In orbit

Last night Zdenek and I watched a fascinating Nova episode called "Monster of the Milky Way." As we learned, there is likely a large (but not too large) black hole at the center of our galaxy. Luckily, our black hole is mostly in a "famine" state right now, and so it's not gobbling up everything around it and emitting harmful radiation in the process; it'll be another 10 million years at least before we all need to be wearing x-ray shields. Astronomers inferred the existence of our galactic black hole by tracking the velocities of stars orbiting the galactic center. As the stars approach the black hole, the immense gravitational pull speeds them up and whips them around on their elliptical orbits.

One of the questions that Zdenek and I pondered as we watched this show (and kept pausing it to argue -- it was like the blind leading the blind) was why orbits are so often elliptical rather than circular (although, to be fair, a circle is merely one form of an ellipse in with both axes are equal). My quick scan of the internet last night pulled up no satisfactory answers. Fortunately, I happen to work with dozens of PhD-level physicists, one of whom, in fact, previously studied and simulated the structure of the universe. Even better, he sits only four offices down the hall from me. As I suspected, he was indeed able to provide me with a clear explanation of how elliptical orbits are formed and why they persist, and he reassured me that the sun will likely burn out before we'll get eaten by a black hole. Apparently we have two or three billion years to go.

All of this is good news, because I'm supposed to be embarking on an elliptical orbit of my own on Saturday, and it would be unfortunate if some black hole or dying sun impeded my travels. We are heading home, and I can't wait. Leading up to this trip, I've been putting in as much running and cycling as I can find time for. It's been eleven days of consecutive runs or rides thus far, and my legs are starting to feel the burn. I keep pushing just a little bit more, though, because there awaits a ten day stretch during which cycling will be impossible and running will be limited.

Zdenek and I have commented several times in the last few weeks that only in the current economic climate would he have so much time for so much non-work-related activity. We keep watching and waiting, wondering when something big might happen to change our orbit, but in the meantime, we're taking full advantage. One might say that we're circling a black hole of our own right now, but so long as it doesn't gobble us up altogether, it only serves to make us go faster.

Timbit*5=Donut

I feel as though the summer is quickly coming to an end and I have a limited number of days on which the weather will be warm and the sky bright enough to cycle. I'm trying to make the most of every weekend we have left, and since we'll be out of town beginning Saturday, I was looking forward to a long and enjoyable ride with Zdenek and his bro this past weekend.

I find that my body gets the best deal by cycling on Saturday and saving my long run for Sunday. For some reason, it's much easier to run, rather than cycle, on tired legs. Perhaps it's because I'm a better adapted (and therefore more efficient) runner, but more likely it's because I'm rather immune to the inconveniences and pains of running (e.g., it is difficult), while I can always find things to complain about in cycling: too much traffic; my butt hurts; my hands hurt; too many pedestrians; my helmet is too tight; my glasses fog up; my toes hurt; my pedals are too stiff; my knee hurts; my gears are shifting funny; my butt hurts (again). The slightest bit of fatigue is bound to make a cycle seem like much more of a chore than simply zoning out and plodding along, no matter how bad the weather or how tired my body.

New York City has been hot, muggy, and afflicted with impromptu thunderstorms over the past several days. On Friday, we carefully studied the weather.com forecast and determined that we had a better chance of clear skies on Sunday than Saturday. We thus reversed our usual order of events and put in a solid 11 mile run under Saturday's sticky conditions. It never did rain that day. On Sunday (after I made the classic set-the-alarm-for-pm-instead-of-am mistake) we woke up slightly too late for any ride in Central Park that would be unimpeded by hundreds of wandering tourists and meandering pedicabs, but because a risk of thundershowers made a ride to and from Nyack a bit of gamble, we opted to take our chances in the Park. My brother-in-law bailed. While we managed 36 miles at a respectable pace, the road was a bit of a zoo by that hour and my legs were far too tired from the previous day's run to fully enjoy the ride. After Zdenek dropped me for the umpteenth time and I pedaled as hard as I could to catch him, he turned to me and said, "You must be really tired today." I'll try to pretend that he meant that in a sympathetic way. (And to add insult to injury, the promised thunderstorms failed to materialize.)

