One morning last week, as I picked through the too-soft plums and under-ripe bananas in our fruit bowls at work, a colleague, who was also surveying the sub-standard fare, remarked, “I guess we’re not in California.” No, we are most certainly not in California. We are in the middle of an East Coast heat wave. New York is always a bit hot and sticky in the summer, but the weather over the last few days has been something altogether different. It is above 30 degrees Celsius when I wake up before 6 am, and it is above 30 when I go to bed at night. Today’s high is supposed to hit 38, and that’s before taking any humidity into account. I am trying very hard to leave my A/C off or set to no cooler than 76 degrees, lest I contribute to what might be an inevitable NYC blackout, but it’s tough being so kind to Mother Earth.
Miraculously, though, I’ve managed to cycle and/or run through every day of this heat wave. Zdenek and I rode over 30 miles on Saturday morning -- one for each degree, it seems. (On every other loop, I cut off a mile so that he could ride hard and we’d meet each other back at the start, which actually worked out pretty well for us.) On Sunday, despite having had very little sleep after attending a wedding the night prior, I rolled out of bed to run just over 7 miles in the searing heat. Yesterday I managed the same. Today, even though it was 32 degrees at 6:20 am, I actually opted for a third day of torturous running, after an email from Caitlin confirmed that she just couldn't stomach a ride with me in this weather.
Truthfully, though, I wouldn’t be doing it if I didn’t love it, and I know that every run or ride in adverse conditions just makes me that much stronger. So long as I go slowly and make friends with every water fountain along the way, I usually manage just fine (of course, the humidity hasn’t been above 70% in the morning -- yet -- so this helps considerably). Indeed, there’s something about keeping active in the heat that actually makes it seem that much more tolerable. In fact, yesterday afternoon, having retreated inside my air conditioned apartment for several hours following my morning run, I headed to the gym for my second workout of the day; sitting outside on the patio was far too uncomfortable, but I refused to allow the heat to win. The boiling temperatures are forecast to stick around the next several days, so I hope I don't lose my fighting spirit by week's end.
So while we may not be in California, I’m going to do my best to avoid letting a little heat keep me grounded in New York City. As the song goes, if I can make it here, I’ll make it anywhere. I am certain that applies to running, too.
Showing posts with label New York. Show all posts
Showing posts with label New York. Show all posts
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Thursday, June 3, 2010
A place to move
Once again, it’s been a while since I’ve had the motivation to post anything here. The fact is, apartment hunting seems to have sapped every last bit of energy from me (and sadly, it’s still not over). Any free time I might have between traipsing around the UWS looking at too-small, too-run-down apartments seems to be better spent outdoors on my patio than indoors on a laptop. Indeed, it won’t be much longer before I have to give up that treasured little piece of Manhattan real estate forever, and I’m already mourning the inevitable loss.
And frankly, my running and cycling have been sub-par of late. I’m still putting in the miles and getting out there six or seven times a week, but my paces have been slightly “off.” True, the 25oC+ weather and 75%+ humidity are not doing me any favors, but I’m used to demanding -- and usually getting -- so much more out of my body. When it comes right down to it, aside from my impromptu purchase of Lady Gaga tickets in the middle of my run last weekend (long story, but the most important point is that we now have tickets to the July 6 show at the Garden), there just hasn’t been much to say.
But yesterday, I slept in longer than usual and found myself running in the Park, sans Zdenek, at a slightly later hour. Despite it being my third consecutive day of running and fifth consecutive day of early morning action, I felt surprisingly decent. My stride seemed smooth, the warm weather didn’t feel too horrible under the shade of Central Park’s leafy canopies, and I easily fell into a groove. So much of a groove, in fact, that somewhere along the west side bridle path, I almost (literally) ran into Caitlin before I recognized her as the girl waving her arms in front of me and trying to get me to stop. At the last minute, I did, and she and I enjoyed an early morning catch-up session before heading off our separate ways (I ran through my several current apartment options with her, and, in typical Caitlin fashion, she formulated a logical evaluation on the spot). It was the perfect mid-run break, and it got me thinking that Caitlin and I should really schedule the occasional run together -- in the same direction, of course.
Today, I rolled out of bed as the sun was rising, tired and somewhat cranky from a very poor five or six hours of sleep. But Zdenek and I haven’t been on our bikes since Sunday, so we were long overdue for a spin. I wasn’t expecting much out of myself, and said to Zdenek as we were heading out the door, “If you want to cycle on your own, please feel free.” But I had spoken too soon because, once again, I surprised myself. We rode three laps today, each one faster than the last, and I managed a good portion of the ride without any assistance. In fact, for some of the time, I even lead the way. I returned home happy and satisfied, and so pleased that my cycling legs may have returned.
So while my pursuit of indoor space continues to frustrate, I can at least be thankful for the renewed sense of energy in my outdoor pursuits. Once again, I've realized that New York is best enjoyed when moving quickly. It is a very poor place, however, in which to move.
And frankly, my running and cycling have been sub-par of late. I’m still putting in the miles and getting out there six or seven times a week, but my paces have been slightly “off.” True, the 25oC+ weather and 75%+ humidity are not doing me any favors, but I’m used to demanding -- and usually getting -- so much more out of my body. When it comes right down to it, aside from my impromptu purchase of Lady Gaga tickets in the middle of my run last weekend (long story, but the most important point is that we now have tickets to the July 6 show at the Garden), there just hasn’t been much to say.
But yesterday, I slept in longer than usual and found myself running in the Park, sans Zdenek, at a slightly later hour. Despite it being my third consecutive day of running and fifth consecutive day of early morning action, I felt surprisingly decent. My stride seemed smooth, the warm weather didn’t feel too horrible under the shade of Central Park’s leafy canopies, and I easily fell into a groove. So much of a groove, in fact, that somewhere along the west side bridle path, I almost (literally) ran into Caitlin before I recognized her as the girl waving her arms in front of me and trying to get me to stop. At the last minute, I did, and she and I enjoyed an early morning catch-up session before heading off our separate ways (I ran through my several current apartment options with her, and, in typical Caitlin fashion, she formulated a logical evaluation on the spot). It was the perfect mid-run break, and it got me thinking that Caitlin and I should really schedule the occasional run together -- in the same direction, of course.
Today, I rolled out of bed as the sun was rising, tired and somewhat cranky from a very poor five or six hours of sleep. But Zdenek and I haven’t been on our bikes since Sunday, so we were long overdue for a spin. I wasn’t expecting much out of myself, and said to Zdenek as we were heading out the door, “If you want to cycle on your own, please feel free.” But I had spoken too soon because, once again, I surprised myself. We rode three laps today, each one faster than the last, and I managed a good portion of the ride without any assistance. In fact, for some of the time, I even lead the way. I returned home happy and satisfied, and so pleased that my cycling legs may have returned.
So while my pursuit of indoor space continues to frustrate, I can at least be thankful for the renewed sense of energy in my outdoor pursuits. Once again, I've realized that New York is best enjoyed when moving quickly. It is a very poor place, however, in which to move.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Victory laps
Recently I found a bed bug. On my bed. Because I have several good friends who have been devastated -- financially and emotionally -- by New York City bed bugs over the past couple of years, panic immediately ensued. Was our capture definitely a bed bug? How did it get in here? Was it just a single stowaway from a crowded subway ride home, or was it a sign of many more to come? And weren't the couple hundred dollars we spent last year on mattress and pillow and box spring covers (after our neighbour revealed that she had bed bugs) worth anything?
