We are family

To borrow a phrase that Zdenek used recently, all is (still) quiet on the Eastern front. The +1 seems to be enjoying his/her current abode, and has made no indications that he/she is ready to face life in the Big Apple outside the comfort of my uterus. It could still be a long haul from here. I'm due tomorrow, but don't feel anything close to it.

In fact, I'm feeling remarkably good, and as a result, Zdenek and I have enjoyed a lovely "staycation" together this week. It's the first Christmas we've spent apart from our families, but, as Zdenek reminded me last week, we are family. And so we've indulged in a week of great baking, cooking, and eating; logging 8-9 hours of sleep each night; strolls through the piles of snow that fell on Boxing Day; daily runs in Central Park together (I'm still running 4-5 miles each day in sub-10 minute/mile pace!); shopping and movies (we've now seen every major contender for this year's Best Picture); and one very lavish lunch at one of New York's finest establishments. Best of all, unlike some vacations, this one has been completely void of any arguments, drama, or stress.

Though one of the members hasn't been brave enough to show their face, this family has had a most memorable Christmas vacation together.

This is only a test

With the holidays fast approaching and my due date looming, Zdenek and I have been contemplating the “ideal” day to have the baby (as if we have any choice in the matter). An earlier arrival might suck for the little one who has to share his/her birthday with the Christmas holiday every year; on the other hand, it would be good timing from a work perspective for both Zdenek and me. A later arrival, however, means a few more days to enjoy life without a crying baby in the room, and sometimes this seems even more attractive than the 2010 tax credit we’d earn if the delivery day comes before the year is through.

Recently, though, I’ve been leaning towards “later is better,” if only because I feel entirely unprepared to look after a baby. I know what everyone says: You’re never ready. You’ll figure it out. Instinct takes over. Once it’s your baby, it will be totally different. But still, I can’t help but feel that, despite the hours of “baby care” classes in which we’ve invested and the books I’ve sifted through, I won’t really have a clue what I’m doing.

To frame things in a perspective to which I can relate, I’ve tried to compare the first few months of baby-rearing to running a marathon: I’ve done the work to get here. I’ve read the books and followed the plan. Now we’re in taper, and I’m starting to feel antsy and achy and unprepared. I start to question whether I should have put in a just a little more effort along the way, or if there’s anything I can do between now and game day to improve my chances of a strong performance. The coaches will tell me that there’s nothing more to be done; now I just need to give it my best effort. When race day arrives, adrenaline will probably get me through the first bit of the course. By the halfway point, a small bump in the road is going to feel like scaling Mount Everest. Two-thirds of the way in, I’ll start to question whether I’m cut out for this at all, and soon after that, self-doubt and exhaustion may lead me to swear under my breath that I will never, ever do this again. And then, I’ll somehow stumble across the finish line (often leaning over to one side), too tired to contemplate the feat I’ve just accomplished. Some time later, when I’m recovered and things are back on their usual schedule, I’ll marvel at the experience and remember the thrill of it all, and the suffering will have seemed a small price to pay for such a rewarding outcome. And so I’ll decide to do it again (perhaps even seven more times!).

Over the weekend, when I mentioned my self-doubts to Zdenek, he offered a different analogy: “Don’t you remember the feeling in university when you’d walk into an exam feeling totally unprepared and like you were going to bomb it, and you ended up acing it instead?” I don’t know if Zdenek feels as confident on the inside as he’s appearing to be on the outside, but either way, I’m glad that one of us isn’t stressing too much about this. Because at some point last night, when I again became overwhelmed by the daunting task that lies ahead of me, the only things that eventually lulled me back to sleep were Zdenek’s incredible patience and his calming words (if I haven’t mentioned it enough, let me again say that my husband is the world’s greatest). This morning, as he headed off to work, exhausted both physically and mentally but not complaining one bit, I told him that he had proven himself capable of soothing someone in the middle of the night and sacrificing his own sleep to so. By his own analogy, he had aced the test. Which makes me incredibly lucky to be in his study group.
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P.S. Yes, I'm still running, and it still feels pretty darn good. I ran 6.5 miles in one shot on Saturday, but decided to stop there due to thirst (apparently dehydration brings on labor, but I try to restrict the liquids when I'm running). Here's a photo of me in my new running gear:

Recipe for a perfect winter morning

A perfect morning goes something like this:

1. Waking up after eight full hours of sleep.
2. Seeing the first dusting of snow on the ground.
3. Heading out for a 4.5 mile run with my husband in the cold winter air.
4. Having Central Park mostly to ourselves because New Yorkers can't handle it when the mercury dips below freezing.
5. Running a relatively easy ~9:20 pace without needing to stop once.
6. Enjoying a bagel with Nutella for breakfast, while laughing out loud reading this.

Does it have to be a competition?

This morning I enjoyed one of the easiest runs I’ve had in several weeks. I ran just over 4.5 miles without needing to stop once, and my pace was just shy of 9:30 min/mile. Of course, I felt like I was absolutely flying around Central Park -- it’s funny how 9:30 feels like 7:30 did only ten months ago. But I don’t mind; I anticipate I’ll have 7:30 days again at some point. On the weekend, I ran just over 6 miles on my own (at a bit slower pace and with a couple of walk breaks). By the end of it, I was still feeling strong and relatively light, and I almost considered tacking on another couple of miles. But then I figured that it’s better to quit while I’m ahead, because the last time I ran over seven miles I paid for it dearly. I’ll consider today’s run proof that my prudence did not go unrewarded.