After so many raw deals, Zdenek and I finally visited a New York City Tim Hortons location on Sunday afternoon. But from the logo on the storefront, to the inside decor, to the selection of food and beverages, it simply wasn't what we were accustomed to. Nevertheless, we purchased one pound of coffee, which, much to my surprise and annoyance, cost over a dollar more than up north. Because we had walked almost 20 blocks to get there, I rewarded us with the purchase of two Timbits. They were dry and flavourless (what is going on here?). On the upside, we didn't have to pay anything for them, and the kind man behind the counter even threw in two more, no charge. As he explained, the cash registers have "no buttons for one Timbit, two Timbits, three Timbits...,"nor any quantity of Timbits less than ten (but if you buy five, they charge you for a donut). So as far as I can estimate, the best deal I got this weekend was worth $0.68.

A stormy start

Some especially ferocious weather ripped through New York City on Tuesday evening. It lasted only about 30 minutes and started just as I was going to bed, but it was evident by the simultaneous thunder and lightning over our Upper West Side brownstone that we were in the eye of the storm. I didn't think much of it until the following morning when we arrived for a mid-week cycle in Central Park. The carnage of branches and leaves across the road made cycling difficult at best, and dangerous at worst, and by the time we reached Engineer's Gate at East 90th Street, we were forced to turn back due to a felled tree further up the road.

The extent of the destruction wrought by this storm really sunk in when I read that over 100 trees had lost their lives Tuesday night, and an estimated 500 more had been severely "injured." While the roads had been cleared by the time we returned Thursday morning to attempt another ride, the fields in the upper half of the Park looked as though an arboreal mass murder had taken place. There was something very sad about seeing my favourite playground so damaged, and in some way I mourned the loss of so many majestic chestnuts, oaks, and elms. I had not realized on Tuesday night just how devastating that storm would be.

I also received a bit of disappointing personal news on Tuesday that, at the time, didn't seem too severe. In truth, it really isn't severe, and if it represents the worst of my problems, then I am very lucky indeed. I know it's something on which I shouldn't dwell another moment. But as my mood gradually soured on Wednesday, I realized that Tuesday's bit of bad news was only beginning to sink in and was affecting me more than I would have anticipated.

This morning didn't help make things much better: it was 29 degrees Celsius and 87% humidity by 7 am, but for some reason known only to my inner psyche, I forced myself to run a hard-ish 3.5 miles. It sucked. I struggled. It was perhaps the first run of my life on which I actually felt nauseous and dizzy, and all that within the first 15 minutes.

But last night I read an intriguing article in Runner's World about the potential for our psychological pain to manifest itself in the physical, and to create injuries where there should be none. I have no time or patience for injury right now; I'm enjoying cycling and running far too much to be sidelined by some silly pulled muscle or sore joint. Lest I wallow in my bad feelings any longer and end up sidelining myself for the rest of the summer and fall, I am going to end today's post with three positive thoughts:

1. Zdenek and I cycled a fast and furious 18 miles on Thursday morning. We knocked it out of the park, and we worked as a team of only two. It was the best ride of my life (though admittedly it helps that I started from scratch only one year ago).

2. I've been glued to the IAAF World Championships all week long, but Usain Bolt's 200 m sprint yesterday was something that I almost feel lucky to have witnessed. Even better, the men's and women's marathons are on this weekend, so I have much exciting sports viewing to look forward to.

3. In one week and one day I will be back home with friends and family. It's Take 2 on the 2009 summer vacation. It will be filled with time in the mountains and around lakes, hiking and swimming, eating and drinking. I'll get to spend almost five days with my girlfriends in the Okanagon Valley (pictured right), where we'll get caught up with one another, tour a few wineries, and celebrate the "hitching" of one of our gang.