After confirming with the exterminator that this was indeed a bed bug (his email to me after seeing the photo: "Def bed bug"), we decided to hire a dog. This dog, who makes multiples of what I do on an hourly basis, was guaranteed to sniff our place out and pinpoint, with 95% accuracy, whether or not we actually had bed bugs living in our apartment (we had no signs of them otherwise). It seemed right to share the dog with our neighbours and have all apartments "inspected," since the dog can sniff rather quickly -- as dogs typically can -- and easily cover 10 units in less than one hour.
And so Zdenek and I posted a large notice in thick, black font to the front door of our building. ATTENTION RESIDENTS, it began, We have reason to suspect that we might have bed bugs... We invited our neighbours to sign-up, at no cost to them, if they wished to share the dog services. Now, if I were one of my neighbours, I would have gladly jumped at the chance to have a dog sniff for blood-sucking vampire bugs around my mattress. But I didn't know what to expect from my neighbours because, truth be told, we didn't really know many of them! There are 14 other tenants in our building and, until posting our note, Zdenek and I had met exactly four of them. Although announcing that we might have bed bugs didn't seem like an ideal way to introduce ourselves, it was the quintessentially New York way.
Happily, every single neighbor signed up for the bed bug inspection (using the pen that Zdenek ingeniously taped next to the note). A few days later, I raced home after work to meet the exterminator and bed bug dog, who, unlike the bug, was an adorable specimen (part beagle, part Jack Russell terrier). Soon it was time for her to earn her keep. She immediately passed the control experiment -- sniffing out the site where the exterminator, Jeff, had planted a vial of bed bugs (sealed with 75 micron mesh) under our couch cushion. Then came the real test, in which she had to make two nerve-wracking laps around our apartment to see whether she could sniff out any "wild" bugs.
I am delighted to report that the hound detected no interesting scents in our tiny abode. And as she then proceeded to make the laps around every other apartment in the building, I watched nervously from the corridors with Zdenek and my landlord. With each bug-free apartment, I felt a little more weight lift off my shoulders. And when our entire brownstone was finally declared bed bug-free, I actually did a little dance.
Since the inspection, I've slept much more soundly and have resumed focusing on the marathon that is less than two weeks away. I have only one more set of interval workouts tomorrow and then it's taper-time until May 2. It's been sixteen weeks to get this far, and I've run all of the required laps that are meant to get me to the start line well prepared. But when it comes right down to it, the most significant laps of the last few weeks were those made around my apartment on four legs.
After confirming with the exterminator that this was indeed a bed bug (his email to me after seeing the photo: "Def bed bug"), we decided to hire a dog. This dog, who makes multiples of what I do on an hourly basis, was guaranteed to sniff our place out and pinpoint, with 95% accuracy, whether or not we actually had bed bugs living in our apartment (we had no signs of them otherwise). It seemed right to share the dog with our neighbours and have all apartments "inspected," since the dog can sniff rather quickly -- as dogs typically can -- and easily cover 10 units in less than one hour.
And so Zdenek and I posted a large notice in thick, black font to the front door of our building. ATTENTION RESIDENTS, it began, We have reason to suspect that we might have bed bugs... We invited our neighbours to sign-up, at no cost to them, if they wished to share the dog services. Now, if I were one of my neighbours, I would have gladly jumped at the chance to have a dog sniff for blood-sucking vampire bugs around my mattress. But I didn't know what to expect from my neighbours because, truth be told, we didn't really know many of them! There are 14 other tenants in our building and, until posting our note, Zdenek and I had met exactly four of them. Although announcing that we might have bed bugs didn't seem like an ideal way to introduce ourselves, it was the quintessentially New York way.
Happily, every single neighbor signed up for the bed bug inspection (using the pen that Zdenek ingeniously taped next to the note). A few days later, I raced home after work to meet the exterminator and bed bug dog, who, unlike the bug, was an adorable specimen (part beagle, part Jack Russell terrier). Soon it was time for her to earn her keep. She immediately passed the control experiment -- sniffing out the site where the exterminator, Jeff, had planted a vial of bed bugs (sealed with 75 micron mesh) under our couch cushion. Then came the real test, in which she had to make two nerve-wracking laps around our apartment to see whether she could sniff out any "wild" bugs.
I am delighted to report that the hound detected no interesting scents in our tiny abode. And as she then proceeded to make the laps around every other apartment in the building, I watched nervously from the corridors with Zdenek and my landlord. With each bug-free apartment, I felt a little more weight lift off my shoulders. And when our entire brownstone was finally declared bed bug-free, I actually did a little dance.
Since the inspection, I've slept much more soundly and have resumed focusing on the marathon that is less than two weeks away. I have only one more set of interval workouts tomorrow and then it's taper-time until May 2. It's been sixteen weeks to get this far, and I've run all of the required laps that are meant to get me to the start line well prepared. But when it comes right down to it, the most significant laps of the last few weeks were those made around my apartment on four legs.
Friday, January 1, 2010
Lessons learned in 2010
It is never too early in the year to assess one's own situation and actions and to learn valuable lessons with which to move forward. 2010 is barely underway, and already I feel wiser for it. Here, then, are a few lessons for the New Year, some of which I learned the hard way:
- If you are going to do a run at midnight, be aware that whatever you may eat or drink in the five hours prior is sure to affect your ability and comfort on said run.
- It is best not to eat a three course meal, complete with a cup of guacamole per person, before a midnight run. It is also wise to avoid alcohol, and to cease drinking or eating several hours (i.e., not 60 minutes) before commencing running.
- If you must run at midnight, it is best to do it with friends who are not terribly serious about their running speed. This will make the run much more enjoyable.
- On any midnight run, it is advisable to bring along Dave, because he will dress inappropriately, get extremely drunk beforehand, pour gin and tonics (with a lemon twist -- no kidding) 15 seconds before the starting gun, run in some hilarious fashion with the group for a few minutes before disappearing, and then arrive at the finish line 45 minutes behind the rest of the group because he walked most of the course and drank an entire bottle of gin along the way.
- Central Park on New Year's Eve is a great place to run, because the fireworks are spectacular and there are many inebriated supportive spectators to cheer you on.
- It is advisable to charge your camera battery before heading out, because a dead battery may make it difficult to take many photos during the actual running portion of the evening.
- Fifty-one minutes (including the 5.5 minutes it took to actually cross the start line) for four miles is a great way to start the New Year, because it leaves lots of room for improvement during the rest of the year.
- Not every run will make you feel good (in fact, it may make you feel like throwing up), but those tend to be the most memorable. And when you are laughing so hard during a run that you can barely keep going, you know it was a very good idea indeed.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
A place to hang my shower cap
Recently I pondered what it would be like to hold a job in which I was required to be at work at 7 am and in which the typical week would consist of 60 to 70 hours at the office. Such routines are not at all unusual in New York; in fact, I am one of the lucky few to hold a Manhattan job that offers excellent work-life balance. A few weeks ago, though, I had an appointment that required me to be up at 6 am and on the M5 bus by 7 am, and I knew I wouldn't return home before 7 pm that evening. My day was spoken for before it even began.
As the bus rounded Columbus Circle and made its way along Central Park South, I caught a glimpse of several runners in the Park who were ticking off an early morning workout. Although I had been in the Park the day prior and knew I would be there again the next, I still felt a twinge of envy. Looking around the bus, it was apparent that at least three-quarters of my fellow riders were getting exercise of a different kind: strength training in the form of hauling files to and from the office; aerobic exercise in the form of furious BlackBerry typing; cross-training in the form of simultaneous cell phone text messaging. I couldn't help but think, Is the career and (assuming one is so lucky) the bonus worth it? Do these things compensate for the sardine-tin-sized apartments, the sticky subways, the crowds, and, for many, the need to work long hours (because if you don't want to, someone else is eager to take your place)?