I’m just over two weeks away from my due date and, to be honest, at times I get worried that perhaps I’m feeling too good (or rather, not poorly enough). Aside from a whole lot of kicking and squirming that can sometimes make me yelp out loud, I feel mostly fine. While I certainly prefer my non-pregnant state, I really don’t have much in the way of bloating/aches/pains/fatigue/inability to sleep. Of course, all of that could change at any moment (watch this space), but sometimes I think that maybe I should feel worse, because that would mean the baby is feeling better. Could this be true? Is it possible for us both to feel healthy and happy at the same time? Or is comfort (as sleep is sure to be in a few weeks) a zero-sum game between me and the +1?

Still going...

I am delighted to report that, at 36.5 weeks and only three days away from being officially “full term,” I am still running. This morning, despite grey skies and extremely windy, frigid weather, I was all too happy to be out there on the bridle path, looping the reservoir and breathing in the fresh air. I have been able to avoid the gym for almost a week now, and the longer I can stay away, the better.

Yes, it is slow running, but I think it’s still a moderately respectable 9:45-10 min/mile. True, I have to stop and walk from time to time and at very unpredictable intervals (sometimes I can go 15 minutes trouble-free, but sometimes I need another break after two minutes), but I figure that’s the least I can do for the sake of my internal organs. No, I’m not doing the distance to which I am accustomed, though I did manage 11 miles over the weekend (over two days, but who’s counting?) and four more this morning. And while I know I look extremely cumbersome / unattractive -- I wear some combination of Zdenek’s large running shirts, my tights, and a large support belt under my waist -- at this point, I am beyond caring. I’ve accepted that it has become (and will surely continue to be, even after the +1 arrives) a matter of putting one foot in front of the other, and taking it day by day.

Not with a bang but a whimper

I laughed out loud this morning reading a NY Times article about cycling and running injuries. The author, who compares the mental and physical tolls of cycling and running injuries, describes her recent cycling accident (emphasis mine):

My crash came 8.9 miles into a 100-mile ride (of course I knew the distance, because of course I was watching my bicycle computer). My friend Jen Davis was taking a turn leading; my husband, Bill, was drafting — riding close behind her. I was drafting Bill when a slower rider meandered into his path. Bill swerved and I hit his wheel. Down I went.

The first thing I did when I hit the ground was turn off my stopwatch — I did not want accident time to count toward our riding time. Then I sat on a curb, dazed. My head had hit the road, but my helmet saved me. My left thigh was so bruised it was hard to walk. Worst of all was a searing pain in my left shoulder. I could hardly move my arm. But since it hurt whether I rode or not, I decided, like an idiot, to finish the ride.

The next day I went to a doctor and learned, to my shock, that my collarbone was broken. Running is my sport, I thought, and no ride is worth this.

It appears that the author and I share more than our love of biking and running. We also seem to share an obsession with times and logs, and, of course, a sometimes tragic inability to know when to call it a day.

My own story began last Sunday during my usual long weekend run. I have happily kept up 30-40 miles per week through this whole pregnancy, and my long runs have averaged 10-12 miles without any apparent consequences (other than a voracious appetite). Beginning around week 25 (for the uninitiated, a pregnancy is meant to be 40 weeks), I started to think of my running in terms of weekly goals: Just get to week 26. Okay, see if you can still be running at week 27. Wouldn’t it be amazing to run 10K at week 30?

So there I was, at 34 weeks and a few days, enjoying some beautiful weather and the company of my husband in Central Park. Only the week prior I had run over 11 miles in one shot and felt great, and I had already put in 17 miles over the course of the current week, with a full rest day on Saturday. Sunday’s run was sure to be a breeze.

And it was, until about mile seven, when I stopped for a drink of water. Suddenly, I felt a stiff pain creep through my pelvis and down the fronts of my legs. I tried to start running again, but it took some time to get the gears going. Once I was moving, though, the pain went away, and I was running carefree for a couple more miles. But then, at the next water break, I again was overtaken by a crippling stiffness, bordering on pain. I started moving again, ever so slowly. Within a few hundred feet, I was feeling fine, and vowed to not stop again for the rest of the run. (In fact, when Zdenek and I needed to fill up our water bottles, I asked him to run ahead and do so quickly so that I wouldn’t need to break my stride.)

Over 10 miles later, I returned home for a pancake breakfast and cup of coffee. Everything seemed okay, until I tried to get up from the table and found that I couldn't. Once I finally did manage to prop myself up, I could barely walk. I spent the rest of Sunday immobile on the recliner until we finally made it out for a 20 minute walk at 6 pm at a pace that would be too slow for most 90 year-olds with walkers.

For the next three days, I rested completely, waiting for the ability to bend over to put on my socks to gradually return. On Thanksgiving Thursday, feeling mostly better, I headed out for a very cautious two mile “run,” but found myself once again in the chair for the rest of the day (this time even worse off than Sunday). For the following three days, I returned to the gym that I haven’t set foot in since May and set myself up on the elliptical machine for 45-50 minutes at a time. I tried to convince myself that I can enjoy working out indoors (I can’t, but I can tolerate it when I have no other option).

Fast forward to today and I am finally feeling 95% heeled. I rolled out of bed in the darkness of the early morning and ran another slow two miles (this time with Zdenek, who is battling his own injuries these days!). I confirmed that I can still run, but it’s at such a slow pace that it hardly seems worth it. I am actually at the point where I can get a far better workout inside four walls, and running isn’t as fun as it should be. While I might still log some miles between now and "the end," I'm guessing they will be few and slow. I suppose I overdid it, and now I have to pay the price.

But I take solace in the same NY Times article, in which the author goes on to say:

With running, even though I realize that I and others who got injured could not have prevented our injuries, somehow I blamed myself. It was “overuse,” even though overuse is apparent only in retrospect, as you cast about for a reason why you got injured.

