A happy ending

Another year is almost over. I'm not one to get sentimental about the transition, but 2009 will definitely mark the year that I found a new training partner and enjoyed some of my best running yet. From this perspective, the last week of 2009 has been near perfect:

• When we returned to New York early Sunday afternoon after flying nine hours across the Atlantic on very little sleep the night before, it was less than two hours before we found ourselves running once again in Central Park. Apparently exercise is meant to be the best cure for jet lag -- I remain somewhat unconvinced that this actually works -- but in any case, it was a great feeling to be running in the late afternoon sunshine.
  
• Monday evening after work, the idea of running was completely unappetizing. But, while I don’t want my running to ever feel like a chore, I also know that I have never once regretted a run. Ignoring my pounding sinus headache, I tied up my laces and headed out into the cold wind. When it was over, I was pleasantly surprised to find that I had run a sub-7:45 pace, and once again I did not regret my decision.
  
• Tuesday morning found us again facing frigid temperatures and icy winds, but still we ran just over six miles in decent time. (Zdenek tried to allow me to “draft” off of him when the wind was the strongest, but alas, this strategy is best reserved for cycling.)
  
• Wednesday morning, though I continue to battle a cold and am still apparently on European time (falling asleep around 9 pm and awaking around 5 am), we ran a 7:40 fartlek in downright cold weather. During the “hard” portions of the fartlek, Zdenek ran a much faster pace than me and was able to put considerable distance between us within 30 seconds. He allowed me to catch up again during the two minutes of “easy” running interspersed between, but it’s obvious that he could have run even faster had he not been forced to wait for me.
• This morning, I'm fighting every urge to not head out for a playful three miles in the falling snow. Big, fluffy, white flakes are coming down quickly outside of my window, and this represents some of my favorite running conditions. But we're scheduled to run four miles in Central Park at midnight with eight or more friends, so I'll save my energy for the late-night jaunt and the dinner for eight that I have to cook beforehand. (I even forced myself to stay up until 10:45 pm last night in attempt to reset my clock!) 2010 is only hours away, and I'm excited to ring it in by doing my favorite activity with a few of my favorite people.
  

Happy New Year's!

Oh, the liver!

We've just returned from a whirlwind European Christmas adventure. Going into this vacation, I was a bit dubious of our travel schedule and tight itinerary, but it turns out that any worries I may have had were unfounded. Yes, the double-decker plane never arrived in New York because a two inch snowfall in Europe kept it grounded, and yes, this meant that we got bumped to a later flight booked with what seemed like half of the children of France. But we received a few Euros to compensate for our troubles, and these were minor upsets in what was otherwise a near perfect vacation.

In Paris, we reconnected with my favourite Brits, Lee and Mel, who adopted me as part of their extended family during my time spent across the pond several years ago. This time, we arrived (a bit late) to greet them in the two bedroom Parisian apartment Mel had arranged for our stay. Though the walls were paper thin, the toilet freezing cold, and the television controls incomprehensible, the beds were comfortable, the shower was hot, and the kitchen was well equipped. Besides, we made-do by going to bed most nights too tipsy to notice any problems (and by bopping to MP3s from Lee's cell phone speaker). We managed to visit the major sights and sounds in a snow dusted, magical Paris, but mostly just focused on enjoying the company. Most importantly, we dined on so much foie gras that it surely replaced any liver cells lost to excessive imbibing of French wines. It was three days of pure indulgence.

For now, some pictures of Paris (Czech Republic update and photos to come)...

Zdenek and I finally arrived in Paris and
headed out for celebratory drinks with long lost friends, Lee and Mel

Our apartment was steps away from what might have been
the most beautiful street in Paris, filled with the most amazing gourmet delights

Zdenek's first official French crepe

Musee d'Orsay at dusk

Who are those Parisians?

At the Louvre

Paris never fails to inspire romance

It was important to visit l'Arc de Triomphe,
site of the final stage of Le Tour

Lunch at Musee d'Orsay

Look! Zdenek found the painting that matches his ticket!

Me, too!

A very Parisian afternoon

Merry Christmas to all!

In a few hours we're heading to JFK to catch our double-decker flight to Paris. No doubt Zdenek and I will be stuck in the two middle seats, but I'm hoping to be able to catch a few zzzz's anyway: I'm wearing my never-sexy, but always comfy, Lulu Lemon pants; my inflatable travel pillow is packed; and I'm going to make a quick stop at the drug store to pick up some sleeping "aids." We ran 11 miles this morning in bitterly cold weather, which will hopefully make me all the more tired come 7:30 pm tonight.

I'm sad that I won't be spending Christmas and New Year's with my family at the cabin, and I'm sorry that I won't be able to see my friends this year and to meet the newest addition to our gang. But Paris in the holiday season is bound to be beautiful and romantic, and I'm going to be able to spend a few days with two of my best friends whom I only get to see every few years (if I'm lucky). Christmas in the Czech Republic with family that we almost never see will be a special and memorable treat. And between the French wine and Czech brews, I'm confident that I'll have a very merry time indeed.