Sometimes (frequently) Zdenek and I ponder these questions, typically during Sunday afternoon strolls along Central Park's bridle path, chai lattes in hand. While I don't have to put in hours at the office worthy of a banker or lawyer, there's some truth to Zdenek's lament that our New York lifestyles are barely one step up from our student days. Apparently, other people agree: an old friend who visited me a couple of years ago once commented that there is "no way" she could live "like this" (meaning, in my apartment). True, it would be nice to have a washing machine at home -- in ten years, I've had the luxury of a W/D (for the New York real estate crowd) for only one year, and that was in Toronto -- but Sunday evening laundromat trips provide an opportunity to fit in a weight lifting session at the gym around the corner while the wash cycle runs. Yes, it would sometimes be nice to have a car to escape the city, but then I think about the associated traffic, gas, and repair bills, and I suddenly don't miss it anymore. And I am the first to admit that our Upper West Side apartment leaves a bit to be desired:
Despite all of that, I rarely, if ever, find myself pining for a "real" house, a car, or the latest fashion accessory (or somewhere to store it). To me, these things offer only maintenance headaches and/or fleeting satisfaction. I think I learned long ago that, if I'm forced to choose, I am more about "experiences" than "things." (Zdenek almost had this figured out when, on our first Christmas as a married couple, he didn't buy me a gift but rather presented me with a book of coupons for monthly massages at "Spa Zdenek." I was thrilled! Unfortunately, every time I tried to redeem a coupon over the next twelve months, I found the spa to be closed or the masseur too tired. He's since gone back to taking me shopping.) I know that I will end up in a foul mood if I miss more than two days of running if it's due to no other reason than lack of time. I live half a mile from the greatest city playground in the world. I have a fantastic bike mechanic shop only two blocks from my front door, and an equally fantastic running store only one block further. I can walk to work. I spend next to no time commuting, which leaves me plenty of extra time for running, cycling, or sleeping. And a car ride has never once made me smile, but a bike ride is guaranteed to leave me grinning. (And to be honest, I laugh out loud every morning when the shower cap is put in place, and I remind myself daily that I am one of the luckiest people on earth, closet or no closet.)
Someday, I'll probably catch up with the Joneses and I will find myself driving my car into my garage and then walking into my house (and I'll be able to wear high heels doing it, too, because walking miles each day will be a distant memory). But I'm not certain it will make me any happier. Indeed, over the last ten years my disposable income has risen and I have been able to afford more "things," but I'd be hard pressed to tell you what they are or how they made me feel. I could, however, go on for hours about the feeling of pride I get from a good run or the sense of satisfaction I earn after a solid bike ride.
In fact, I could write a blog about it.
As the bus rounded Columbus Circle and made its way along Central Park South, I caught a glimpse of several runners in the Park who were ticking off an early morning workout. Although I had been in the Park the day prior and knew I would be there again the next, I still felt a twinge of envy. Looking around the bus, it was apparent that at least three-quarters of my fellow riders were getting exercise of a different kind: strength training in the form of hauling files to and from the office; aerobic exercise in the form of furious BlackBerry typing; cross-training in the form of simultaneous cell phone text messaging. I couldn't help but think, Is the career and (assuming one is so lucky) the bonus worth it? Do these things compensate for the sardine-tin-sized apartments, the sticky subways, the crowds, and, for many, the need to work long hours (because if you don't want to, someone else is eager to take your place)?
Sometimes (frequently) Zdenek and I ponder these questions, typically during Sunday afternoon strolls along Central Park's bridle path, chai lattes in hand. While I don't have to put in hours at the office worthy of a banker or lawyer, there's some truth to Zdenek's lament that our New York lifestyles are barely one step up from our student days. Apparently, other people agree: an old friend who visited me a couple of years ago once commented that there is "no way" she could live "like this" (meaning, in my apartment). True, it would be nice to have a washing machine at home -- in ten years, I've had the luxury of a W/D (for the New York real estate crowd) for only one year, and that was in Toronto -- but Sunday evening laundromat trips provide an opportunity to fit in a weight lifting session at the gym around the corner while the wash cycle runs. Yes, it would sometimes be nice to have a car to escape the city, but then I think about the associated traffic, gas, and repair bills, and I suddenly don't miss it anymore. And I am the first to admit that our Upper West Side apartment leaves a bit to be desired:
- I have no closet for my clothes and I actually have to dust off my blazers before I wear them;
- Our bedroom furniture is plastic (and marked up with packing tape to boot);
- I must discard old articles of clothing (or shoes or purses) before I have room to store new ones;
- Our "garage" consists of a set of golf clubs, a few tennis rackets, our bike helmets and other accessories, along with our bikes, and it's right next to our dining table (I would say "kitchen table" or "dining room table," but either would be an overstatement);
- The IKEA kitchen cart next to our front door holds everything from today's mail to cookbooks to umbrellas to pots and pans;
- Our bedroom boils every summer without a dedicated air conditioner (the room is actually too small for one to work effectively);
- Our living room freezes every winter as drafts rush in around that room's window A/C (we'd remove it for the winter, but then we'd have nowhere to put it);
- And every morning, Zdenek (I am too short) has to hang a green shower cap (it doesn't have to be green, but it happens to be) over our "hallway" (2'x1.5') smoke detector while we shower -- without the cap, the hot steam escaping from the bathroom will incessantly set off the alarm.
Despite all of that, I rarely, if ever, find myself pining for a "real" house, a car, or the latest fashion accessory (or somewhere to store it). To me, these things offer only maintenance headaches and/or fleeting satisfaction. I think I learned long ago that, if I'm forced to choose, I am more about "experiences" than "things." (Zdenek almost had this figured out when, on our first Christmas as a married couple, he didn't buy me a gift but rather presented me with a book of coupons for monthly massages at "Spa Zdenek." I was thrilled! Unfortunately, every time I tried to redeem a coupon over the next twelve months, I found the spa to be closed or the masseur too tired. He's since gone back to taking me shopping.) I know that I will end up in a foul mood if I miss more than two days of running if it's due to no other reason than lack of time. I live half a mile from the greatest city playground in the world. I have a fantastic bike mechanic shop only two blocks from my front door, and an equally fantastic running store only one block further. I can walk to work. I spend next to no time commuting, which leaves me plenty of extra time for running, cycling, or sleeping. And a car ride has never once made me smile, but a bike ride is guaranteed to leave me grinning. (And to be honest, I laugh out loud every morning when the shower cap is put in place, and I remind myself daily that I am one of the luckiest people on earth, closet or no closet.)
Someday, I'll probably catch up with the Joneses and I will find myself driving my car into my garage and then walking into my house (and I'll be able to wear high heels doing it, too, because walking miles each day will be a distant memory). But I'm not certain it will make me any happier. Indeed, over the last ten years my disposable income has risen and I have been able to afford more "things," but I'd be hard pressed to tell you what they are or how they made me feel. I could, however, go on for hours about the feeling of pride I get from a good run or the sense of satisfaction I earn after a solid bike ride.
In fact, I could write a blog about it.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
When in Rome
One stereotype that definitely holds true is that New Yorkers lack manners. Occasionally I see some story about an out-of-town visitor who had a heart attack in the middle of a Manhattan sidewalk and five New Yorkers rushed to his aid, and the visitor later gushes about how kind and generous New Yorkers really are, and how the stereotype of a rude New Yorker is simply unfounded. I agree that one can find polite, mannered residents here -- indeed, in a city so dense, there have to be a few good eggs among the rotten ones. But by and large, New Yorkers have a well deserved reputation for being too forward, pushy, inconsiderate, and rude (though I'm not sure I can blame them -- life here demands a certain level of aggression to get by).There is one place, though, in which being forward and pushy seems not to matter: on a bike. I am constantly amazed at what constitutes acceptable behavior so long as one is dressed in spandex and wearing a team jersey, and I'll admit that I am pleased to be a part of it all. Zdenek and I have had several rides this year during which we've latched on to fellow Central Park or highway 9W cyclists, riding close enough to catch both their slipstream and their conversation. I recall one particularly good return ride from Nyack on which I spent a solid 15 minutes riding 12 inches behind a team of five men, working my butt off to keep up but going immeasurably faster than I could have ever managed alone (eventually, I was dropped). On another morning ride in the Park, one fellow cyclist rode for almost 45 minutes on my wheel (while I was, in turn, riding Zdenek's), never uttering a word, but ever present behind me. Unlike runners, cyclists don't nod to, smile at, or make conversation with one another. But they have no shame in joining -- or rather milking off of -- your workout, uninvited. With cyclists, such actions are considered neither creepy nor aggressive, but par for the course.