Yes, I could have taken it easier and perhaps gotten three or four more weeks of increasingly slow running in return. Maybe if I had stopped when the pain kicked in at seven miles last week, I’d still be running three or more today. But the past eight months have been some of the most enjoyable and rewarding running I’ve ever known. Running frequently and long has kept me sane and happy and given me a sense of control that I thought pregnancy would surely rob me of. I never imagined I’d be in this kind of shape heading into the final stretch, and I’m thankful for every 10 mile run that got me here.

I got injured because I love running and how it makes me feel. And that's okay by me.

It runs in the family

I think the NYC marathon has made two more fans

A steady heart

During the first few months of my pregnancy, I wore my heart rate monitor on every single run and bike ride, intrigued to see how my heart rate was responding now that so much was changing inside me, and, to some extent, to ensure that I didn’t push things too hard. After a while, though, it became apparent that every single workout was much like the last. My heart rate over a 60 minute bike ride averaged between 140 and 145, with peaks around 170 when climbing Harlem Hill; when running, my heart rate hovered consistently around 148 to 152. Combined with the fact that, after five years, my monitor is going a bit wonky and occasionally gets stuck on readings of 193 or zero, I’ve grown tired of wearing it in recent months.

Lately, though, I’ve become somewhat concerned that maybe I am running too fast or too far for a woman who is seven-and-a-half months pregnant. My doctor advised from day one to not focus on my heart rate but rather ensure that I can maintain a conversation throughout my workout. While I often run alone and have no one to talk to, Zdenek and I do chat for most of the time that we run together. This past Saturday, we ran over 11 miles in the lovely autumn weather, taking several breaks, but maintaining a conversation the entire way. I finished feeling much like I have after any other 11 mile run over the past five years.

Still, I’ve noticed that my pace hasn’t really slowed much over the past five or six months, and I’m always running around 9:00-9:30 minutes/mile. I don’t try to run quickly or slowly, but somehow I inevitably end up plodding along at roughly the same speed. Although I’ve grown bigger and rounder and marginally more uncomfortable, lately I’ve begun to wonder if perhaps I am pushing myself too hard. Maybe my heart rate has been up at 170 and I haven't even realized it? This seems hard to believe considering I barely break a sweat on half my runs, but, nevertheless, I thought it was worth checking in just to reassure myself.

So this morning, I strapped on my monitor and headed out the door. It was a picture-perfect morning for an autumn run in Central Park. Not only have the leaves fully turned to reds, yellows, and oranges, but strong winds last night left many of them strewn along the road, making it especially fun to kick through piles of gold under the early morning sun. (Truthfully, I was a little sad that Zdenek wasn’t able to join me this morning, because it was a run I know he would have enjoyed.) I ran an easy 4.5 miles, never pushing myself, stopping to drink water along the way. And then, when I finally hit the “stop” button, I looked down to see the results: 9:05 pace, 148 average heart rate.

When everything from the leaves to my body to my entire life seems to be changing with rapidity, it's somewhat reassuring to know that my heart has remained true.

A fine start

After a blip of muggy, warm weather in New York last week, the thermometer seems to have permanently dropped over the last several days. Finally -- the leaves in Central Park are assuming their innate, vibrant colors, and my morning runs seem to be getting faster, longer, and easier (or at least not slower, shorter, and more difficult). At seven months into my pregnancy it’s hard to believe that running feels so good, but then again, humidity and I have never been the best of friends. I was proud to run over 11 miles on Saturday in just over nine minutes/mile, and this morning I ran almost 10K in sub-9 minute pace (even in spite of the now constant and sometimes quite uncomfortable pressure that comes with another being positioned head-down on one’s bladder). While I did pause to question the accuracy of my watch, I can accept that when the mercury hovers near freezing, I am in my best form. It must be the Canadian in me.

But this morning’s run was especially lovely for a few reasons because it reminded me of all that I have, and all that I have to look forward to. For one, Zdenek and I enjoyed a fall fondue feast last night with our friend and neighbor, Cheryl. Apparently November 1 marks the official beginning of fondue season in Switzerland, and Cheryl, who once made her home in that country, brought all of the supplies -- including 1.5 pounds of cheese -- to our apartment yesterday evening. As she stirred the gooey, aromatic fromage on my stove, I thought that there was simply no way that the three of us would be able to eat all of that cheese. But forty-five minutes later, we were scraping the bottom of the pot and feeling warm and full in our tummies. It was a fitting way to welcome in November, and I think the extra calories gave me an additional boost during my Central Park jaunt this morning.

And as I ran through the southern end of the Park this morning, I was forced to take a few detours around trucks, cranes, and bleachers. The New York City Marathon is this Sunday! I’m counting on Zdenek to get me going with a few homemade pancakes while we watch the start of the race on our long-awaited flat screen television, and then heading to the 24 mile mark in Central Park to cheer on the leaders and followers alike. More importantly, this Sunday I’ll be introducing New York’s finest foot race to two of my favorite people: my mom and sister. Their six night visit coincides not only with my sister’s birthday, but mine, too, and we have many Big Apple activities planned to celebrate.

Fondue, marathons, birthdays, and family. November is off to a tremendous start.

Running away from it all

So far, there hasn’t been too much about pregnancy that has surprised me (perhaps because I went into it with low expectations about how it would make me feel and the many discomforts it would entail). I was correct about many things: it’s not particularly enjoyable to grow increasingly larger by the week, I really do miss my nightly glass of wine, and maternity clothes are neither comfortable nor flattering. On the other hand, I guess I’ve had it relatively easy compared to some women I know or have heard about: I haven’t experienced a single bout of sickness, I have no strange food cravings or aversions, and my back doesn’t hurt (yet). Exactly six and half months in, the most unpleasant side effects with which I’ve had to deal include an unrelenting heart burn and a strange amount of peach fuzz on my stomach. (Everyone claims that the peach fuzz isn’t noticeable, but it seems to be all I notice, especially since my protruding stomach is pretty much all I can see when I look down these days.)