To my friends near and far, I wish that we could be celebrating the season together -- please enjoy a cocktail for me! To my mom and dad, my sister and her clan, my brother and his -- I will be thinking of you and missing you very much. Please think of me when you're eating perogies and enjoy a walk among the snowy mountains on my behalf. To everyone that I won't get to hug and kiss in person this holiday, I wish you much love and happiness, and the very merriest of Christmases.

Breathless

The past few weeks have been eventful ones and the next couple promise more of the same: holiday parties seem to be happening every other day; Christmas shopping has infringed on most of my weekend time; we’re taking a red-eye flight to Paris on Friday that is sure to be stressful and tiring (even though it will constitute my first ever trip on a double-decker airplane). Most importantly of all, I’ve been absolutely awestruck by the fact that one of my dear friends, Jessica, became the proud (and most capable!) mother to a beautiful baby girl five days ago. Lately, I’ve been left breathless with all that I have to do and think about.

It was therefore a bit of sweet relief to run alone this morning (something that I rarely do these days) and, with no offense to my husband, it was a nice change of pace in every sense of the word. Zdenek has gone, in about six months, from being slightly less fit than me over distances longer than four or five miles, to matching my every stride on runs up to 10 miles long, to being a faster, stronger runner than me over distances from 100 meters up to 15 miles (we’ve yet to run further than that together). I shouldn’t complain -- it was me, after all, who gently encouraged his running habit over the past five years -- but I am often left to feel like a weak girl who can’t keep up. Our runs together frequently leave me tired, frustrated, or both. To make matters worse, lately my legs have begun to feel lead-like and sluggish. Though I’m sure I’m just in need of more rest, a day off seems to make little difference and I find my breathing labored and my muscles stiff almost every single run.

But this morning, as Zdenek nursed his hangover and requested an extra hour of sleep, I ignored the achy feeling in my legs and quietly slipped out of bed to brew a cup of coffee. Thirty minutes later, I was in Central Park on a clear, cold December morning. For almost 60 minutes I ran in solitude, never looking at my watch, slowing down when I needed to, pushing the pace when the mood struck me (which wasn't that often). (And as it turns out, I didn't run that much more slowly than I do with Zdenek by my side.) To be sure, it was still a difficult run -- I barely moved up Harlem Hill and had a hard time finding my stride against the strong winds -- and today's seven miles left me breathless. They were, however, the perfect antidote to a busy few weeks.

(Congratulations, again, Jessica and Adam!)

Wet and wild

Judging by the number of cocktails I've consumed and hours of sleep I've lost over the past 72 hours, the holiday season is clearly in full swing. Unfortunately, this tired old body is simply not cut-out for hard partying anymore. (Then again, I'm not sure that it ever was: I am famous amongst my friends for always being the first girl to bail when the clock strikes midnight, and have even been known to ask my mom to pick me up and drive me home (she doesn't mind -- really!)). With every passing year, it seems that each additional drink consumed demands an additional hour of recovery the next day. Saturday morning I felt pretty crummy. Sunday morning I awoke in a daze. By yesterday evening, I could barely carry on a conversation past 7 pm. Today is Monday, and I think I am in need of a weekend to recover from the weekend.

Saturday was a miserable day in New York City for a multitude of reasons: unrelenting rains, strong winds, and freezing temperatures from sunrise to sunset. Why, then, Zdenek and I decided in our exhausted state to run over 15 miles in such conditions is still a bit of a mystery. After a long Friday night out on the town, we got a very late start on Saturday and, at first, considered skipping the run altogether. As I washed down my Advil with a cup of coffee, the temperature outside dropped and the rain began to fall. Nevertheless, we filled up our water bottles, tucked Power Gels into our pockets, and set off, thinking we'd go slowly and quit when it didn't make sense anymore (if it ever did make sense in the first place, that is).

This run was a struggle, to say the least. I don't think we had finished our first loop before the rain started coming down in sheets and most of our fellow devotees cleared the Park. Soon it was just Zdenek and me versus the hypothermia-inducing elements. My clothes were sopping and cold, my leg muscles tight and stiff. At times we barely moved against the wind. I could only think of the hot shower and steaming cup of coffee that awaited me at home. But as we neared the 12 mile mark in almost total isolation, I casually suggested to Zdenek that we continue on and aim for 15-16 miles total. He didn't flinch.

Maybe we were trying to show that we were tough. Maybe we were hoping that any leftover alcohol molecules circulating in our blood would be sweat out and washed away. Maybe we had no good reason at all. Whatever our motivation, I was somewhat unsurprised to learn that it is shared by my friend and fellow runner, Caitlin. Like me, Caitlin adores early bedtimes and long workouts, and the two of us often leave parties early to split a cab back to our respective Upper West Side abodes. This morning, when I (with some pride) relayed to Caitlin my epic 15.5 mile journey through a winter rainstorm, she responded (with equal pride), "I ran that day, too!" Go figure.