Or so I thought, until this morning. Zdenek and I crawled out of bed at 6 am, planning for a run, but when we checked weather.com to find that it was a balmy 14 degrees Celsius out, we opted to cycle instead (could be the last one of the season!). I was pleased to find that I required neither leg warmers nor bulky gloves this morning, and for once I felt light and aerodynamic on my bike (and as it turned out, we rode our fastest laps of the entire year this morning!). About 10 minutes in to our ride, Zdenek and I found ourselves behind a very fit 30- or 40-something woman and her very fit 30- or 40-something male training partner. They were moving at my top speed, and it was immediately obvious to both Zdenek and me that we had, perhaps, found our ride.
Strangely, though, after only a few minutes, the male portion of this duo moved to the side so that Zdenek was, instead, following only the woman (and I was following Zdenek). Then, without warning, the guy began darting in and out in front of Zdenek, in what appeared to be deliberate attempts to cut us off. From my vantage point behind, I could sense what was going on ahead, and this guy's actions reminded me of some kind of mad, stinging insect trying to defend its nest. He was signaling for us to back off or, better yet, get lost. Our tailgating was clearly unacceptable behavior in his books.
Later in our ride, we caught and passed this guy again (he was riding solo at this point). Though I ended up barely 10 feet in front of him, he simply refused to ride my wheel, instead choosing to ride a few feet off to the side. It was bizarre. I would have felt more at ease if he had ridden (even in silence) directly behind me, and benefited from my hard work and, in turn, that of my husband. Paradoxically, this guy's apparent show of good manners on the bike came off as strangely aggressive and far too competitive for a morning ride in Central Park. His proper behavior seemed entirely out of place -- for a bike, or New York, or both.
I can only surmise that he was from out of town.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
A tiring day
Today was a perfect day for a marathon, whether one was running it or cheering it on!
After watching the start of the race from the comfort of our couch, Zdenek, Peter, and I zipped across town to 1st Avenue and 69th Street, where we arrived in time to see the elite women and men sprint past at 16 miles. One hot chocolate later, we were lined up at the 25 mile mark in Central Park -- the ideal place to see the eventual winners breaking from the rest of the pack. Then it was time to meet up with Caitlin to yell, clap, and pump our fists for two straight hours. Caitlin and I, screaming and cheering in all our blond glory, encouraged at least a few men to pick up the pace. (Peter opted to cheer for anyone wearing a "Timex" or "PowerBar" shirt, while Zdenek moved as far away as possible to save both his hearing and his dignity.) While I didn't get to run 26.2 today, I did receive several propositions to accompany a few men on their last mile and a half, one tossed Twix bar, and an acknowledging wink from a smiling Frenchman.
By 2 pm we were cold, hoarse, and suffering optical illusions after watching thousands of runners go by. So just as though we'd actually run the marathon, we rewarded ourselves with pizza and beer at the end of it all.
After watching the start of the race from the comfort of our couch, Zdenek, Peter, and I zipped across town to 1st Avenue and 69th Street, where we arrived in time to see the elite women and men sprint past at 16 miles. One hot chocolate later, we were lined up at the 25 mile mark in Central Park -- the ideal place to see the eventual winners breaking from the rest of the pack. Then it was time to meet up with Caitlin to yell, clap, and pump our fists for two straight hours. Caitlin and I, screaming and cheering in all our blond glory, encouraged at least a few men to pick up the pace. (Peter opted to cheer for anyone wearing a "Timex" or "PowerBar" shirt, while Zdenek moved as far away as possible to save both his hearing and his dignity.) While I didn't get to run 26.2 today, I did receive several propositions to accompany a few men on their last mile and a half, one tossed Twix bar, and an acknowledging wink from a smiling Frenchman.
By 2 pm we were cold, hoarse, and suffering optical illusions after watching thousands of runners go by. So just as though we'd actually run the marathon, we rewarded ourselves with pizza and beer at the end of it all.
Caitlin and I took a break from screaming to snap this photo
It's here!
Neither of us slept very well last night at all. We went to bed at midnight and were up by 5 am. Could it be the excitement for today's race?
Zdenek and I ran a fast 15 miles yesterday. Later (I believe in contemplating if or when he'll ever run 26.2) he started a sentence by saying, "Now that I'm a runner...", which made my heart go pitter-patter.
The sun is shining, the air is cool, and I'm heading out for short run this morning before my spectating and cheering duties commence!
Welcome to marathon morning!
Friday, October 30, 2009
New York City's finest
Today has been a strange mix of excitement and wistfulness. The New York City marathon is rolling into town this weekend, and the day is sure to bring sunny skies, cool temperatures, thousands of international runners, millions of cheering fans, and one exciting road race. I anticipate that we’ll be hopping in and around Manhattan to spot both professionals and friends making the five-borough, 26.2 mile journey. Watching any marathon is an inspiring and thrilling experience, and it always leaves me cheering on the sidelines, clapping and yelling, desperately wishing that I could be running it, too. But the New York City marathon is a different kind of race altogether. Though I’m excited to be a spectator on Sunday, I’m a bit sad that I won’t be sporting a bib myself.
Boston may lay claim to hosting the oldest and most prestigious marathon, but in my experience, the only city in the world that really knows how to throw a party around running is the one in which I currently live. I was delighted to gain entry to last year’s NYC marathon through the three-strikes-and-you’re-in policy. That is, any applicant who fails to gain a spot through the lottery for three consecutive years obtains guaranteed entry in the fourth year. 2008 was my year. During the summer of 2008, however, I had already committed to training for a September half-marathon and biking as much as much as my cross-training would permit. Once the 13.1 mile race was under my belt at the end of September, I had exactly five weeks to prepare myself for a race twice the distance.
NYC would number as my sixth marathon. The five that came before it were completed following 16 to 18 weeks of regimented training, during which I always ran at least three long runs of 20+ miles (and, often, 23 or 24 miles only three weeks before race day). Leading up to the NYC marathon, however, my longest run over the past four months had been a pitiful 15 miles -- plenty for a half-marathon; a warm-up for the marathon. My coach and I devised the “crash training plan” to get me in condition for 26.2 over five weekends:
While it was a bit of stretch for me to imagine how I could possibly complete the marathon on such poor preparation, for the first time in my running “career,” my goal for a specific time was replaced by a goal to enjoy the race. My coach urged me to stick to a pace that would clock me in around four hours. I bought a disposable camera to carry on the course so that I could force myself to look around, take it all in, and snap a few photos. I was determined to just enjoy the experience of running and racing in the Big Apple.