But the one thing that has most pleasantly surprised me about being pregnant is how great it feels to run. By this, I don’t mean that running feels particularly easy, or that I am enjoying the best running of my life. Running, unlike cycling, is significantly harder during pregnancy, likely for both physiological and psychological reasons. I’m sure it’s partly due do added weight (though not entirely, because my speed dropped early on and has since plateaued) and partly due to a pregnant woman’s innate carefulness to not push herself too hard. But whatever it is, my pace is definitely slower, and I’ve completely lost the ability to ramp up into fourth or fifth gear (and some days, first gear suits me just fine the whole way).

Despite the slower pace, though (which really just allows me to spend extra time in my favorite park), I have thus far been able to maintain better mileage than I would have previously thought possible. I ran 26.2 miles in one go at about six weeks, and since then I’ve kept up a steady tally of 25-40 weekly miles (it’s been creeping to the higher end in recent weeks with the loss of my cycling days). On most weekends I’ve put in 10-12 mile long runs and, though I occasionally have to take an extra “natural break” along the way, this isn’t much less than I would normally aim for during my “off season.” Sure, I’m running every mile more slowly than I have in years, but I don’t mind. My focus these days is on trying to maintain my fitness as much as possible; knowing that I can’t go fast, I figure that consistent, steady running is just as beneficial.

But the thing that has really surprised me is how great running feels relative to every other moment in my day. Whether I’m heading uphill, downhill, or across a flat, and even at 9+ minute miles, running feels superior to sitting, standing, or lying down. It’s strange, but true: I feel lighter and less pregnant when I’m running! My mid-section feels taught and like it’s working with me, not against me. Of course, I’ve had the occasional cramp across my lower abdomen and my bladder feels slightly compressed. But I feel much, much worse sitting at my desk trying to find a suitable way to cross my legs, or watching tv at night and struggling to breathe properly under the pressure of my stomach, or lying in bed and feeling my hips complain after being forced to bear my weight all night long.

Occasionally, especially in the last few weeks, I catch a glimpse of my shadow or reflected profile in a store window, and I can see that I look anything but my usual self. But I like to think that most of the other runners I pass every day don’t really notice, and that I blend right in with the Central Park crowd. (Certainly I’ve been fortunate to have avoided even a single comment that I “shouldn’t be doing that,” which is perhaps because New Yorkers are accustomed to seeing it all, but is also somewhat surprising since New Yorkers are not known for their ability to keep their opinions to themselves, either.) Though pregnancy has lived up to my (sometimes low) expectations in many ways, there is one consequence I never anticipated: running while pregnant is the surest way to feel anything but.

Doctor Z

I was finally given permission to post this photo that was taken a few weeks ago. I feel secure knowing that a willing and able doctor resides in my house.

Dispatch from the pumpkin patch

This past weekend, Zdenek and I escaped the hustle and bustle of Manhattan with our good friends, Dave and Erica (who are expecting their +1 eight weeks before ours, so I’m counting on them to teach me everything I’ll need to know). We headed north for a luxury log cabin in the Hudson Valley -- a site we last visited in the snowier, colder days of February. After a week of rainy weather that seemed to cover the entire East Coast, we were treated to cloudless blue skies, warm sunshine, and gorgeous fall foliage. We managed to pick apples, hike around the State Park, prepare a three course meal that incorporated our picked apples into every course, and pay a visit to the Storm King Art Center (a place quite unlike any other I’ve seen).

On both Saturday and Sunday, Zdenek and I got up a little earlier than Dave and Erica. We shared a Clif bar, drank our requisite cups of coffee, and changed into our running shoes. Soon we were running through (very) hilly back roads and down gravel lanes, past corn fields and streams, overlooking valleys of orange, yellow, red, and green. Though the sun shone clearly, the air was definitely of the crisp, autumn variety, and I probably could have used a slightly warmer shirt. These were difficult runs, to say the least, and there were a couple of long, steep inclines on each route that slowed me to a walk. But the breathtaking views and peaceful surroundings made every ounce of hard effort worth it. Zdenek excitedly remarked no fewer than five times on each run how happy he was to be there.

After Sunday morning’s run, Zdenek and I sat on the patio rocking chairs for a while, looking out onto the forest with steaming mugs of coffee warming our hands. Tired and content, I don’t think we would have savored that moment nearly as much had we not just run -- side by side -- through the autumn leaves. At a time when everything around us seems to be changing so quickly, running has a funny way of making time stand still.

Newton!

This past summer, watching le Tour, I was always amused when the cyclists would gripe about having to take two rest days among the grueling, 20-day competition. One would think, after being in a saddle for four or more hours daily, climbing hills and sprinting to finish lines, that 24 hours of scheduled rest would provide welcome relief for the body and mind, and that any sane rider would spend the time off of his feet, getting a massage, and generally trying to do as little as possible. In fact, though, very few of the cyclists rest at all on the designated days, opting instead to go for a long (albeit easier) ride; they claim that even a single day of inactivity results in decreased performance when the competition resumes.

I could never understand this. In all of my marathon training plans, I’ve been told to take one, if not two, rest days per week, and that one day of complete inactivity is absolutely essential to allow muscles to repair and rebuild. Either the riders in le Tour are a different breed altogether (probably true), or they were simply lying (they've been known to do that, too). But today I was humbled to experience the perils of rest.

I have not had a day off from riding or biking in 23 days. Granted, some runs have only been 30-40 minutes long, which is nothing compared to a five hour ride, but I’ve been working out with some regularity since (and including) our time in Spain. Yesterday morning, however, I had a scheduled medical test that required an overnight fast, and I knew there was no way I’d be able to exercise in the morning without coffee and yogurt in my system. I therefore skipped the usual run or ride (which turned out to be fortuitous timing since the rain was coming down in hard sheets, anyway). Today, however, it was business as usual, and though it was again raining hard and I was exceptionally tired, I got out of bed, hopeful that, within 30 minutes, the skies might dry up while I might perk up.