My Saturday morning run (which we completed in an 8:30 min/mile pace and which gave me a bad case of red, itchy, freezer-burned skin) was definitely a party of sorts. Caitlin, Zdenek, and I may be losing steam when it comes to pulling all-nighters, but perhaps our definition of a "good time" is just a bit different from that of our peers. It appears that we can still find energy when it matters.

Blown away

Zdenek and I are both suffering from illnesses at the moment, and when the alarm went off this morning in the dark hours before sunrise, my head throbbed as though I had been punched repeatedly throughout my sleep. We stumbled out of bed to brew our usual cup of Tim’s (stores have been replenished following our trip to Canada last week), but questioned whether a run was really the best idea.

We live on a rather gusty block of the Upper West Side due to our proximity to the Hudson River. In the summer the strong breezes off the water offer a welcome respite from the otherwise stale and humid air, but wintertime typically finds us running to the shelter of our doorstep to avoid the icy chill blowing through us. This morning, however, we were greeted by an unseasonably warm wind (18 degrees Celsius!) as we stepped outside, and my shorts and t-shirt seemed strangely appropriate for December 3.

The skies above hung low and dark, but in the East -- towards Central Park -- the first rays of the morning sunrise poked through. The clouds, tinged with silver, moved eastward at a formidable clip; we chased them, the wind at our backs. And then, ten minutes into our run, I looked up to find that half of the sky had cleared. By three miles, the sun had risen and the clouds were entirely blown away. Manhattan was bathed in blue skies and fresh, warm air -- as though the rain clouds had never passed through at all.

Today’s 10k turned out to be respectable but too difficult (and hours later, I still feel like crawling back into bed). But bearing witness to this morning’s skies -- and the extraordinarily quick turn of events overhead -- made it worth the effort. I treasure runs like today’s. If only my sickness would change course as quickly.

Welcome home

We recently took advantage of the US Thanksgiving holiday to fly home (to my original home town, that is) and visit friends and family. We’ll be spending Christmas week this year in Paris and the Czech Republic, but the past four days in Canada felt almost like being home for the holidays. (Ironically, as we cleared US customs at the Canadian airport before flying back to New York City, the immigration officer greeted me in Spanish, laughed about being unable to fake a New York accent, and then handed me back my passport, saying, “Welcome home.”)

The trip to Canada was busy from start to finish and I think we’re only now starting to make a dent in our accumulated sleep deficit, but it was well worth it. We got a Christmas teaser with an afternoon visit to Lake Louise in Banff -- seven feet of snow along an icy, picturesque lake (with a small avalanche before our very eyes) was a fine welcome to the month of December. I spent as much time as possible with my family and friends, and managed to ingest an impressive number of perogies over the weekend. On Saturday morning, Zdenek and I ran a liberating 14 miles through Fish Creek Park in an attempt to shake off the previous night’s libations. It wasn’t Central Park, but then, it didn’t have to be.

Lake Louise looked just like this during our visit

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:

• 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.

(I wanted to post a few photos of our house of horrors, but Zdenek forbade me.)

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.

Reset

Last week's cross-country trip to Portland, Oregon was filled with an overwhelming quantity of good food, a copious volume of Oregon microbrews and Pinot Noir, and three runs (two fast, one easy) within 48 hours. Despite my initial hesitations, it turned out to be a great trip filled with many good laughs. (Favourite trip moment: returning to the hotel at 6:30 pm after a five mile run with a coworker along the Portland waterfront to find a free tasting of Oregon microbrews being served up in the lobby.) Unfortunately, by the time I returned to New York on Friday evening, I was stuffed, jet lagged, and hungover (not necessarily in that order).

When I awoke on Saturday morning, my strong cup of coffee did absolutely nothing to perk me up. And while the first six miles of my Saturday morning 13 miler were not exactly painful, I felt as though I was outside of my body and somehow unconnected to my legs. I was running in a daze. By about mile seven, though, things seemed to come together, and I don't think it was just the effect of my chocolate Power Gel 10 minutes earlier. I finished the 13 miles feeling suitably exhausted and entirely pleased. Twenty minutes later, I was showered, cozy, eating Zdenek's blueberry pancakes, and reading the NY Times.

By plane, train, automobile, and foot, I covered over 5000 miles in four days, and yet it was only the last 13 that really counted. Running has a way of making everything right again.

Perfect conditions

Tomorrow morning, I'll be without my training partner, under cloudy skies, and dealing with a packed calendar. I'm leaving Zdenek and New York behind for a business trip, and I won't return until late Friday. My days are scheduled with meetings and seminars from start to finish. And while the weather here is likely to be close to perfect, where I'm headed, they're expecting a solid week of clouds and rain. These represent less than ideal conditions all round.

The conditions this morning, however, were near perfect for our 10k: 12 degrees, sunny skies, beautiful colors. We ran fluidly and at a good clip, and I was surprised by our final time given my tired legs and sleepy state. Zdenek has definitely become "a runner," if that's defined as someone who enjoys getting out of bed before 6 am to fit in an extra few miles and is still raving several hours later about what a great a time he had. As for me, I've knocked 10 to 15 seconds off my per-mile pace for most runs, and my usual long runs are 15 to 30 seconds faster than this time last year.

