stage 4B uterine sarcoma, three months from diagnosis to goodbye. I learned how loud a hospital hallway can be at 3 a.m., and how heavy love gets when you are the one lifting it. The Memorial Sloan Kettering staff loved her and also loved me, the caregiver flinching at every phone ring. When I walk and when I photograph mornings like this, I’m giving back to the hands that held us steady when the floor moved.
There is real news under the pink. Screening guidance changed: the U.S. Preventive Services Task Force now recommends mammograms every other year starting at age 40, through 74, for most women. Simple line, big shift. If mornings like this carry that message home, we shorten the distance between worry and a plan. USPSTF
And there’s the stubborn math. In 2025, the American Cancer Society estimates 316,950 new invasive breast‑cancer diagnoses in women (about 2,800 in men), 59,080 DCIS cases, and 42,680 deaths in the U.S. The numbers don’t live on a spreadsheet here; they walk past me on two feet. The ground is uneven, too—Black women are ~40% more likely to die of breast cancer than white women despite similar incidence, a gap driven by delayed diagnosis and unequal access to timely, high‑quality care. We can do better, together. American Cancer Society The ASCO Post.
Kemberly Richardson (Channel 7 Eyewitness News) interviews Stephen Cavanaugh (American Cancer Society)
Where does a morning like this land? In logistics that quietly save the day: free lodging at Hope Lodge NYC when home is too far from chemo, and free rides to treatment through Road To Recovery when a subway transfer becomes a cliff. That’s love in motion—someone at 6:30 a.m. pulling up so a stranger can keep their appointment. American Cancer Society+1
I also hold a gentle tension. Pink can be a bridge or a billboard. People are right to ask hard questions about pinkwashing. My way through is to keep the lens on outcomes, on hands tying ribbons, and on the next appointment card. The pictures refuse cynicism without denying complexity. bcaction.org+1
By late morning, the park resets. Dogs take the corners again; leaves keep working on their slow color. I carry out a bent safety pin, a bit of chalk on my cuff, and the echo of snares (48–49). Four miles isn’t a cure. It’s a promise we keep together—in memory of Luba, and for everyone who shouldn’t have to walk this road alone. If you need a place to start, the ACS helpline is 1‑800‑227‑2345; a person will pick up. American Cancer Society
Group of young volunteers injecting love and positive energy into the crowds of Making Strides marchers.