This week got off to a poor start. After hitting the snooze button no less than five times on Monday morning, Zdenek and I dragged our groggy selves out of bed for a scheduled bike ride. We skipped our morning coffee -- a huge mistake given our lack of sleep -- and could barely keep our legs moving as we rode around Central Park at our slowest pace in over a year. It was truly pathetic, and one of those days on which we would have been better off just staying in bed and grabbing another hour or two of shut-eye.
Monday and Tuesday were spent in a picturesque setting at my company’s off-site retreat, and while there were a plethora of outdoor activities at our disposal (including hiking, running, and mountain biking), yours truly declined to take full (any?) advantage of the scheduled playtimes. On Monday I mostly paddled around the lake before retreating to the bar at 4 pm. By Tuesday I was feeling good enough to sit on a horse for a 45 minute trail ride. My horse, Fresco, was 35 years old -- which makes him about 102 in human years -- but he showed more spunk and energy than the lame 31 year-old riding on his back.
Back in New York on Wednesday, I was greeted by 98% humidity. Ah, the New York summer. Why people actually settled here instead of continuing on further West is something I may never understand. My Wednesday run was horribly slow and it felt similar to running through hot soup (or at least what I imagine running through hot soup to feel like), and the rest of the week has been much of the same. This morning found me once again desperately needing more sleep after another company party last night.
I really should have stayed in bed for another hour, but instead I forced myself to lace up my running shoes and suffer through it; I needed to make up for my slothful days earlier in the week. It was a pretty painful start to the morning, and cutting through the dense, humid air didn't make me feel any more awake. But about five minutes into my run, it started to sprinkle, and by ten minutes in, I was running through a heavy downpour in Central Park. It was the kind of warm, unrelenting thunderstorm that only a sticky New York summer day can bring. I continued on my five miles, drenched to the core, squishing water between my toes with every step. I tried to wring the rain from my heavy, sopping shirt, but this proved to be a futile endeavor. I had to wipe my eyes every few hundred meters to even see where I was going. I was soaked.
But as I ran, I realized that I was smiling, and then I noticed that most of the other soggy runners whom I passed were smiling, too. It was the kind of run that most runners would not actively leave the house to experience. If it had begun raining only 10 minutes sooner, I am certain I would have logged five fewer miles today. But it was the kind of run which made obvious the simplicity and playfulness of putting one foot in front of the other, splashing through puddles, feeling clean and alive. The only people in the Park this morning who didn't look very pleased were the cyclists.
Friday, July 31, 2009
Unscheduled playtime
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Old
Le Tour finally finished today, which means that I might finally get a bit of my life back. I am a bit surprised at how engrossed I became in this 21 day bicycle race, but I think I've found a lifelong addiction that will now have to wait another year for a fix. Obviously Lance Armstrong's return to the Tour this year was the favourite subject among the American commentators, and even though I'm not a huge fan of Armstrong myself (I throw my support behind Fabian), even I must admit that it's pretty impressive for a guy of his age to make the podium, especially after a long hiatus from the sport.
It's funny to refer to Armstrong as an "old guy" -- even though among fellow Tour riders he most certainly is -- because I'm not that far behind him (and Zdenek is even closer!). I guess that makes me an old woman, or close to it. Try as I might, I'm rapidly realizing that I am having a tough time keeping up with the younger generation. This morning, with a throbbing head and pasty dry mouth, I conceded that our six hour East and West Village drinking fest last night (with a couple of friends who were born in the 80s -- believe it!) had taken a serious toll. With every hangover, I age a little more quickly, and I recover that much more slowly. It took me until 2 pm today to get outside for my run.
Zdenek, on the other hand, found himself reliving the moments of his youth on our Saturday bike ride. At the Piermont cafe where we stopped to get a smoothie, a cute blond girl started putting the moves on my husband. When we got back on our bikes, Zdenek commented that it had been a "long time" since that had happened to him, so I'm happy that he got to feel like a young stud again. It must have been his Saxobank jersey; maybe she mistook him for Fabian.
It's funny to refer to Armstrong as an "old guy" -- even though among fellow Tour riders he most certainly is -- because I'm not that far behind him (and Zdenek is even closer!). I guess that makes me an old woman, or close to it. Try as I might, I'm rapidly realizing that I am having a tough time keeping up with the younger generation. This morning, with a throbbing head and pasty dry mouth, I conceded that our six hour East and West Village drinking fest last night (with a couple of friends who were born in the 80s -- believe it!) had taken a serious toll. With every hangover, I age a little more quickly, and I recover that much more slowly. It took me until 2 pm today to get outside for my run.