I ended up running just under six miles this morning in warm, muggy weather, and only the occasional spit of rain with which to contend. But this run felt horrible! For the last few weekends, I have been running 10 or 11 miles in one go -- sandwiched between days of 30 mile bike rides and five mile runs -- and I have felt ten times more energized than I did at 6:30 am today. I have contended with fewer hours of sleep and warmer weather and still managed to run easier than I did this morning. Yes, today’s run was a struggle from start to finish -- heavy legs, slow climbs up hills, and the feeling of just wanting it all to be over. (The only saving grace was that I forgot my watch at home, so I wasn’t able to track just how slowly I was moving.) And although I did feel better and eventually more energetic for having completed the run, this morning I was certain that I had lost three weeks worth of fitness overnight.

It seems that Newton had it right all along: a body in motion really does want to stay in motion, and a body at rest quickly becomes, well, lazy. I may never be able to compete like the boys of le Tour, but today, I felt their pain.

Run for the girls

I recently came across this piece from Runner's World:

When Isla Lough was born, the bookies offered odds of 100-1 that the daughter of the marathon world-record holder Paula Radcliffe would one day win the Flora London Marathon. A safer bet would have been to predict that Radcliffe would give birth to a daughter. For this you can "blame" her husband.

Research suggests that male runners who cover more than 30 miles a week – as Radcliffe’s husband and training partner Gary Lough does – are more likely to father female offspring. Researchers at the University of Glasgow divided 139 male runners into three categories: those who were taking a break from running when they and their partner conceived; those who were running less than 30 miles a week when their partner conceived; and those who were running between 30 and 50 miles a week when their partner conceived.

The study revealed that the non-runners and those covering less than 30 miles a week had a 62 per cent chance of fathering male offspring – compared to the average of 51 per cent for the general population. It was a dramatically different story for the runners covering more than 30 miles a week though: only 40 per cent of their babies were boys. The researchers put this trend down to the dip in the male hormone testosterone that occurs as a result of higher running mileage.

Running might affect the sex of your children, but it might also help you conceive in the first place. "Men who run regularly and stay at a healthy weight are more likely to maintain a good sperm count than men who are obese," says Dr Roger Henderson, a GP and marathon runner. Henderson does issue one warning: "Male marathon runners do not appear to have reduced sperm counts, although exercise that consistently heats the testicles, or which requires very tight-fitting shorts, such as cycling, may not help."

(Just for fun, I looked up the bio of Haile Gebrselassie, widely regarded as the best distance runner of our time. Turns out he has four kids: three girls and one boy. Then I checked Meb Keflezighi, another distance superstar and winner of last year's New York City Marathon: two daughters, and a third one is on the way.)

I don't know whether our +1 is a boy or a girl, and neither Zdenek nor I really care one way or the other. But it's interesting to note that we were at the peak of our marathon training and running well over 40 miles per week when the +1 first came into existence. (More importantly, we hadn't yet transitioned into our "very tight-fitting" cycling shorts, either!)

No cancellations

At this time last year, it seems that I often wrote about a desire to cycle as much as I possibly could because I knew that the fall could turn to winter at any moment. It’s only two weeks into September and thus far the temperatures have been near-perfect: cool mornings, warm days, and plentiful sunshine (except during Monday morning’s mucky ride and Monday night’s drizzly run, but those are different stories). It will probably be at least another month before a cycling jacket and booties won’t suffice to keep me warm during a morning ride. Unfortunately, there’s another clock ticking away that compels me to cycle as much as I can, because who knows when I’m simply going to be unable to reach my handlebars anymore?

So far, though, it’s been smooth sailing, and I can’t really complain. (Zdenek, of course, feels that I complain way too much, but I did that before I got pregnant, so I can’t imagine why things should change for the better now that I’m hauling around a baby-to-be 24/7.) I am still running and cycling as much as I would ever want to, and enjoying it equally well. (This morning, I even managed a full loop of the Park in sub-9 minute miles, which is a pretty decent pace for me these days!) And even when I eventually can’t cycle anymore, I know this will probably be a good thing, because it should free up a few additional mornings each week for some much-needed rest.

When I found out I was pregnant a few weeks before my Rhode Island marathon, the first thing I purchased was a book on exercising during pregnancy. I chose a scientific, well-researched book -- despite its 1980s photos -- written by a leading physician in the field who pioneered studies on the effects of exercise on pregnancy, childbirth, and maternal and fetal health. I read the book cover-to-cover in a single evening and still refer to it from time to time. Happily, everything I read reinforced that the best possible thing I can do is exercise frequently, intensely, and especially in a weight-bearing activity (i.e. opting for running instead of swimming). As one reviewer of the book quipped, “If women couldn’t exercise strenuously throughout pregnancy, the saber-toothed tiger would have finished off our species a million years ago. Finally a book that confirms this.”

Study after study in this book details that women who exercise (frequently and intensely) throughout the duration of their pregnancies have easier pregnancies and deliveries with fewer interventions and complications, give birth to leaner (but not underweight) babies, gain less weight themselves, and go into labor, on average, 5 to 7 days earlier than non-exercisers (this may, though, mean a Christmas baby, which is the only thing worse than a New Year’s baby). The catch, however, is a big one: women who stop exercising at some point during their pregnancies not only lose the aforementioned benefits, but are actually often worse off than those who never exercised at all!