So while this week may have gotten off to a stormy start (and while it's actually storming outside my window as I type this), there are rides to be ridden, marathons to be watched, and vacations to be had. Injuries, stay away!

A loyal friend

This past weekend, Zdenek and I visited Washington, D.C. It was my first time to the nation's capital and, while I was excited to finally make it there, the more important reason for the visit was to catch up with our friends, Matt and Jena. When you live far away from everyone as Zdenek and I do, it takes some time and energy to visit friends and family in far off places. But, as in all relationships, you get what you give, and maintaining good friendships demands a certain investment.

Maintaining a good relationship with my body also requires an investment of time and care. The quality of my bike rides and runs are directly proportional to the hours of sleep I got the night prior and the amount of high energy carbs consumed beforehand. On the other hand, their quality is inversely proportional to the number of alcoholic beverages imbibed in the last 48 hours. This past weekend, there was little sleep and no running; I wore my Asics only to walk through Arlington National Cemetery and up the Mall. Moreover, I replaced every ounce of perspiration with an equal quantity of local brews.

When I headed out for a run this morning, I wasn't expecting much from my body. Indeed, I had pretty much ignored its needs all weekend long, and I'd only run it for a total of five lactating miles last week. The weather at 6:30 am was unbearably hot and sticky, and I had given it only six hours of sleep to go on. I started cautiously, not sure whether or not my body would actually tolerate the abuse and neglect it had suffered recently, or whether it would engage in some sort of protest by giving me lead legs or simply stopping altogether. But after five miles, it had still not staged any revolt, and so I tested it further by picking up the pace slightly. About 6.5 miles in, I became confident that my body was in it for the long haul, so I quickend my step a little more and opted to take it on one more lap of the bottom loop of the Park. My body obliged.

To be sure, the entire 9.5 miles "we" ended up running still averaged a pretty slow pace, but it was a heroic effort for my body under the circumstances. If my body were a friend this morning, I would have given it a big, long hug. I would have thanked it for giving so selflessly on what I know was a morning on which it would have preferred to stay in bed. I would have told it how much I appreciate its loyalty in spite of my bad behaviour. My body was a real trouper today. But I would probably not have told it that I will never treat it that way ever again; after all, a good friend doesn't lie.

We're here! It's hot!

Lincoln was one important guy! And my ice cream was delicious!

A cocktail break on the rooftop lounge of the W Hotel allowed me to scope out the White House. No President in sight.

A suit I will never own

Milkin' it

There seems to be a lot of baby talk around me these days. I'm finally at the age (old) at which my friends are procreating with increasing frequency. (Judging by the profile pictures of my Facebook network, one would think that my friends are, on average, fourteen months old.) I never imagined that I would hear and talk so much about bellies, labour, breastfeeding, childcare, maternity leave, and much, much worse (and by "worse," I mean gorrier and more frightening). These discussions have been kept mostly between the girls, hence why I was a bit surprised to hear Zdenek say on Sunday that he, too, was lactating.

During the last two miles of our 10 miler on Sunday, Zdenek suddenly found some unusual reserve of energy and began to push the pace. I was still feeling the effects of the previous day's brick workout (or so I like to think), and so I told him to just go for it and meet me at the end. He took off more quickly than I had anticipated and I soon lost sight of him altogether. Later that evening, he told me that, while he felt good and was enjoying himself, he was actually lactating during those final two miles.

In fact, Zdenek meant to say that he was running at his lactate threshold pace, or the "running speed above which lactate (a by-product of glucose metabolism) begins to accumulate in your blood." He did not, I think, mean to imply that he was producing milk in any body part. After laughing at him (I mean, with him) for a good few minutes, we seriously pondered how one could properly convey that one was "running at LT pace." Lactating seems as good a word as any, really.