Zdenek, on the other hand, found himself reliving the moments of his youth on our Saturday bike ride. At the Piermont cafe where we stopped to get a smoothie, a cute blond girl started putting the moves on my husband. When we got back on our bikes, Zdenek commented that it had been a "long time" since that had happened to him, so I'm happy that he got to feel like a young stud again. It must have been his Saxobank jersey; maybe she mistook him for Fabian.
This seems like as good an opportunity as any to post a photo of my cycling heartthrob
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Will ride for food
An unexpected consequence of my new cycling hobby has been my growing and rather committed interest in Le Tour de France. In years past, I feigned excitement as Zdenek tried to explain to me the tactical moves and gruelling terrain that make Le Tour so thrilling, but it just didn't make much sense to me, and 21 days of 3+ hour televised events seemed like a colossal waste of time. This year, however, has been different, and I've been a dedicated viewer since the start (and not just to ogle Fabian, either, although his presence in the Tour certainly doesn't hurt).
I now realize that competitive cycling is rather difficult to appreciate without having experienced, first-hand, the joys of drafting or what a 7% grade really feels like; because I can finally relate in some small way, I view Le Tour as only a cyclist can. But one thing stands out about the professional riders, aside from their ability to cycle 100+ miles, day after day: their weight (or lack thereof). An interesting piece in this weekend's NYTimes highlighted just how regimented a diet these athletes keep to maintain their boyish, almost skeletal figures, and how post-workout beers are absolutely prohibited. In fact, the Tour riders sometimes need to be reminded or inticed to eat.
It is here that Zdenek and I part ways with the professional elite (assuming we hadn't already done so on a 7% climb). Eating and drinking may, in fact, be the two most important reasons that we run and cycle, rather than the other way around. This weekend was a case-in-point: we enjoyed a moderately difficult but gorgeous 55 mile ride with Caitlin and Adam on Saturday morning (which I hope will become our regular weekend event), and then rewarded ourselves with a bottle of wine, pizza, prosciutto, and pie and ice cream. Sunday morning saw us running a solid 12 miles, but spending the rest of the afternoon in the Bohemian beer gardens with friends, drinking Czech brew and snacking on bratwursts.
Athletes we might be, dieters we are not.
My first cycling picture
The peleton: Adam (l), me (c), and Caitlin (r)
Sexy Saxobank rider (just like Fabian)
I now realize that competitive cycling is rather difficult to appreciate without having experienced, first-hand, the joys of drafting or what a 7% grade really feels like; because I can finally relate in some small way, I view Le Tour as only a cyclist can. But one thing stands out about the professional riders, aside from their ability to cycle 100+ miles, day after day: their weight (or lack thereof). An interesting piece in this weekend's NYTimes highlighted just how regimented a diet these athletes keep to maintain their boyish, almost skeletal figures, and how post-workout beers are absolutely prohibited. In fact, the Tour riders sometimes need to be reminded or inticed to eat.
It is here that Zdenek and I part ways with the professional elite (assuming we hadn't already done so on a 7% climb). Eating and drinking may, in fact, be the two most important reasons that we run and cycle, rather than the other way around. This weekend was a case-in-point: we enjoyed a moderately difficult but gorgeous 55 mile ride with Caitlin and Adam on Saturday morning (which I hope will become our regular weekend event), and then rewarded ourselves with a bottle of wine, pizza, prosciutto, and pie and ice cream. Sunday morning saw us running a solid 12 miles, but spending the rest of the afternoon in the Bohemian beer gardens with friends, drinking Czech brew and snacking on bratwursts.
Athletes we might be, dieters we are not.
My first cycling picture
The peleton: Adam (l), me (c), and Caitlin (r) 
Sexy Saxobank rider (just like Fabian) 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.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
A birthday tribute
My earliest memory of being on a bike does not involve riding it at all. As the youngest of three children (by a significant number of years), I was always the peanut of the family who was too small to keep up with the recreational pursuits of my parents and older brother and sister. When they went skiing in the Canadian Rockies, I stayed in the daycare at the foot of slopes and napped. When we camped away our summers in BC, and my brother, sister, and cousins were swimming in the lake or careening down the slides at the adjacent waterslide park, I waded up to my knees with water wings on. But when we went cycling, I was able to participate.