As I learned, the trouble with the NYC marathon is this: when almost 40,000 runners from almost every corner of the planet migrate at the crack of dawn to gather on Staten Island; when those runners line up at the Verrazzano Bridge with helicopters hovering overhead and Sinatra’s “New York, New York” blasting through the mass of shivering, excited bodies; when those runners then make the two mile journey over the bridge to turn a corner and find themselves greeted in Brooklyn by cheering fans holding “Welcome” signs; when those runners wind their way through the diverse neighborhoods of Brooklyn and Queens; when those runners cross the 59th Street Bridge, on which all that can be heard is the sound of feet hitting pavement until, gradually, the sounds of cheering fans in Manhattan drowns everything else out; when those runners make the turn off the bridge and onto 1st Avenue, greeted by a wall of screaming spectators five or ten deep; when those runners race up through Manhattan, across into the Bronx, and wind their way back through Harlem; when those runners continue down Fifth Avenue where, by mile 21 and 22, the ever-so-gradual incline is amplified to painful proportions; when those runners enter into the greatest playground in the world, Central Park, in all her autumn glory; when those runners make the final turn onto Central Park South, past Columbus Circle, and back into Central Park for the final few hundred meters; and when you are one of those runners, it is impossible to “stick to your pace!”
New York City was not my fastest race, but nor was it my slowest. It was, however, my most memorable. During the race, I spotted my friends and family around East 76th Street, and I made my way over to the barricade to give and receive hugs. I exclaimed at the time, “I will never run any other race except this one from now on!” Though that proved to be not quite true -- I’ve since run a marathon elsewhere -- I doubt I’ll run another one like New York. I’ve enjoyed a rewarding summer of cycling and running this year and, indeed, that was point of not planning for a fall marathon. And while I’ll be out there cheering in full force for the runners at the 40th edition of the NYC marathon this Sunday, I am, and will be, more than a bit jealous that I’m not one of them. New York may have crowds, bed bugs, and insanely high rent, but it also has the best 26.2 miles any city could offer. And for one day each November, nothing else matters.
Boston may lay claim to hosting the oldest and most prestigious marathon, but in my experience, the only city in the world that really knows how to throw a party around running is the one in which I currently live. I was delighted to gain entry to last year’s NYC marathon through the three-strikes-and-you’re-in policy. That is, any applicant who fails to gain a spot through the lottery for three consecutive years obtains guaranteed entry in the fourth year. 2008 was my year. During the summer of 2008, however, I had already committed to training for a September half-marathon and biking as much as much as my cross-training would permit. Once the 13.1 mile race was under my belt at the end of September, I had exactly five weeks to prepare myself for a race twice the distance.
NYC would number as my sixth marathon. The five that came before it were completed following 16 to 18 weeks of regimented training, during which I always ran at least three long runs of 20+ miles (and, often, 23 or 24 miles only three weeks before race day). Leading up to the NYC marathon, however, my longest run over the past four months had been a pitiful 15 miles -- plenty for a half-marathon; a warm-up for the marathon. My coach and I devised the “crash training plan” to get me in condition for 26.2 over five weekends:
- Week one: 13 miles
- Week two: a slow 18 miles
- Week three: a slow 21 miles
- Week four: taper
- Week five: 26.2 in NYC!
While it was a bit of stretch for me to imagine how I could possibly complete the marathon on such poor preparation, for the first time in my running “career,” my goal for a specific time was replaced by a goal to enjoy the race. My coach urged me to stick to a pace that would clock me in around four hours. I bought a disposable camera to carry on the course so that I could force myself to look around, take it all in, and snap a few photos. I was determined to just enjoy the experience of running and racing in the Big Apple.
As I learned, the trouble with the NYC marathon is this: when almost 40,000 runners from almost every corner of the planet migrate at the crack of dawn to gather on Staten Island; when those runners line up at the Verrazzano Bridge with helicopters hovering overhead and Sinatra’s “New York, New York” blasting through the mass of shivering, excited bodies; when those runners then make the two mile journey over the bridge to turn a corner and find themselves greeted in Brooklyn by cheering fans holding “Welcome” signs; when those runners wind their way through the diverse neighborhoods of Brooklyn and Queens; when those runners cross the 59th Street Bridge, on which all that can be heard is the sound of feet hitting pavement until, gradually, the sounds of cheering fans in Manhattan drowns everything else out; when those runners make the turn off the bridge and onto 1st Avenue, greeted by a wall of screaming spectators five or ten deep; when those runners race up through Manhattan, across into the Bronx, and wind their way back through Harlem; when those runners continue down Fifth Avenue where, by mile 21 and 22, the ever-so-gradual incline is amplified to painful proportions; when those runners enter into the greatest playground in the world, Central Park, in all her autumn glory; when those runners make the final turn onto Central Park South, past Columbus Circle, and back into Central Park for the final few hundred meters; and when you are one of those runners, it is impossible to “stick to your pace!”
New York City was not my fastest race, but nor was it my slowest. It was, however, my most memorable. During the race, I spotted my friends and family around East 76th Street, and I made my way over to the barricade to give and receive hugs. I exclaimed at the time, “I will never run any other race except this one from now on!” Though that proved to be not quite true -- I’ve since run a marathon elsewhere -- I doubt I’ll run another one like New York. I’ve enjoyed a rewarding summer of cycling and running this year and, indeed, that was point of not planning for a fall marathon. And while I’ll be out there cheering in full force for the runners at the 40th edition of the NYC marathon this Sunday, I am, and will be, more than a bit jealous that I’m not one of them. New York may have crowds, bed bugs, and insanely high rent, but it also has the best 26.2 miles any city could offer. And for one day each November, nothing else matters.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Six good reasons
In spite of all the work I have to do, and even considering that I could have used more sleep this week than I have obtained thus far, I am in an extraordinarily good mood right now.
1. It appears that I may be close to tying out a major project (or, at the very least, the first iteration of it) that has been a long time in coming.
2. It is a beautiful, sunny, warm autumn day!
3. I had a super-duper fun time riding my bike today and yesterday, and an equally super-duper fun time running on Tuesday. In fact, Tuesday night's run in the unseasonably warm fall weather was smokin' fast (for me), and all of my troubles seemed to melt away in the first 1/2 mile. Our bike rides yesterday and this morning required only booties, and we're taking it a bit easier, enjoying the scents and sights of fall in Central Park.
4. There is only one more day until the weekend.
5. There is only one more weekend until the New York City marathon!
6. My salad at lunch was delicious, and the deli guy gave me a sixth topping for free (I chose asparagus).
Friday, October 9, 2009
When in Rome
One stereotype that definitely holds true is that New Yorkers lack manners. Occasionally I see some story about an out-of-town visitor who had a heart attack in the middle of a Manhattan sidewalk and five New Yorkers rushed to his aid, and the visitor later gushes about how kind and generous New Yorkers really are, and how the stereotype of a rude New Yorker is simply unfounded. I agree that one can find polite, mannered residents here -- indeed, in a city so dense, there have to be a few good eggs among the rotten ones. But by and large, New Yorkers have a well deserved reputation for being too forward, pushy, inconsiderate, and rude (though I'm not sure I can blame them -- life here demands a certain level of aggression to get by).There is one place, though, in which being forward and pushy seems not to matter: on a bike. I am constantly amazed at what constitutes acceptable behavior so long as one is dressed in spandex and wearing a team jersey, and I'll admit that I am pleased to be a part of it all. Zdenek and I have had several rides this year during which we've latched on to fellow Central Park or highway 9W cyclists, riding close enough to catch both their slipstream and their conversation. I recall one particularly good return ride from Nyack, on which I spent a solid 15 minutes riding 12 inches behind a team of five men, working my butt off to keep up, but going immeasurably faster than I could have ever managed alone (eventually, I was dropped). On another morning ride in the Park, one fellow cyclist rode for almost 45 minutes on my wheel (while I was, in turn, riding Zdenek's), never uttering a word, but ever present behind me. Unlike runners, cyclists don't nod to, smile at, or make conversation with one another. But they have no shame in joining -- or rather milking off of -- your workout, uninvited. With cyclists, such actions are considered neither creepy nor aggressive, but par for the course.