So yesterday, while running a very fast (for us) five miles, I asked, through shortened breaths, "You lactating yet?" "Yeah," he panted. "Me, too," I replied. Maybe some day that word will take on a different meaning (for me, at least; hopefully not for Zdenek), but for now, we are happy to be lactating together in our own, unique way.

25 New York minutes

Yesterday was a bit of a bummer. It was the hottest and stickiest day New York City has seen this summer, work went less than ideally, my next-door neighbor has bed bugs, and my entire evening was overshadowed by a dull, but definitely present, headache. As one friend, who was born and raised in Brooklyn, exclaimed, "Why does anyone live in this city?" But when asked where he'd rather live, he replied, "Nowhere. That's the problem!" It seems that every New Yorker, no matter how long they live here, has a love-hate relationship with what is simultaneously the greatest city in the world and the one most likely to cause you to die an early, stress-related death.

It was therefore with some trepidation that I headed back out on my bike this morning. The sticky air remained and my legs did not feel entirely refreshed from Day 35's rest, but at least the headache was gone and I hadn't spotted any bed bugs during the night. About one mile in, rounding the tight corner on the southeast bend of the Park (where I have seen at least one cyclist hauled away in an ambulance this year), I heard the whirr of a large pack of cyclists approaching from behind. I moved to the far side to let them pass. As they sped by me in a flurry of blue jerseys, Zdenek commanded, "Get on their wheels!" And so I did.

What happened next was a very challenging, but very rewarding, 10 miles. Zdenek and I rode smack in the middle of this peloton -- around the corners, up the hills, down the descents. It was somewhat nerve-wracking -- all those wheels spinning in such close proximity to one another -- but even more exhilarating. There was only one climb on which my husband sped away (leaving me to feel like poor Kloden on this year's Stage 17), but after a glance over his shoulder and no doubt a feeling of pity, he slowed down and then returned me to the peloton like the good domestique that he is. When we clocked our first loop in the fastest time I have ever posted (by a long shot!), the expression on my face was one of both surprise and thrill. Drafting off one husband is an advantage, but riding in a pack of talented riders is a treat. My little red Giant did not go unnoticed, either: one fellow cyclist rode up beside me to ask if my awesome paint job was customized, because he had never seen anything like it.

When we finally parted ways with our impromptu peloton and continued on our own for an easier 10 miles, I was relieved to see clearly the road in front of me and to not concentrate so hard on avoiding a fatal bump of tires (or worse). This sport may never make a racer out of me. But for 25 minutes this morning, I was thankful to live in New York City. Things may move very quickly here, but it's sometimes possible to keep up.

Day 35

This morning I was very relieved for the rain. At least, I'm told that it was raining, but I never really saw it for myself. When the alarm went off at 5:30 am, Zdenek got out of bed and returned 30 seconds later, telling me that it was "dark and rainy and we're going back to sleep for another hour. No cycling." I didn't argue.

Saturday mornings, forever my "long run" time, are now dedicated to a "long cycle," at least while the weather cooperates. Last Saturday, however, Zdenek and I were forced to turn back early on our ride to Nyack, because another cyclist had been in a serious accident on the road ahead of us and the police had shut down the 9W highway. I almost regret putting this into my blog, because I know that, if my mother is reading this, I am going to get a lecture on the perils of taking to the roads on two wheels. Mom, no need: that accident actually scared me sufficiently such that, this past Saturday, I opted for running over cycling. Or at least I considered running instead of cycling, but soon decided that I simply love my little red Giant too much and couldn't bear letting her sit idle on such a beautiful, sunny Saturday morning. So Zdenek and I headed out that morning with two new cycling buddies, Adam and Jen, and we enjoyed a moderately challenging and very talkative 50 miles together. In fact, when we returned to the UWS around 1 pm, the weather was still so beautiful and my legs were feeling so good, I decided to "brick it."