During these family bike rides of my early childhood, I never rode my own two-wheeler, but rather was seated comfortably in a yellow bucket seat attached to the back of my mom's bike. To this day, I'm still not certain why my mother, rather than my father, was forced to haul me around, but I have fond memories of riding through Fish Creek Provincial Park, enjoying the biking experience without having to exert any effort. A few years later, I would actually pedal my own bike (I believe it was called, "Strawberry Shortcake") alongside my mom and dad. True, they were walking and I would keep up by riding beside them, but our paces were well matched. My mom and I haven't been on a bike together in years, but every time we are in the same place, we typically end up on long and rather vigorous walks, allowing us plenty of time to get caught up on all the things we miss in each other's lives by living so far apart. In the last few years, my mom and I discovered cross-country skiing. Here our abilities are aligned, and I know that this is something we will continue to enjoy in the years to come.
My mother is an extraordinary woman. I've known her all my life -- in fact, I've known her longer than I've known anyone -- so I feel rather confident in saying this. She is an incredibly cool woman -- that is, she is one of the calmest and least stressed people I know. She takes every bump along the road in stride. And while all mothers are generous, particularly towards their children, my mom is constantly giving of her time, her talents, and her love to those around her. I suspect that she adopted this trait from her own mother, whom she references often, and while "generous" is not the first word I would use to describe myself, I try to live by her example each day.
During these family bike rides of my early childhood, I never rode my own two-wheeler, but rather was seated comfortably in a yellow bucket seat attached to the back of my mom's bike. To this day, I'm still not certain why my mother, rather than my father, was forced to haul me around, but I have fond memories of riding through Fish Creek Provincial Park, enjoying the biking experience without having to exert any effort. A few years later, I would actually pedal my own bike (I believe it was called, "Strawberry Shortcake") alongside my mom and dad. True, they were walking and I would keep up by riding beside them, but our paces were well matched. My mom and I haven't been on a bike together in years, but every time we are in the same place, we typically end up on long and rather vigorous walks, allowing us plenty of time to get caught up on all the things we miss in each other's lives by living so far apart. In the last few years, my mom and I discovered cross-country skiing. Here our abilities are aligned, and I know that this is something we will continue to enjoy in the years to come.
My mother is an extraordinary woman. I've known her all my life -- in fact, I've known her longer than I've known anyone -- so I feel rather confident in saying this. She is an incredibly cool woman -- that is, she is one of the calmest and least stressed people I know. She takes every bump along the road in stride. And while all mothers are generous, particularly towards their children, my mom is constantly giving of her time, her talents, and her love to those around her. I suspect that she adopted this trait from her own mother, whom she references often, and while "generous" is not the first word I would use to describe myself, I try to live by her example each day.
My mom and me in the Galapagos Islands, 2008
While I have said that I am "back home" this week, this isn't quite accurate. In fact, my true "home," or at the least the one in which I grew up, is thousands of miles away in Calgary, Canada. I miss home constantly, but perhaps more so today. July 12 marks my mom's 65th birthday, and my entire family is together celebrating at my parents' vacation home in the mountains of British Columbia. Perhaps they are swimming, biking, or hiking. Central Park may be lovely, but I know where I'd rather be today.
Happy Birthday, Mom!
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Back home
When Zdenek and I returned back to the Big Apple on Tuesday, we were pleasantly surprised to find mostly sunny skies and a relative lack of humidity. This being quite unusual weather for NYC, and given that we had eaten and imbibed a bit too much over the last 10 days, we took full advantage of our last vacation day by going for a seven mile run in Central Park.
As we trod side by side through the ups and downs of Central Park's moderately challenging -- but always delightful -- course, we were bemused to find that (a) our pace was a pretty respectable one, and (b) it didn't feel half bad! This was surprising because, although we weren't total sloths during our vacation, the four (Zdenek) or five (me) short, relatively flat runs we did manage to squeeze in (we even get up at 6:30 am on vacation days!) had left us feeling tired and weak. So how in the world could seven miles on a somewhat more challenging course feel so right?
While on vacation, I met a rather interesting Aussie (whose first name I cannot recall, but whose last name was "Shirley"). He didn't seem terribly interesting at first, mostly because he was sitting next to me on a bar stool reading a book. That's right -- a book in a pub, and just as the musical entertainment was about to begin. After a few minutes, though, I took pity on the guy and decided he must be very sad and lonely to be reading in such a venue, so I struck up a conversation to keep him company (who wouldn't rather talk to me than read their book?).