I'm not sure whether it's having a (stronger, faster) partner with whom to run, the beneficial effects of all my cycling, or a bit of both that is responsible for the (modest) jump in my fitness. Perhaps it's the total lack of a schedule -- the unfocused spirit with which I've approached all of my running and cycling over the last six months -- that has allowed me to push myself in a different way. It seems that unexpected rewards are found when one deviates from the plan to try new things with an open mind. Having a best friend along for the ride (or the run, as appropriate) makes it all the sweeter. And sunny skies are always welcome.

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.

Where I want to be

A surprising rise in temperatures in New York over the last week has given Zdenek and I occasion to keep riding with a bit more frequency than I would have predicted for this time of year. Although I feel a bit like a fat kid on a bike when I'm bundled up in my winter riding gear, it beats going to the gym any day. Eventually, the seasons will shift entirely and my little Red Giant will have to be put in hibernation until spring. Until then, every time we head out for a ride, I find myself saying, "This could be our last one of the season..." As it turns out, we haven't yet encountered the fated last ride. Every week has brought at least one day of double-digit high temperatures (in Celsius, of course), and though we're now into the second week of November, I'm not sure when autumn is supposed to end and winter begin. I will take what I can get.

My uncertainty about the long-term weather forecast seems to be only one of the multitude of precarious situations with which I'm faced these days. I've had countless days not knowing where I am or where I am going, let alone trying to figure out where I want to be. Perhaps that's why riding my bike in the comfort of the Park, or running laps in a semi-meditative state, is always such a mental retreat. The biggest decision I face is whether to add an extra loop or not; the only worry I have is that Central Park maintenance might decide to turn off the water fountains for the winter on a day that I'm particularly thirsty. In uncertain times, I treasure the hours, by foot or by bike, when I am exactly where I wish, moving in a direction dictated only by me.

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.

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!

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:

1. Week one: 13 miles
2. Week two: a slow 18 miles
3. Week three: a slow 21 miles
4. Week four: taper
5. 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.

My little piggies

In preparation for the NYC marathon this Sunday, the NY Times has been printing a range of running- and marathon-related articles over the past several months. I can relate to many of these articles: running in bad weather, nightmares on the night before the big day, fueling strategies, and, of course, injuries. Although I've never been sidelined by a serious injury, I've had my fair share of sore knees and quads. Perhaps the most annoying recurring injury I seem to suffer, though, afflicts my little piggies.

It all began after my inaugural long distance race, the Race Around the Bay, when I removed my shoes to find that several of my toenails had gorged up with blood blisters. Not really knowing what to do about these blisters, I opted to simply lance them to relieve the pressure. The blisters shrunk and my toenails remained attached. (Hurrah!) A few weeks later, the salesperson at my local running store advised me to go up one-half size in my running shoes to prevent toe jamming. I did, and have been wearing an 8.5 running shoe ever since.

Several months later, after my first marathon (the Toronto International), I was again stricken with Bruised and Bloody Toe Syndrome. Larger running shoes had provided some relief during regular training runs but, it seemed, failed to solve the problem on the much more vigorous and demanding race day. I conceded that my anatomical defects -- my second toe is longer than my big toe -- were always going to cause me problems in races. Because popping the blisters seemed to work so well before, I conducted a second round of bathroom surgery.

All went well for a day or two, but soon my toes were hot, red, swollen, and sore. I was convinced that I had badly bruised them. This being the start of the Toronto winter, wearing flip flops to and from work was not an option, and so I made an appointment with the doctor to have my piggies checked out. And thank goodness for that! My self-performed surgery had, in fact, given me a bad case of cellulitis, a bacterial skin infection that, if not properly treated, can actually kill a person. The doctor promptly prescribed antibiotics and a topical cream and sent me on my way.

Since that day more than five years ago, I have been afflicted with cellulitis two more times (and, in the process, discovered my allergy to penicillin). I have bruised my toes in almost every race. I've lost several toenails when all was said and run (including this most recent one). (This is saying nothing of my other toe afflictions, including plantar capsitus.) My toes destroy any chance I might have for a good finish line photo. My toenails are now a bit misshapen and bumpy. They don't grow quite right. They still ache after a long run. Unfortunately, I imagine they'll be like this for the rest of my life.

But things would have to get pretty bad (or my running habits pretty insane) before I'd consider the solution highlighted by the most recent NY Times article, which filled me with both intrigue and disgust: permanent removal of one's toenails (view the photo if you dare). This was printed in the "Fashion and Style" section of the paper, and I do admit to being a bit dull in the "style" department. It's possible that I'm missing something. But the thought of permanently removing my toenails makes me love them all the more for what they have endured. My little piggies -- in their entirety -- are here to stay.

Multitasking

With the slight uptick in temperatures this week, I've been pleased to get in as many extra cycling days as possible. It has, of course, come at the expense of my running, and by the time Friday rolled around, I had only logged five miles all week long. On Friday morning, because we opted to take advantage of the warm weather and cycle yet again, Zdenek assured me that we'd go for a run after work. When we wrapped up our work day at 6:30 pm and headed home to the Upper West Side, we did so under dark skies that threatened to open up and drench us at any moment. The air was cool but humid. The winds were strong. The sun had set. I asked Zdenek if he still intended on going for a run, to which he emphatically replied, "No!"