Learning to be a "biathlete" -- if I can call myself that -- can be pretty tough. Thus far, I've managed to head out cycling on the non-rainy days and reserve running for the times that my schedule calls for a bit more flexibility. At last count, I have either run or cycled 32 times in the last 34 days. I have occasionally run and cycled on the same day, usually 10 to 12 hours apart, but until Saturday, I have never stacked a run directly on top of a 50 mile ride. In considering whether I should immediately lace up my running shoes and head back out, I realized that, in an Ironman race, one is expected to complete an entire marathon after a 112-mile bike ride (and, of course, a 2.4 mile swim). So then what's a 4 mile run following a 50 mile ride? It's a cool-down, right?

Truth be told, the run didn't feel too bad. I ran the relatively flat roads of Riverside Park for a change, and though I'm not sure exactly how fast I went, my legs fell into a somewhat normal rhythm after about 10 minutes. I returned home to my already-rested husband, pleased with myself for completing my first brick workout. (It also helped to lessen the guilt that evening when we indulged in a full tasting menu with wine pairings, though I'm not sure how many bites of dessert those four miles really bought me.) On Sunday morning, I was still feeling good enough to run another 10 miles or so. Perhaps I had become an Ironwoman (or maybe a half or quarter of one) without even trying to?

But this morning dashed any dreams I might have of making it to Kona anytime soon. I was relieved to forgo a bike ride for another hour of sleep, and just lying in bed, my legs felt heavy and lead-like. I'm probably not the first aspiring multi-sport athlete to surmise that the "brick" refers not to the sequence of workouts, but to the state of one's muscles following said workouts. This morning was a very welcome rain day indeed.

Burning!

Last night I dreamt about a professional, although fictional, bicycle race. In my dream, this race was two weeks long, though it wasn't clear in which European country it was taking place. What was clear, however, was the daily play-by-play of all the cyclists and their strategies. The first week of my dream race was all mountain stages, and the second week was mostly flat with a few time trials (inexplicably, Fabian wasn't there). It was all very exciting -- like having my own little sports channel playing in my brain. Lance Armstrong was competing, and he adopted an unusual strategy of riding as hard as possible, burning up the course on every single stage until he had nothing left. This would probably be a poor tactic in a real race, though it would no doubt make for exciting spectating. In my dream, after one of the mountain stages, I interviewed Lance Armstrong, who only wanted to talk about one thing -- Lance Armstrong (likely an accurate representation). In any event, I'm not sure what all of this means, and I don't know why I'm mentioning it here, except for the fact that it affirms one thing: I have officially become one of the cycling-obsessed.

Zdenek and I have been burning up the roads ourselves lately, and if I owned more cycling attire, we might actually be out there every single day. It's been burning hot in New York, too, so the breeze experienced during riding is far preferable to the hot soup sensation during running. I'm enjoying drafting off Zdenek as much as possible, since this provides both of us with a challenging workout. But try as I might, I've been known to get dropped from time to time, especially on the hills. I don't like having to holler at him to slow down, since that makes me look like a bit of a lightweight in front of the Central Park riding elite. But Zdenek and I have now come up with a secret code word that I can yell out from behind whenever I notice that the gap between his rear wheel and my front one is increasing at an alarming rate: burning. (And nobody needs to know that this refers to the fact that my legs are on fire and I cannot possibly push any harder to catch up.)

Yesterday it was another scorcher in New York, but Zdenek and I rushed home in time for a five mile run in the Park. We tried to stick to the soft surface and cooler shade of the bridle path, but it was still an extremely difficult, uncomfortable 40 minutes. With about one mile to go, on the last big hill of our route, I looked over my shoulder at my hot and sweaty husband. It was obvious that he was enjoying this run very little and would not be happy to pick it up a notch. But then I just decided to go for it. I shifted to a higher gear. It was very Lance-esque of me. And from behind me came a sound: "Burning!"