As it turned out, Mr. Shirley was a bit lonely, because he was on a business trip to Nova Scotia from his current home in California. After talking with him for some time, I was astounded to learn that he has visited fifty countries through work and travel. Fifty countries! I am not even sure that I could name fifty countries, and I think my own list numbers about a dozen. So I asked Mr. Shirley, who has seen far more of the world than most people, where he thinks is the best possible place in which to live. Predictably, he replied, "Oz."
Obviously this has a lot to do with the simple fact that familiarity breeds comfort. We gravitate towards the places we know best, because we feel best when we are there, hence the old saying that "home is where the heart is." I'm also realizing, however, that familiarity breeds success, at least when it comes to athletics. Stage 4 of this year's Tour de France was a case point: Team Astana whipped the competition, not on sheer talent alone, but because they had previewed the course extensively and therefore knew it better than any other team out there. There's also the fact that marathon runners are recommended to drive, if not run a portion of, the race course prior to race day. Knowing the twists and turns that may arise helps immensely to prepare appropriately and thus put one's mind at ease. In my own cycling, I'm finding that I can be a bit more aggressive and cycle a little harder each time out, because the roads to and from my apartment (including those in the Park) are becoming ingrained in my cycling brain.
Sometimes I feel that I know every bend and incline on the Park's loop better than I do the back of my own hand: the gradual rise by Tavern on the Green; the slight uphill by the merry-go-round; the fact that the first hill after the 102nd Street transverse is moderately more challenging than the one by the 86th Street reservoir. I know the placement of every water fountain; I know how many minutes to knock off my loop if I run counter-clockwise instead of clockwise; I know, to three decimal places, the exact mileage of every permutation and combination of the Park's myriad of routes. How else to explain Tuesday's run but to say that Central Park is home? I run well there (at least most of the time) because I run without thinking; I run well there because it is where I feel I belong.
As we trod side by side through the ups and downs of Central Park's moderately challenging -- but always delightful -- course, we were bemused to find that (a) our pace was a pretty respectable one, and (b) it didn't feel half bad! This was surprising because, although we weren't total sloths during our vacation, the four (Zdenek) or five (me) short, relatively flat runs we did manage to squeeze in (we even get up at 6:30 am on vacation days!) had left us feeling tired and weak. So how in the world could seven miles on a somewhat more challenging course feel so right?
While on vacation, I met a rather interesting Aussie (whose first name I cannot recall, but whose last name was "Shirley"). He didn't seem terribly interesting at first, mostly because he was sitting next to me on a bar stool reading a book. That's right -- a book in a pub, and just as the musical entertainment was about to begin. After a few minutes, though, I took pity on the guy and decided he must be very sad and lonely to be reading in such a venue, so I struck up a conversation to keep him company (who wouldn't rather talk to me than read their book?).
As it turned out, Mr. Shirley was a bit lonely, because he was on a business trip to Nova Scotia from his current home in California. After talking with him for some time, I was astounded to learn that he has visited fifty countries through work and travel. Fifty countries! I am not even sure that I could name fifty countries, and I think my own list numbers about a dozen. So I asked Mr. Shirley, who has seen far more of the world than most people, where he thinks is the best possible place in which to live. Predictably, he replied, "Oz."
Obviously this has a lot to do with the simple fact that familiarity breeds comfort. We gravitate towards the places we know best, because we feel best when we are there, hence the old saying that "home is where the heart is." I'm also realizing, however, that familiarity breeds success, at least when it comes to athletics. Stage 4 of this year's Tour de France was a case point: Team Astana whipped the competition, not on sheer talent alone, but because they had previewed the course extensively and therefore knew it better than any other team out there. There's also the fact that marathon runners are recommended to drive, if not run a portion of, the race course prior to race day. Knowing the twists and turns that may arise helps immensely to prepare appropriately and thus put one's mind at ease. In my own cycling, I'm finding that I can be a bit more aggressive and cycle a little harder each time out, because the roads to and from my apartment (including those in the Park) are becoming ingrained in my cycling brain.