While most other New Yorkers headed out to bars and for dinner in celebration of the work week's end, we had no formal plans, and I was determined to get another five miles into my log before the weekend officially arrived. I had only to say to Zdenek, "That's fine, I'll go by myself," before he was rolling his eyes and lacing up his shoelaces alongside me. (Truthfully, I'm not sure I would have gone by myself, because Central Park after dark is no place for a lone girl, but thankfully, Zdenek never called my bluff.) I sweetened the deal by offering to tuck my ID and credit card into my running shorts so that we could multitask by finishing our run at our favorite Upper West Side wine store. (Runner's World has often suggested combining a run with errands, though I'm not sure running to a liquor store is what they had in mind.)

After weaving through the crowded sidewalks and questioning our sanity for attempting a run on such a miserable evening, we entered Central Park. Within minutes, the rain (that, according to the weatherman, was not supposed to arrive for several more hours) began to fall, and for a moment we may have grimaced. Over five miles, we passed no more than 15 other runners -- together we represented the small cohort of New Yorkers for whom a Friday night run is synonymous with "happy hour." I'm certain that I have never seen Central Park so deserted. Zdenek and I had no big date planned for yesterday evening, but yet we found ourselves on an unexpectedly romantic one. We ran side by side in the quiet darkness of the Park, into the rain and wind, while the rest of the City carried on a few miles away.

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).

Muffins with meaning

It's been a drizzly, cold weekend in New York City. For once, though, I don't mind the weather so much, because it's allowed me the opportunity to stay warm and cozy at home without feeling like my time could be spent more productively. On Friday night, I was asleep on the couch by 9:30 pm and made the 15 foot migration to my bed 20 minutes later. We managed a respectable 13 mile run on Saturday morning, and then rewarded ourselves by snuggling under a blanket to watch "The Curious Case of Benjamin Button" while drinking Belgian-style brews and eating strong cheeses. Later, we actually rallied to meet friends at the frou-frou Morimoto, where we indulged in an extraordinary amount of sushi and, of course, more beer. Today has been both relaxing and rewarding thus far: a couple of hours reading the NY Times followed by a quick 5 miles in a mostly deserted, rainy Central Park. I'm now showered and cozy in my favorite Boston Marathon sweatshirt, enveloped by the warm, delicious scent of baking banana pineapple muffins. The best part of my weekend is rising up (literally) as I type this.

These muffins are my mom's favourite recipe -- or at least, they are the ones she made most often when I was growing up (and probably still does, though I'm home too infrequently to be sure). At that time, most yellow bananas in our house fulfilled their destiny as a midday snack or as filling for a peanut butter-banana sandwich. But for the one or two bananas each week that turned brown and soft with neglect, a more delicious fate was in store. These potassium powerhouses would soon find themselves peeled and mushed, mixed with a bit of crushed pineapple, and stirred into a pastry mix. Twenty minutes later, my mom would retrieve the fragrant, yellow muffins from the oven, scoop them out onto an old newspaper for cooling, and then dish one out for me with a pat of butter on top. Sometimes these muffins were prepared on Saturday mornings, but just as often, their tempting aroma would fill the house on midweek evening and provide a comforting bedtime snack.

It was somewhat significant for me to whip up this same batch of muffins for my husband soon after we were married. I don't fancy myself a domestic goddess, and I don't derive a great deal of satisfaction from mothering those around me. But carrying on the tradition of almost-weekly banana pineapple muffins seemed to rest on my shoulders once I left my mother's home and moved into one of my own. With both purpose and pride, I transformed the first brown banana in our apartment into my mom's signature muffins (and I'm certain that my sister does the same for her family on a routine basis). Because the muffins are, in fact, very good, and because anything baked with love is downright delicious, Zdenek showed his approval by helping me to finish the whole dozen within days.

It's been months -- if not more than one year -- since the scent of banana pineapple muffins has filled our Upper West Side apartment. I'm not sure why, exactly, other than perhaps I'm trying to avoid having a dozen baked goods around when there are only two of us to partake. (Zdenek has instead made good use of mushy bananas by folding them into his pancake batter after Saturday morning long runs.) But today, as we were heading out the door to face the rain and cold, Zdenek suggested that "we" (meaning me) whip up a batch of banana pineapple muffins this afternoon, and I didn't require any convincing. On our way back from the Park we stopped off to buy a crushed can of pineapples; thirty minutes later, we're both salivating at the thought of a warm, delicious muffin on this dark and dreary Sunday afternoon. And I know there's a pretty good chance that, thousands of miles away, the same treat can be enjoyed this weekend around my mom's kitchen table.

A very good thing

It's been a rather stressful week and I'm juggling a few too many things. Yesterday, the accumulated effects left me too tired to get out of bed for a run; today, I promised, things would be different.