Or so I thought, until this morning. Zdenek and I crawled out of bed at 6 am, planning for a run, but when we checked weather.com to find that is was a balmy 14 degrees Celsius out, we opted to cycle instead (could be the last one of the season!). I was pleased to find that I required neither leg warmers nor bulky gloves this morning, and for once I felt light and aerodynamic on my bike (and as it turned out, we rode our fastest laps of the entire year this morning!). About 10 minutes in to our ride, Zdenek and I found ourselves behind a very fit 30- or 40-something woman and her very fit 30- or 40-something male training partner. They were moving at my top speed, and it was immediately obvious to both Zdenek and me that we had, perhaps, found our ride.
Strangely, though, after following their wheels for only a few minutes, the male portion of this duo moved to the side so that Zdenek was, instead, following only the woman (and I was following Zdenek). Then, without warning, the guy began darting in and out in front of Zdenek in what appeared to be deliberate attempts to cut us off. From my vantage point behind, I could sense what was going on ahead, and this guy's actions reminded me of some kind of mad, stinging insect trying to defend its nest. He was signaling for us to back off or, better yet, get lost. Our tailgating was clearly unacceptable behavior in his books.
Later in our ride, we caught and passed the guy again (he was riding solo at this point). Though I ended up barely 10 feet in front of him, he simply refused to ride my wheel, and instead rode just a few feet off to the side. It was bizarre. I would have felt more at ease if he had ridden (even in silence) directly behind me, and benefited from my hard work and, in turn, that of my husband. Paradoxically, this guy's apparent show of good manners on the bike came off as strangely aggressive and far too competitive for a morning ride in Central Park. His proper behavior seemed entirely out of place -- for a bike, or New York, or both.
I can only surmise that he was from out of town.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Seasoned
Coming back from vacation is never the greatest feeling in the world, but this week is turning out to be slightly more difficult than most. I'm still dealing with the combined effects of jetlag and an accumulated sleep deficit and, to make matters worse, I haven't seen more than a few minutes of sunshine since being back in New York City. The forecast over the next few days calls for a mix of sun, clouds, and rain (my favourite).
Although we were away for only nine days, it's obvious that this was just long enough for summer to drift away and fall to creep in. The air is definitely chillier (though slightly less humid), and I've worn a sweater to work twice this week. I feel like it was only yesterday that I hailed the arrival of spring, and suddenly I find myself two seasons later. Autumn in New York -- characterized by brilliant colours, cooler temperatures, and the odd day filled with sunshine and warmth -- is possibly the most enjoyable time of year. It also marks, however, the beginning of increasingly late sunrises and early sunsets. This might not present much of a problem if I were happy to roll out of bed at 7:30 am and head to work, but over the past few months, Zdenek and I have become accustomed to 5:30 am wake-up calls and early morning rides in Central Park. It has become a treasured and favourite part of our daily routine and, indeed, provided much fodder for this blog.
Sadly, my little red Giant has sat idle all week long, bringing her to almost two full weeks of stationary neglect. The alarm has still gone off at 5:30 am every day this week, but in the pitch blackness of our room, our response has consisted of a disgruntled groan and opting for another hour of sleep. It is near impossible to motivate myself to get out of bed in the darkness of the morning to ride a bike, especially when my bike lacks a light. Running, maybe. Cycling? No way. And so I've been a little down this week, mourning the passing of another season, long days, sunshine, and cycling. This is, truth be told, pretty typical behaviour for me. I do not, for example, enjoy celebrating my birthday (one year closer to death and a reminder of everything I still haven't accomplished). I even loathe Fridays on occasion, because they signify another lost week among my finite allotment.
Nevertheless, over my recent vacation, I was encouraged by the discovery that some things really do get better with time. I used to laugh inwardly whenever I heard that life is better after 40, let alone that senior citizens are happier than their younger counterparts. I couldn't imagine that I'd rather be forty years older and greyer than I am today! But last week, my girlfriends and I busted our guts laughing at a 20 minute movie (thanks, Laura!) that took us through all the painful hairstyles, fashions, and boyfriends of our past 15 years together. Sure, we have a few more laugh lines and grey hairs, as well as reduced abilities to cope with hangovers these days. True, we're 15 years further on and there have undoubtedly been a few lost opportunities along the way. But it was clear from the photos of years past that, today, each one of us is more confident, aware, and beautiful than at any time during the last decade and a half. The passing of one season may make me melancholy, but the passing of 60 seasons seems to have served us well.
Although we were away for only nine days, it's obvious that this was just long enough for summer to drift away and fall to creep in. The air is definitely chillier (though slightly less humid), and I've worn a sweater to work twice this week. I feel like it was only yesterday that I hailed the arrival of spring, and suddenly I find myself two seasons later. Autumn in New York -- characterized by brilliant colours, cooler temperatures, and the odd day filled with sunshine and warmth -- is possibly the most enjoyable time of year. It also marks, however, the beginning of increasingly late sunrises and early sunsets. This might not present much of a problem if I were happy to roll out of bed at 7:30 am and head to work, but over the past few months, Zdenek and I have become accustomed to 5:30 am wake-up calls and early morning rides in Central Park. It has become a treasured and favourite part of our daily routine and, indeed, provided much fodder for this blog.
Sadly, my little red Giant has sat idle all week long, bringing her to almost two full weeks of stationary neglect. The alarm has still gone off at 5:30 am every day this week, but in the pitch blackness of our room, our response has consisted of a disgruntled groan and opting for another hour of sleep. It is near impossible to motivate myself to get out of bed in the darkness of the morning to ride a bike, especially when my bike lacks a light. Running, maybe. Cycling? No way. And so I've been a little down this week, mourning the passing of another season, long days, sunshine, and cycling. This is, truth be told, pretty typical behaviour for me. I do not, for example, enjoy celebrating my birthday (one year closer to death and a reminder of everything I still haven't accomplished). I even loathe Fridays on occasion, because they signify another lost week among my finite allotment.
Nevertheless, over my recent vacation, I was encouraged by the discovery that some things really do get better with time. I used to laugh inwardly whenever I heard that life is better after 40, let alone that senior citizens are happier than their younger counterparts. I couldn't imagine that I'd rather be forty years older and greyer than I am today! But last week, my girlfriends and I busted our guts laughing at a 20 minute movie (thanks, Laura!) that took us through all the painful hairstyles, fashions, and boyfriends of our past 15 years together. Sure, we have a few more laugh lines and grey hairs, as well as reduced abilities to cope with hangovers these days. True, we're 15 years further on and there have undoubtedly been a few lost opportunities along the way. But it was clear from the photos of years past that, today, each one of us is more confident, aware, and beautiful than at any time during the last decade and a half. The passing of one season may make me melancholy, but the passing of 60 seasons seems to have served us well.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
25 New York minutes
Yesterday was a bit of a bummer. It was the hottest and stickiest day New York City has seen this summer, work went less than ideally, my next-door neighbor has bed bugs, and my entire evening was overshadowed by a dull, but definitely present, headache. As one friend, who was born and raised in Brooklyn, exclaimed, "Why does anyone live in this city?" But when asked where he'd rather live, he replied, "Nowhere. That's the problem!" It seems that every New Yorker, no matter how long they live here, has a love-hate relationship with what is simultaneously the greatest city in the world and the one most likely to cause you to die an early, stress-related death.
It was therefore with some trepidation that I headed back out on my bike this morning. The sticky air remained and my legs did not feel entirely refreshed from Day 35's rest, but at least the headache was gone and I hadn't spotted any bed bugs during the night. About one mile in, rounding the tight corner on the southeast bend of the Park (where I have seen at least one cyclist hauled away in an ambulance this year), I heard the whirr of a large pack of cyclists approaching from behind. I moved to the far side to let them pass. As they sped by me in a flurry of blue jerseys, Zdenek commanded, "Get on their wheels!" And so I did.
