Unscheduled playtime

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.