In the rain, cold, and darkness of the early morning (I even had to pull my winter running gear out of storage!), I managed a quick and energizing 10km. When it was over, I reflected aloud that it was "definitely a run worth getting out of bed for." Despite the miserable conditions, it was a treasured 50 minutes of sanity and peace in the day. No wonder: a recent study in the Journal of Epidemiology and Community Health that is being widely quoted in the popular press today has offered an explanation:

The annual prevalence of anxiety disorders for those living in a residential area containing 10% of green space within a one kilometre (0.62 miles) radius of their home was 26 per 1000 whereas for those living in an area containing 90% of green space it was 18 per 1000.

For depression the rates were 32 per 1000 for the people in the more built up areas and 24 per 1000 for those in the greener areas.

Central Park lies exactly 0.93 km from my doorstep. And that is a very good thing.

A cold reality

I can pinpoint the day I realized with certainty that Zdenek had fallen in love with me. It was a Sunday morning in Toronto, back in January of 2004. I was training for my first long-distance race, the 30km Around the Bay Road Race in Hamilton, Ontario (which, incidentally, is the oldest road race in North America). As part of my training program, I was participating in scheduled "race pace runs" with my local running group. These runs, meant to simulate race-day conditions and allow the opportunity to practice pacing, nutrition, and other race strategies, were staged in rain, shine, or (being Canada) the freezing cold. That particular Sunday, I was scheduled to run 16 miles. My running partner, Siobhan, was off visiting family in sunny Florida.

As Sunday drew closer and the mercury plunged lower, it became apparent that I was in for a miserable 16 miles. The temperature for that morning was predicted to hit a high of -31 degrees Celsius (which, for my American friends, translates to about -24 degrees Fahrenheit). I'm not sure if I asked or he offered, but somehow, in a stroke of both genius and true love, Zdenek and I decided that it would be a good idea for him to keep me company on this run. Since his maximum mileage in those days was about 11 short of what was called for that day, he agreed to ride his bicycle next to me along the route, carrying extra water (ice) or Power Gels (frozen goo) as needed.

While I remember being cold that day, once I began moving, my body warmed up and I was able to maintain a pretty steady temperature under my three layers of pants, four layers of shirts, balaclava, and touque (sorry, American friends, you'll have to figure that one out on your own). Running has a nice way of making and keeping you toasty, even under conditions that no human should ever endure. Zdenek, on the other hand, was not so lucky. Sitting pretty much motionless on a bicycle seat for two and a half hours in blizzard-like conditions almost cost my future hubby his toes. At the end of the run, I complained that I was tired; Zdenek stuck his frozen feet to the car heater and feared that he would face amputation. Thankfully, as it turned out, his feet and all ten toes remain attached to his body. In fact, about two years later during a winter trip to Calgary, he again agreed to ride a bike next to me while I did a long run in Arctic-like weather. The man is a trouper and, if I haven't said it enough before, he is my biggest supporter.

I was reminded of these stories on this morning's ride in the Park. The mercury today hit a balmy 5 degrees Celsius (about 42 degrees Farenheit), making for idyllic running conditions. We opted, however, in another flash of genius, to bundle up and ride. I worked as hard as I could for 60 minutes, but my legs remained stiff and cold, my feet soon lost feeling altogether (even with my booties), and the tears streaming down my face kept blurring my vision. My best efforts to get my core temperature up were thwarted by the cold wind; in cycling, it seems, the harder you work, the faster you go. And the faster you go, the colder you are.

As we coasted down the hill at the north end of the Park, Zdenek commented that he'd "never ridden like this before;" a few minutes later, he conceded that our cycling season was "almost over." Freezing my bum off (literally, it's the only place on my body that wasn't protected by a fleecy layer), I appreciated a fraction of what Zdenek must have endured "riding" his bike next to me in the Canadian winter. It's a good thing for him that, this winter, his recently acquired running endurance will allow him to keep warm, too.

Bundled up this morning

And yet this was taken less than two weeks ago!

Excuse me, but are those Jawbones you're wearing?

Proof that my brother-in-law (affectionately known as "Litespeed") really has joined us for a ride

Hijacked

Last night, Zdenek and I went to the gym for a $400 weight lifting session. At least, that's what I estimate those 40 minutes of bench presses, bicep curls, and planks cost us. We pay about $100 each per month for our local gym memberships, and I'm pretty sure we haven't been there in at least two months. Cycling and running are infinitely superior to any class or activity that can be found within the confines of four walls, and I've been happy to keep some upper body strength by doing regular push-ups and core exercises at home. But last night, we decided to pump some iron in the formal sense of the word. I didn't feel horribly weak going into it, but I surprised both Zdenek and myself by cranking out several extra reps on the bench press without much effort. I may have paid a high price for it, but, 24 hours later, I'm still pleased about my effort and the outcome.