I’m thus approaching December 31 as my goal event. Having run a marathon in my first trimester and kept up my cycling and running 6 to 7 times per week since then, I really need to avoid slacking at this point lest my performance suffer horribly when I make it to the starting line. I’m not, of course, blind to the reality that a million things beyond my control may curb even my best efforts in this regard and that all of this will become increasingly difficult as I become increasingly large. I also know that even a dedicated running regimen is hardly a guarantee for a trouble-free delivery (case in point: Paula Radcliffe’s first delivery, which she documented in some gory detail in an issue of Runner's World a couple of years ago).

But for now, I need all of the pleasant fall weather I can get to make running and cycling as easy and enjoyable as possible, for as long as possible. More so than for any other training I've done, it really is a case of needing to finish what I started. While the ultimate date of the event is subject to change without notice, it definitely observes a strict no-cancellation policy.

The run-down in 250 words or less

Arriving in Ronda to find ourselves in the middle of Feria de Pedro Romero

Ole!

So what if Spaniards don't eat paella at night? We're not Spanish!

Testing out the best pastry shop in Seville...

...and a few moments later

Madrid & me

Retiro Park was so pretty, we decided to take a run in there the next day

Jambon, anyone?

Heading into Casa Botin, the oldest restaurant in the world, to enjoy some piggies...

The suckling pigs beforehand

Pig on a plate

Mercado Market in Madrid, one very cool place in which to hang out

Tourist

Double-fisting

Testing out Chocolateria San Gines, reputedly the best hot chocolate and churros in Madrid

A very hot day in Seville

Self-portrait, Seville

Another tourist

Strolling through Ronda

Granada from Alhambra

Inside Alhambra

More Alhambra

And another one

We took a lot of photos in there -- it was stunning!

Gorgeous Granada and a view I had a hard time leaving

Our trusty beemer helped us survive Spanish roads and drivers

Zdenek in the UK

The Spain run-down

Having just returned from a beautiful trip to Spain, I think I have finally learned how to correctly assess accommodation. If the directions to the accommodation include the phrases, “up the hill,” “keep going,” and “located right at the top,” and especially if they mention something about a 4WD being absolutely essential, then I should expect my running opportunities to be both limited and difficult.

To be fair, the point of this vacation wasn’t supposed to be about running, but I have a hard time sitting motionless for any longer than two or three days at a time. Fortunately for me, Zdenek and I were on our feet almost all of the time -- in fact, of 11 days, I think only three of them qualify as lazy lounging days. We arrived in Madrid, jetlagged and exhausted after barely catching more than a couple hours of shut-eye on the flight over (and Zdenek even less so due to the very rude passenger behind him who refused to let Zdenek recline his seat by even one inch). After a snooze in our hotel room, we hit the streets of Madrid to find them baking hot but remarkably clean. Three days and at least 15-18 miles of walking later, we had traversed most of the major sites by foot and were left thoroughly impressed by the vibrancy, architectural beauty, and spotlessness of the Spanish capital. We even managed a 5.5 mile run by completing two loops around Retiro Park -- Madrid’s answer to New York’s Central Park. It wasn’t quite as spacious as our favourite piece of home turf, but the lack of humidity more than made up for this.

Next we headed to Seville, at which point in the trip I wound up horribly sick and unable to find any pharmacist willing to dispense a single drug to me in my embarazada state. So I suffered through the 40+ degree heat by mostly staying inside my hotel room, feeling miserable, and making poor Zdenek’s life miserable, too (sorry, honey). We did manage to enjoy most of what this historic and charming city has to offer, though, including an excellent flamenco show in the birthplace of the dance itself.

Just as I was feeling a bit better, we headed to the Costa del Sol to hobnob with Europe’s rich and famous and see the surrounding areas (including Ronda and Granada -- I cannot recommend the latter highly enough). Here, we plunked down for six nights in a hillside villa overlooking the Mediterranean Sea. I did manage to run on four days during our stay in Marbella -- it was straight up and straight down in each direction, providing an excellent workout for my quads and butt irrespective of my slow speed. But similar to our stay in Costa Rica earlier in the year, I’m pretty sure that these accommodations were not situated with long, relaxing runs in mind.

For better or worse, though, I simply had to get out there as much as possible. I read Born to Run on this vacation, and if there was ever a book to inspire you to run far and frequently, this is it. (I even became moderately convinced of the merits of barefoot running, and I do intend to try out the shoeless approach -- or something approximating it -- very soon.) I was reminded that running is truly the healthiest and most natural thing we can ever do for our bodies and our minds, and that, indeed, we wouldn’t be here today had our ancestors not been endurance runners themselves. Every time I read even a few pages of this book, I was itching to put it down and change into my running shoes -- blazing sun, lingering sickness, and lazy Spanish days be dammed. (Next time, if I really intend on relaxing, I think I need to book accommodation even higher on the mountain or re-think my choice of vacation reading material.)

And after arriving back in NYC following more than 15 hours of travel, the first thing Zdenek and I did was change into our shorts and head out for a four mile run in Central Park. It was, after all, our final vacation day.

Siesta time

This week has been a bit of a bummer weather-wise. I had not one, but two runs in the pouring rain, and Tuesday’s bike ride was wet, windy, and hard. But this morning the clouds and rain cleared away, leaving behind only sunny skies and a beautiful temperature. It took a little longer than usual for Zdenek and me to get out of bed and out the door (our accumulated sleep deficit is really starting to take its toll), but I’m glad we rallied. Today’s ride was perfect in every way: fast, fun, and rewarding. Although it’s gradually becoming uncomfortable for me to assume the most aerodynamic position on my bike, I can still manage, and even at five months my body is cooperating enough to allow me to ride long and hard.

It’s now been 18 consecutive runs or rides for me (my last “rest day” was the day we flew back from our Canadian vacation), so I think I’m long overdue for a little sun and siesta. Good thing, since Zdenek and I are off to Spain! The temperatures will be blistering hot, but I’m counting on long afternoon snoozes by the beach and pool to get me through. We like to refer to this vacation as our “last hurrah” -- meaning the last real vacation we’ll have in this life as we know it. And while we've been known to spend portions of supposedly “relaxing” vacations by subjecting ourselves to torturous hikes or itineraries, this time, I think the circumstances will force us to take it easy. (I did pack my running shoes, though -- just in case.)