What happened next was a very challenging, but very rewarding, 10 miles. Zdenek and I rode smack in the middle of this peloton -- around the corners, up the hills, down the descents. It was somewhat nerve-wracking -- all those wheels spinning in such close proximity to one another -- but even more exhilarating. There was only one climb on which my husband sped away (leaving me to feel like poor Kloden on this year's Stage 17), but after a glance over his shoulder and no doubt a feeling of pity, he slowed down and then returned me to the peloton like the good domestique that he is. When we clocked our first loop in the fastest time I have ever posted (by a long shot!), the expression on my face was one of both surprise and thrill. Drafting off one husband is an advantage, but riding in a pack of talented riders is a treat. My little red Giant did not go unnoticed, either: one fellow cyclist rode up beside me to ask if my awesome paint job was customized, because he had never seen anything like it.
When we finally parted ways with our impromptu peloton and continued on our own for an easier 10 miles, I was relieved to see clearly the road in front of me and to not concentrate so hard on avoiding a fatal bump of tires (or worse). This sport may never make a racer out of me. But for 25 minutes this morning, I was thankful to live in New York City. Things may move very quickly here, but it's sometimes possible to keep up.
It was therefore with some trepidation that I headed back out on my bike this morning. The sticky air remained and my legs did not feel entirely refreshed from Day 35's rest, but at least the headache was gone and I hadn't spotted any bed bugs during the night. About one mile in, rounding the tight corner on the southeast bend of the Park (where I have seen at least one cyclist hauled away in an ambulance this year), I heard the whirr of a large pack of cyclists approaching from behind. I moved to the far side to let them pass. As they sped by me in a flurry of blue jerseys, Zdenek commanded, "Get on their wheels!" And so I did.
What happened next was a very challenging, but very rewarding, 10 miles. Zdenek and I rode smack in the middle of this peloton -- around the corners, up the hills, down the descents. It was somewhat nerve-wracking -- all those wheels spinning in such close proximity to one another -- but even more exhilarating. There was only one climb on which my husband sped away (leaving me to feel like poor Kloden on this year's Stage 17), but after a glance over his shoulder and no doubt a feeling of pity, he slowed down and then returned me to the peloton like the good domestique that he is. When we clocked our first loop in the fastest time I have ever posted (by a long shot!), the expression on my face was one of both surprise and thrill. Drafting off one husband is an advantage, but riding in a pack of talented riders is a treat. My little red Giant did not go unnoticed, either: one fellow cyclist rode up beside me to ask if my awesome paint job was customized, because he had never seen anything like it.
When we finally parted ways with our impromptu peloton and continued on our own for an easier 10 miles, I was relieved to see clearly the road in front of me and to not concentrate so hard on avoiding a fatal bump of tires (or worse). This sport may never make a racer out of me. But for 25 minutes this morning, I was thankful to live in New York City. Things may move very quickly here, but it's sometimes possible to keep up.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
The Great Unwind
Some time ago, when the sky began falling over Wall Street and, soon thereafter, the rest of the world, my husband predicted that this financial crisis and its aftermath would someday be referred to as "The Great Unwind" (as in, the unwinding of the many complicated and leveraged positions that got us into this mess in the first place). I work only indirectly with the financial sector, so I can't be sure that this term isn't currently being used as routinely as Zdenek predicted, but I don't think that it is (rather, "The Great Recession" seems to be the term in vogue).
In any case, the past few days for Zdenek and me have been full of turmoil and excitement, and it seems that he and I are undergoing our own Great Unwind. At long last, we are due to become direct victims of this Great Recession. Living in New York City, we've been in the middle of the action from day one, but aside from it becoming somewhat easier to make a restaurant reservation, we haven't been personally impacted. Until now. One could say that our position in this city is unwinding (and rather quickly indeed, but then again, things never move slowly in New York).
It's somewhat surprising that, in spite of the fact that Zdenek and I are unwinding (or rather, being forcefully unwound), we're relatively nonchalant about it. This is partly attributable to the fact that we know that we'll be okay in the short-term and we'll land on our feet in the long-term, which provides some comfort. But we've also found a daily ritual in our bike rides and runs, and we're spending more time together than we ever have in pursuit of fast times, tired legs, and post-workout beers. Indeed, there seems to be a nationwide trend towards increasing training in the face of decreasing employment (though I wouldn't go so far as to say that we are, or will be, "funemployed").
When the going gets tough, as it has been for some time and as it no doubt will continue to be, we'll continue to tough it out by either lacing up our running shoes or escaping on two wheels. It is our daily unwind, and it feels great.
Saturday, June 6, 2009
Fun for one
I'm flying solo this weekend because my husband is off golfing in Pennsylvania with his buddies. I am glad that I don't have to spend every weekend alone, or even every other weekend, or even one weekend a month. But so far, I've managed to keep myself entertained.
After work yesterday, I went to get a massage from an enormous Egyptian man named Omar. This was the first time I've had a massage from someone that wasn't either female or a total hippy-dippy male. I must say, big Egyptian men can give a pretty mean massage. On the way out, Omar told me to drink lots of water, but I only heard the "drink" part. So I came home, made myself some delicious pasta, and cracked open a bottle of red. I then proceeded to watch that NBC Brian Williams special on a day inside the White House. It made me think that I really should go into politics, because it fascinates and excites me to no end. (Rahm was my favourite.)
This morning, I got up to do my first-ever solo cycle. The only other time I’ve cycled alone was one day last summer when Zdenek got a flat and he had to walk home (I kept cycling). I was a bit nervous to pump up my tires all by myself (is it always that hard or do we just have a really difficult bicycle pump?), but soon I was out the door and cruising around the Park. I think I only saw one other woman on a bike this morning. It was me and the boys for 30 miles. Pretty cool stuff. After a night of hard rain, the roads were filthy, and my bike and I both returned home caked in mud. It made me feel tough.
I spent the rest of the afternoon reading the NYTimes cover-to-cover, a total indulgence that I rarely enjoy. I’ve spent the last four or five hours trying to plan some accommodation for our trip to Atlantic Canada in three weeks (before I head off momentarily to a friend’s house to drink some more vino). My bright idea to visit Atlantic Canada over Canada Day (July 1, for my American friends) seemed like a good one, until I tried to actually find vacancies during that time. This is basically the route I’m planning, which should allow me to hit as many lobster, mussel, and scallop spots as possible. The trip is going to be a blast, and yes, of course I am using a spreadsheet to plan it.
View Larger Map
After work yesterday, I went to get a massage from an enormous Egyptian man named Omar. This was the first time I've had a massage from someone that wasn't either female or a total hippy-dippy male. I must say, big Egyptian men can give a pretty mean massage. On the way out, Omar told me to drink lots of water, but I only heard the "drink" part. So I came home, made myself some delicious pasta, and cracked open a bottle of red. I then proceeded to watch that NBC Brian Williams special on a day inside the White House. It made me think that I really should go into politics, because it fascinates and excites me to no end. (Rahm was my favourite.)
This morning, I got up to do my first-ever solo cycle. The only other time I’ve cycled alone was one day last summer when Zdenek got a flat and he had to walk home (I kept cycling). I was a bit nervous to pump up my tires all by myself (is it always that hard or do we just have a really difficult bicycle pump?), but soon I was out the door and cruising around the Park. I think I only saw one other woman on a bike this morning. It was me and the boys for 30 miles. Pretty cool stuff. After a night of hard rain, the roads were filthy, and my bike and I both returned home caked in mud. It made me feel tough.