Whether I'm trying to maintain a strong pace for the last few miles of a run, or wheezing and burning up a long climb on my little red Giant, I feel at my best when I'm controlling the effort and, in turn, dictating the outcome. Certainly it explains why I was so upset by a dream to which I awoke this morning: I was somewhere in the mountains, enjoying the scenery and wildlife, when I saw two foxes in the distance. As one of them came closer to me and I prepared my camera to take a photo, I suddenly realized that this was no fox at all, but rather a ferocious mountain lion looking for its next meal. From out of nowhere, a hunter fired a shot, at which point I awoke. I wasn't frightened by this dream as much as I was perturbed. I couldn't understand why my brain would do something like that to me. My brain and I had agreed that there was a beautiful fox to admire, and then, without warning, my brain decided to change course on me. I didn't get it. Aren't my brain and me playing for the same team? It was frustrating and annoying to be hijacked in this way.

Indeed, I feel like there are a few things going on in my life at present that, however frustrating or suboptimal, are beyond my control. Perhaps that's why, when I had the opportunity on this morning's ride, I simply did my own thing. For a couple of miles I rode beside Zdenek, and then soon I was out in front. It helps knowing that Zdenek will never have trouble staying on my wheel (the same cannot be said of the inverse scenario), but still, I didn't look back. I didn't want to be paced. I wanted to set my own pace.

I can accept (or at least I think I can accept) that there are many instances in which I need to cede control, and I know that my directions and outcomes may often be hijacked. No matter how hard I will it, there are some things that I simply can't dictate: the actions of those around me; the limits to my own abilities; the basic laws of nature. I know that these things are bigger than me, and that the outcome is certain when it's Jodi vs. them. Perhaps it's because of these facts that I relish those times that I can be in the driver's seat.

Full and thankful

Today is both Canadian Thanksgiving and my parents' 46th wedding anniversary (Happy Anniversary, Mom and Dad!). It's also Columbus Day here in the United States. Indeed, no matter how you look at it, today is a holiday.

Sadly, I got no such holiday today, and instead headed off to work for my usual stint. My husband fared a little better than me -- one small perk of working in the financial markets, I guess. It's probably a good thing that I was forced to go to work instead of lounging around at home, because I'm certain that I would have spent it in an unproductive and lazy way after the many indulgences of the last 48 hours.

Zdenek's parents have been visiting for the last few days, and it's been a huge treat having them around. Even though we're surrounded by millions of other people on this island, there are only a couple dozen in the world whose absence leaves a noticeable hole in our day-to-day.

In homage to the Canadian holiday that allowed my in-laws an extra day off of work to make a trip south of the border, I prepared several culinary delights this weekend that left us all stuffed and rubbing our bellies. For her part, New York City cooperated by providing us with warmish temperatures and a bit of sunshine, at least on Sunday. As usual, we have much to celebrate, and much to be thankful for.

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.

In clover

It took some time to get out the door this morning. Once I was dressed in my leg warmers, booties, and new cycling jacket, we headed out into the early dawn for our usual three loops of the Park. Bundled up in my fuzzy warm attire, I wondered how long I'll be able to continue cycling before running will become the warmer, and therefore only, option.

Somewhere around Tavern on Green on the West side, and again by the Reservoir on the East Drive, the strong, warm, comforting scent of cloves was all around us. I've been enjoying Central Park on an almost daily basis for over four years, and I have experienced this a few times before. Today, it was an unexpected but pleasant surprise in the chilly air, and it made me want to wrap my cold fingers around a hot cup of cocoa and enjoy a slice of gingerbread (or two). (Appropriately, a coworker has just informed me that a slice of chocolate chip pumpkin loaf awaits me this afternoon. Three cheers for coworkers who bake, and especially for those who bring the fruits of their labor into the office the next day!) After my ride, I did an online search to see if I could find anything about the location or source of the Central Park cloves. I didn't manage to find any clues, but I was somewhat amused to learn that "in clover" not only implies a carefree life of ease, comfort, and prosperity, but is also synonymous with "cozy."

Perhaps due to the lingering scent of the cloves in my head, I selected my longest, coziest fall sweater to wear today. Walking to work, wrapped to my knees in wool, I began thinking about our plans for the next few months: My in-laws will be visiting us in the Big Apple this weekend to celebrate Canadian Thanksgiving. During US Thanksgiving in November, Zdenek and I intend on making a trip home to Calgary for a few days of blue sky and fresh mountain air. And in December, we're off to Europe to visit Zdenek's extended family in the Czech Republic, as well as to connect with old friends for three days in Paris. Although I've been to Paris a few times during the summer months, something about visiting the City of Lights in the days before Christmas seems absolutely magical. This morning marked the beginning of what is bound to be a memorable and unique holiday season.

A girl understands

This has been a tough week so far. I haven't dealt with any major crises, I'm not putting in particularly long hours at work, and, as far as I know, everyone that matters to me is happy and healthy and generally doing well. Nevertheless, my sleep has been severely lacking, and the hours that I do get are not quality ones. On Sunday and Monday of this week, a rather sudden pain spread through the entire right side of my face and neck, leading me to think that a full-blown illness was only hours away. Although the pain and swollen lymph nodes that accompanied it eventually abated, I still feel absolutely exhausted. Making matters worse, I've been feeling as though my quads and butt are, shall we say, ahem, "growing." I don't feel heavier, but I'm concerned that my pants are a wee bit tighter in the upper leg and seat region. As any woman knows, such observations are a sure way to turn a mildly frustrating week into one of full-out depression.