On my own

This morning Zdenek pulled the classic pm/am alarm mix-up, and though it meant we got an extra hour of much-needed rest, it also meant that cycling was out of the question and I was flying solo for the morning. By the time I finished my cup of coffee and caught up on the morning’s email, however, it was raining hard and steady outside of my window. Unperturbed, I changed into my running clothes and hoped that the downpour might taper off a bit before I reached the Park -- I certainly wasn’t going to allow a little water to ruin my morning fun.

Unfortunately, the rain never really let up, and though it sometimes turned to a drizzle, it just as often came down in hard sheets. I plodded along, squishing water between my socks and shoes and occasionally slowing to wring out my shirt. But beyond those minor inconveniences, it was one of the most peaceful and relaxing runs I can remember in some time. The Park was virtually deserted: I passed less than ten other runners on my six mile loop, and for the first 15 minutes of my run, I don’t think I saw another soul. I ran in silence, sometimes avoiding puddles and sometimes splashing right through them, looking out onto the rare sight of a clear road ahead.

I find it amusing (and somewhat pathetic) that so many tough New Yorkers would let a little rain scare them away from a morning run, but I’m also thankful for their lack of determination. This morning I was grateful to have over 800 acres almost entirely to myself, and happy to enjoy a moment of solitude in a city where such escapes are hard to come by.

Don't trash it

Since moving into our new apartment almost one month ago, Zdenek and I have been on a bit of a home furnishing frenzy. In fact, we’ve made so many big-ticket purchases in the last while that my bank has put a freeze on my credit card not once, but twice, assuming fraudulent activity. But Zdenek and I have been living like students for years -- despite the fact that our student days are but a distant memory -- and so unfortunately everything we’ve purchased thus far has really been a first-time acquisition after five years of dorm-like living: bedroom furniture (which allowed us to throw away the plastic storage boxes we’ve been using in place of drawers, and to place our mattress on a bed, rather than the floor); a kitchen table (that is quite a big bigger and definitely nicer than the poker-table-sized piece of junk off which we’ve been dining); a flat-screen TV (replacing our beloved 1995 Sony Trinitron); and a wall unit (providing a place for our new TV and storage space to boot). Though we still have a few more purchases to make (and let’s not even think about where the +1 is supposed to go), the apartment is beginning to approach something resembling the dwelling of two thirty-somethings.

Because most of our previous furniture was (a) IKEA, (b) plastic or pine, and (c) terribly ugly, we’ve been throwing most of it away rather than attempting to make a few bucks by selling it to real students. The other night, though, after we made the decision to buy a new dining set, I figured I might as well advertise the IKEA kitchen cart that has served as extra counter space for the past five years. I put together a nice photo, wrote a few lines of text, and posted the ad on Craiglist. Within 20 minutes, I had received three inquiries from people wishing to pick it that same evening, and at 10 pm, no later than three hours after posting the ad, my kitchen cart was wheeled away by two young girls who trekked up from Gramercy to collect it.

Even more surprisingly, up until a day ago, I received a total of 20 or more emails about this kitchen cart. I finally decided to delete the ad altogether; it was so far buried in the Craiglist classifieds that I couldn’t even find it, so I'm not sure how everyone else was managing. (Apparently, kitchen carts are a hot commodity in Manhattan apartments, and if I should ever be in need of work, I think I know just the line of business to enter.) This whole ordeal made me laugh because we paid $99 for that thing five years ago, and although it was still in good condition, it wasn’t really anything special. But when I was on the phone with the girl who ended up buying it, she enthusiastically described it to her roommate as “AWESOME.” I guess it’s true what they say: one man’s trash is another man’s treasure.

That proverb applies these days not only to furniture, but to my running, too. While my cycling remains solid (it seems less affected by the extra being I’m toting around), my running has definitely been slower-going for the past four months. I’m managing to keep up with my mileage (and, combined with my biking, haven’t had or wanted a rest day in two weeks), but I’m simply not able to make my paces of a few months ago: my comfortable 8-8:15 min/mile run has morphed into an 8:45-9:00 min/mile jog (and is even slower when the weather is particularly scorching). And yet, I am amazed that I am passing plenty of men and women on every loop. Speed is definitely relative.

I may not be as fast as I would like right now (though hopefully I will be at some point again in the future), but at least I’m moving and am still doing so at a respectable pace. I realize that, just as I was smart enough to not trash my kitchen cart, I shouldn’t be so quick to trash my running. It is still, after all, AWESOME.

Relief

Last week, during our vacation in Western Canada, I was able to put in a marathon training effort. I ran a cumulative total of 45 miles over seven days, a sum that ranks up with some of my longest training weeks at the peak of my marathon plans, and despite the fact that there is no race in my future. Remarkably, though, it felt wonderful, liberating, and mostly easy. After trudging through three months of sticky, searing hot weather in the Big Apple, the cool mountain air and sunny, crisp mornings were a welcome relief.

I was shocked to find that, outside of New York City and even at a much higher altitude, my pace per mile dropped a solid minute. Although I had to confirm it several times on mapmyrun.com to truly believe it, it gave me some hope that perhaps I haven’t permanently lost whatever speed I may once have had. Indeed, last night after work Zdenek and I ran almost five miles in 31 degree heat, and my pace was once again tortoise-like. I hadn’t fully recovered when we headed out for a ride this morning, and I spent the first two laps drafting off Zdenek 95% of the time. Yep, it helps to have a strong training partner who can carry the load.

