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!