Sometimes I feel that I know every bend and incline on the Park's loop better than I do the back of my own hand: the gradual rise by Tavern on the Green; the slight uphill by the merry-go-round; the fact that the first hill after the 102nd Street transverse is moderately more challenging than the one by the 86th Street reservoir. I know the placement of every water fountain; I know how many minutes to knock off my loop if I run counter-clockwise instead of clockwise; I know, to three decimal places, the exact mileage of every permutation and combination of the Park's myriad of routes. How else to explain Tuesday's run but to say that Central Park is home? I run well there (at least most of the time) because I run without thinking; I run well there because it is where I feel I belong.
13
Number of Tim Hortons stores said to be opening in NYC on Monday, July 13.
Fortuitously enough, we neglected to bring back any Tim's from Canada this time around, incorrectly assuming there would be a shop at our gate in the airport (there was not). The timing of this announcement therefore could not be better.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Live from Cape Breton Island
During our last day on Cape Breton Island, we visited the Red Shoe Pub in Mabou, home of the Rankin Family. We were treated to a Ceilidh by some talented young locals, and I decided to record a bit so that everyone could enjoy. So, enjoy!
Jodi & Zdenek go to the Maritimes (and even spot a moose)!
It was mostly cold, almost always cloudy, and we drove way too much. Indeed, it wasn't what one might call a "vacation," and it has sort of left us feeling like we could use one. Rather, we'll remember this trip for what it was: a history lesson, a chance to explore an important part of our home country, and an opportunity to indulge in some of the world's best seafood. Here are a few of the shots we were able to take through fog and clouds.
Peggy's Cove, Nova Scotia
(Day one; we're trying not to let the crappy weather get us down)
In Lunenburg, Nova Scotia, aboard the Bluenose II
Sea Caves at St Martins, New Brunswick, during low tide
We had "World Famous Chowder" here, and it seriously lived up to its name!
Fundy National Park, New Brunswick
It was dark and rainy, and we had the Park to ourselves.
A rainforest-like setting in Fundy National Park
Have you seen bigger lobsters?!
(We took a 1.5-pounder home with us.)
Cape Enrage in New Brunswick
(Once again, we were the only two people around, as was the case for much of our trip.)
We spotted a whale here!
The magnificent Hopewell Rocks at the Bay of Fundy
At high tide, the water goes up to the trees!
The "Apple" rock
What the...?
Mmmmm.....
This is about the best weather we got in Prince Edward Island
Most delicious Cows ice cream in PEI
It was dark and pretty miserable, but PEI was still stunning
Lupins, lupins, everywhere!
Zdenek and our first Prime Minister
(Once again, we were the only two people in the place.)
We sampled many delicious microbrews along the way
Confederation House in PEI, upon which they were displaying a Canada Day light show
The wet and foggy beginning of the stunning Cabot Trail
Near Meat Cove on the Cabot Trail, Cape Breton Island
(Someone must have taken pity on us and decided to show us a bit of blue sky.)
Moose!!!
The picturesque Cabot Trail
This looks a lot like Manhattan
Not wanting to leave after finding the one sunny spot on the Island
A soggy, miserable day at Louisbourg, Cape Breton Island
Why the French and the English actually waged battle over this terrible place is beyond us!
A few rays of sunshine at Inverness Beach, Cape Breton (it was still cold, though)
I had a hard time leaving my beer; this was the first (and last) sunshine we saw in days
At the Glenora whiskey distillery in Cape Breton
C'est tout!
2465
Number of email messages in my inbox upon arriving back home.
(This does not include folders other than my inbox, to which an additional 100+ messages were directed, nor does it include the 250+ messages in my personal email account. Sometimes I wonder if vacation is really relaxing, after all.)
(This does not include folders other than my inbox, to which an additional 100+ messages were directed, nor does it include the 250+ messages in my personal email account. Sometimes I wonder if vacation is really relaxing, after all.)
Monday, July 6, 2009
By the numbers
Three provinces
Eleven days
2750 kilometers driven
23 miles ran
15 miles hiked
Ten days of no sun
One day of pouring rain
Four local microbrews
Two ceilidhs
Three moose
Two ferry rides
Countless bowls of seafood chowder
One lost Blackberry charger, so I need to sign off now
(Back in NYC tomorrow)
Eleven days
2750 kilometers driven
23 miles ran
15 miles hiked
Ten days of no sun
One day of pouring rain
Four local microbrews
Two ceilidhs
Three moose
Two ferry rides
Countless bowls of seafood chowder
One lost Blackberry charger, so I need to sign off now
(Back in NYC tomorrow)
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