I spent the rest of the afternoon reading the NYTimes cover-to-cover, a total indulgence that I rarely enjoy. I’ve spent the last four or five hours trying to plan some accommodation for our trip to Atlantic Canada in three weeks (before I head off momentarily to a friend’s house to drink some more vino). My bright idea to visit Atlantic Canada over Canada Day (July 1, for my American friends) seemed like a good one, until I tried to actually find vacancies during that time. This is basically the route I’m planning, which should allow me to hit as many lobster, mussel, and scallop spots as possible. The trip is going to be a blast, and yes, of course I am using a spreadsheet to plan it.
View Larger Map
Monday, May 25, 2009
Around the world in 72 hours
I was supposed to be far, far away this weekend, celebrating with my girlfriends in the BC Mountains. Instead, I’ve been right at home, enjoying the long weekend with my husband in Manhattan. It hasn’t been all that bad. Friday was a long day at work, and tomorrow promises more of the same, but the rest of the weekend has been pretty void of any heavy lifting. So instead, Zdenek and I made our own vacation here on this island (and a few miles outside of it). Some of the places we visited:Italy: On Friday night, after getting off from work rather late, we hit the Mediterranean at our favorite restaurant and wine bar on the UWS. After one pitcher of Sangria, one bottle of wine, some prosciutto, cheese, and grilled shrimp, I was happy enough to pretend I was in Italy and almost too drunk to notice the difference.
Out-of-state and back again: On Saturday, we decided to take a little bike vacation. We cycled 75 km out to Piermont and back, through the Palisades and along the Hudson. It was tough going after a hard week of cycling and running, especially considering the marathon was only two weeks ago and that this week was absolutely exhausting work-wise. The one mile, 7% grade climb at the end of the Palisades may have been nothing compared to Saturday’s Giro stage, but I could hardly tell the difference. In Piermont I was rewarded with a fruit smoothie and a bit of rest. 23 miles later back in our apartment, I was rewarded with wobbly legs, a sore butt, and a huge sense of accomplishment.
I enjoyed my smoothie on this Piermont street
Spain: Saturday night took us down to Greenwich Village, where we were fortunate to stumble upon one of the most delicious and inviting tapas bars in the city, Las Ramblas. It was crowded but lively, the food was scrumptious, and the drinks were well deserved. We finished off the evening with homemade cake at Amy’s Bread. Best pink frosting ever.
Detox spa: Sunday consisted of lots of walking and hydration. We had fish and vegetables for dinner. Italy and Spain in 48 hours can tire a person out.
The beach (sort of): After a very hard but very fast run this morning in the Park (if I’m not going to run frequently this summer, I need to make every opportunity worth my while), and after a leisurely and delicious breakfast (once again courtesy of Amy), we spent this afternoon eating salami and cheese, Greek salad, and berries along the Riverside Park Hudson waterfront. It was almost as good as a beach vacation.
Only 5 minutes from our front door!
All in all, things could have been worse. And I learned that if I can’t make it to the vacation, I can always make the vacation come to me.
Friday, April 17, 2009
C'est le printemps!
It is a wonderfully sunny, beautiful day in New York today, and I'm tempted to say that, perhaps, spring is here! I've been tricked into thinking this before. Back in March, there was one Sunday that the mercury crept past 20 degrees Celsius, and we dusted off our bikes for a quick spin in the park. (It turned out to be a day filled with mishaps galore -- I missed Bono, apparently, as I went past him on my rocket red Giant entering the park at West 77th Street, which is probably the biggest disappointment I've had in a long time; I also got pushed in the chest as I tried to weave past an angry Frenchman who refused to "pardon moi.") Since then, we haven't been back on our bikes. It's remained chilly enough that fall/winter cycling attire would be required, and I own none of these things, having spent a small fortune last summer outfitting myself in warm weather cycling clothing. Truthfully, I don't mind too much, because my running suffers with every degree increase in temperature, and, this being the East coast, every percentage increase in humidity. For now, the cool temperatures have been most conducive to successful running, but I can't help but feel excited when I can eat my lunch in the park as I did today.
Unlike where I grew up, New York really has four distinct seasons. By a long shot, the spring and fall are the best. The summers are oppressively hot and sticky and I can think of few things worse than my swollen feet, cut up in every possible dimension from the various sandals I own, standing on the steaming hot subway platform, where I'm inhaling dust and grime and smoke while waiting for a train that will most certainly be filled with too many sweaty bodies wearing too little clothing, all packed tightly against one another. Winter can be nice, but it tends to just be cold without much fresh snow to enjoy. When it does snow, it's usually a few hours of pristine loveliness immediately followed by days of slushy mess, making my morning and afternoon treks through Times Square a bit of a landmine in terms of icy puddle jumping. But the fall and the spring are terrific. For one thing, there actually is a fall here. It brings with it slightly cooler temperatures but a long-awaited drop in the humidity, and the leaves remain on the trees long enough to reveal their true colors. The spring, in which I dare say we currently are, teases us with earlier sunrises and later sunsets, cooler nights but warmer days, and a splendor of buds, flowers, and beauty. The cherry blossoms, magnolias, daffodils, and tulips have made running in the Park lately something of a dream.
I'm known to complain about New York from time to time. It's too busy, too crowded, too expensive. The airports are a nightmare, the roads are clogged, and sometimes it's easy to feel trapped on this island. I don't anticipate I'll live here forever. At some point, wide(r) open spaces, or, at the very least, a washer/dryer, will beckon. But on days like today, it's a treat to be in the City. Tomorrow I have my longest training run yet -- 23 miles. I plan to run three full loops of the Park, plus the middle four mile loop, which, from my home and back, should add up to 23.221 miles (to be exact). It would be an all the more daunting proposition if I were facing grey skies or strong winds. But tomorrow, my forecast looks like this:
So as long as I can enjoy the cooler hours of the early morning, it should be a very good day indeed. I'm already looking forward to the pancakes I've been promised for brunch!
Unlike where I grew up, New York really has four distinct seasons. By a long shot, the spring and fall are the best. The summers are oppressively hot and sticky and I can think of few things worse than my swollen feet, cut up in every possible dimension from the various sandals I own, standing on the steaming hot subway platform, where I'm inhaling dust and grime and smoke while waiting for a train that will most certainly be filled with too many sweaty bodies wearing too little clothing, all packed tightly against one another. Winter can be nice, but it tends to just be cold without much fresh snow to enjoy. When it does snow, it's usually a few hours of pristine loveliness immediately followed by days of slushy mess, making my morning and afternoon treks through Times Square a bit of a landmine in terms of icy puddle jumping. But the fall and the spring are terrific. For one thing, there actually is a fall here. It brings with it slightly cooler temperatures but a long-awaited drop in the humidity, and the leaves remain on the trees long enough to reveal their true colors. The spring, in which I dare say we currently are, teases us with earlier sunrises and later sunsets, cooler nights but warmer days, and a splendor of buds, flowers, and beauty. The cherry blossoms, magnolias, daffodils, and tulips have made running in the Park lately something of a dream.
I'm known to complain about New York from time to time. It's too busy, too crowded, too expensive. The airports are a nightmare, the roads are clogged, and sometimes it's easy to feel trapped on this island. I don't anticipate I'll live here forever. At some point, wide(r) open spaces, or, at the very least, a washer/dryer, will beckon. But on days like today, it's a treat to be in the City. Tomorrow I have my longest training run yet -- 23 miles. I plan to run three full loops of the Park, plus the middle four mile loop, which, from my home and back, should add up to 23.221 miles (to be exact). It would be an all the more daunting proposition if I were facing grey skies or strong winds. But tomorrow, my forecast looks like this:
So as long as I can enjoy the cooler hours of the early morning, it should be a very good day indeed. I'm already looking forward to the pancakes I've been promised for brunch!
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