This morning, after a visit to the company pantry to collect our daily ration of fresh fruit and Kashi granola bars, Caitlin -- who shares my affinities for running, cycling, and sleep -- and I sat in my office, commiserating about our mutual feelings of exhaustion. We concluded that we are either (a) getting older and therefore in need of more rest, (b) affected by the change in seasons, or (c) barely fighting off a swine flu or other virus that is making the rounds. Having cleared that up, I then proceeded to tell Caitlin about my ill-fitting garments. She sympathized immediately. More importantly, she assured me that any growing quads or butts are most definitely the result of cycling; larger legs and glutes are the price one must pay for powering up hills on two wheels. She's absolutely right, I thought. I know that I can always count on Caitlin to make me feel better!

Several hours later, still feeling exhausted, and, by this time, with a low-grade headache and a craving for a chocolate chip cookie, I left my office in search of more coworkers with whom I could I blow off some steam. As usual, I ended up in Caitlin's office, which she shares with a few male coworkers. I plunked down on the office futon (don't ask). Immediately, Caitlin got up from her desk to plunk down next to me. I began to complain to everyone in the room, whether or not they were interested or listening, about my general state of malaise. One of the men suggested I take an Advil. Another offered me a cup of coffee. The third stared at me blankly. It was clear that the men in our office seemed incapable of properly appreciating my problems, and their quick solutions were of no help at all.

But Caitlin -- sweet Caitlin -- just reached with me into the box of Godivas from a nearby desk. Ignoring the men, we each grabbed a chocolate and popped it into our mouths. Side by side, chewing the sticky caramel and allowing the creamy praline to melt on our tongues, we pondered the possible causes of a girl's growing thighs.

Training partners

Back when I was 10 or 15 years old, daytime track suits became all the rage for the couch potato elite. Moreover, it wasn't uncommon to see a husband and wife walking from the car to the store entrance wearing identical pants and jackets, as though they were only stopping off at Costco on their way to a 400 m relay race. I used to think to myself that I would never, ever wear the same clothing or accessories as my significant other. Unless, of course, they (both the significant other and the accessories) were really, really cool.

I've been in need of a new pair of sports sunglasses for some time. I lost my five year-old Cebe running sunglasses on my recent vacation (though they still might turn up in my travel bag at some point), and I needed to supplement my Bolle cycling sunglasses that are too dark and therefore hazardous on early mornings and/or cloudy days. In spite of the fact that my Cebes were scratched, had relatively poor clarity, and were terribly out of fashion, I'm still a bit sad to have lost them.

I recall the day I bought my Cebes; more accurately, I recall the day I purchased their predecessor. I had taken up running with some seriousness in the fall/winter of 2003 and, by the time April rolled around, I realized that my newly acquired running habit had morphed into a springtime one. Within weeks, I found myself in want of shorter sleeves, shorts, and shades. Zdenek and I had been dating for only a few months at the time and, freshly in love, we did everything as a unit (some things never change). When it came time to buy new sunglasses, he and I did it together by heading to Mountain Equipment Co-op, that Canadian one-stop-shop for all outdoor necessities. We decided on a pair of black framed Cebes that were, on his student and my post-doc salaries, a splurge.

It was only a few short months later that my previously referenced bicycle accident destroyed my new sunglasses. It was a good thing I was wearing them because the deep scratches across the lenses surely saved my eyes and face from the same fate. When I was barely mobile again, Zdenek and I headed back to MEC to purchase replacement glasses. And because Zdenek had developed a liking for my shades, we purchased two pairs that day. My replacement pair served me well during 5+ years of running, and, more significantly, represented the first in a long line of items for which Zdenek and I have purchased a his and hers set. Since then, our wardrobe has expanded to include identical running hats, Lulu jackets, Lulu pants, cycling shoes, and cycling socks, to name but a few.

In keeping with our motto that "if one is good, one for each of us must be better," this past weekend Zdenek and I headed to SoHo, that New York one-stop-shop for all things fashionable. We visited the Oakley store to purchase two pairs of Jawbones (popularized by Lance in this year's Tour). Zdenek took the white pair, I choose the black. Within 24 hours, however, buyers remorse set in, and I deemed the glasses too big and bulky for my face. Another trip to SoHo earlier this week replaced mine with this gorgeous pair of XLJ Flak Jackets (colour: "root beer"). For the first time in five years, Zdenek and I will be sporting different shades.

Last weekend, during our ride to Piermont, Caitlin apparently (I didn't hear it) commented to Zdenek that, to an outsider, it's obvious that he and I train together. I'm not sure what she meant by that, but I assumed at the time that it had something to do with the comfort with which I follow his wheel or the ease with which we ride beside one another. Thinking about it more, however, it occurs to me that there might have been an alternate explanation. At least we're now distinguishable from the neck up.