I’ve always gravitated towards spring marathons because, frankly, I don’t see how anyone can train properly through the summer months. (I did run the NYC marathon in November 2008, but I cut my preparation from 17 weeks to five.) Looking ahead, I’m not sure whether I’ll be able to run a race this coming spring, though I’d sure love to try. As several people now know, Zdenek and I will be +1 come 2011, and this will impact my ability to train to a degree that I can’t quite yet comprehend. Fortunately, with eight marathons and several more halfs under my belt, I feel like I can finally enjoy running for running’s sake, rather than needing to prove anything to myself.

Perhaps this newfound contentment will relieve any pressure to meet a particular time goal when I do eventually pick my next race in 2011 (if anything, the number “9” in front of per-mile pace has started to feel strangely normal). Or perhaps I'll switch tactics altogether and combine my passions into one by training for my first triathlon. But as for the +1, he/she already has already completed one marathon -- a feat that took me almost 27 years to tackle. It turns out that, as in cycling, running is definitely easier when someone else carries you along.

A compliment

This morning got off to a less than ideal start. I’m not sure if it was the fact that I had managed to get little more than six hours sleep, or whether the oppressive heat and humidity has been weighing me down. But while preparing for the morning’s ride, I happened to read a few emails that had arrived in my Inbox overnight. Without going into the details, suffice it to say that the messages really set me off in the worst way. Zdenek suggested that maybe I should skip cycling and get another hour of sleep (especially since I haven’t taken a break from running or riding in many days, and it’s still 30+ degrees here all day, every day), but I know that the only thing to keep me sane is the hour or two I have every day during which my heart is pumping fast and my legs are turning over as quickly as I can make them. So I wiped my tears and tired eyes, changed into my jersey, and headed out the door.

After a relatively hard first lap (during which I drafted for a few of the miles), Zdenek decided to go it alone on the second loop and ride as fast as he could. Meanwhile, I would ride solo, cut off the top mile of the Park, and meet him back at the start (as we’ve done successfully a few times in the past). Just before the East 72nd Street transverse, he waved goodbye and was off. But I, despite the poor start to my morning, was feeling pretty warmed up by this time, and so didn’t deliberately slow my pace simply because I was now sans husband. In fact, I picked it up. And before I knew it, I was back at the start in a truly record time, all by myself. I realized, looking at my split, that it might take Zdenek a bit longer than usual to catch up with me on the third loop, but I assumed that he was big and strong enough to lap me eventually. On my third loop, though, I was over halfway through before it became obvious that he was probably never going to catch me at all. No bother, I thought, I’ll just wait for him at the finish before riding home.

My solo cycling power would have probably been sufficient to turn my morning from bad to great, but the icing on the cake came during my climb up Harlem Hill. For the last few miles, I had been riding close to two other men on tri bikes -- sometimes I was ahead of them, sometimes they would get ahead of me, but mostly we were within 20 feet of one another at all times. Just as I began to huff and puff a little harder while spinning up the hill, one of the guys said to me, “Do you race?” No, I told him, I just ride for fun. “Well,” he replied, “you should race.” I told him that I was happy with marathons, to which he responded, “Your running ability has really translated into cycling. You should seriously consider racing, or at least triathlons.” It was as if he had been reading my mind! And then he rode with me a bit more -- we talked about his hamstring injury and where in the world my husband could be -- before I had to say goodbye and wait for Zdenek at the West 77th Street transverse. (Unfortunately, Zdenek turned up five minutes later than expected. Apparently he was so surprised to have not lapped me that he assumed he must have zoomed right past me at some point, so he stopped midway through the third loop and waited for several minutes midway, thinking I might “catch up.”)

Although everything in my day since that ride has been less than stellar, I keep coming back to that unexpected compliment. It’s wonderful to think that I actually pass for a cyclist to someone who isn't my husband or best friend, and that confirmation was worth any hour of lost sleep.

One small goo later

This morning I was awake at 4:22 am -- about 20 minutes before our alarm went off. (A day trip to Washington DC necessitated that Zdenek was up and out the door by 5:20 am, which meant, of course, that I was also out of bed at this hour.) Despite the fact that the sunrise was still a long way off, I figured I might as well make the most of my extra morning time by heading out for a run. After gulping down my usual cup of coffee and my customary bowl of yogurt and cereal, I decided at the last minute to tuck a gel into my pocket before slipping out the door.

It was a cool 24 degrees Celsius this morning before 6 am (trust me, this is cool for New York in the summer), but the humidity hovered around 90%. The Park was surprisingly crowded at the pre-dawn hour, especially with large packs of fast-moving cyclists yelling drills and tips at each other. I plundered along, taking the odd water break, trying to forget about the stickiness through which I was running. I didn’t feel particularly energetic for most of my first loop. But then, after about six miles, a little emptiness in my tummy indicated that it might be a good time to rip open that gel.

Within about 20 minutes of having said gel, my energy levels began to climb. I decided, since it was still so early and I was feeling pretty good, to go for another five miles. And then a few miles into that, I opted to tack on an additional mile and confront Harlem Hill at the Park’s North end. Just after 7:30 am, I concluded a 12+ mile run feeling tired but satisfied knowing that I can, perhaps, skip my long run this weekend (which will definitely help, considering we’re flying out to Canada early on Saturday).

I don’t plan on getting up before 5 am again anytime soon, but nor did I regret it this morning. It was nice to have almost two hours of running all to myself long before the work day even got underway -- a rarity when I'm not training for a race. And I’m thinking that perhaps I should pack a gel on every mid-morning run. It was just the packet of goo to get me through.

Early morning rush

This morning's ride was one for the record books -- well, for my personal record book, at least. To be honest, I am not sure how or from where I mustered the energy. Yesterday I rode for an hour in the morning, then did a full weight session plus a run after work. I was so tired this morning when the alarm went off that it seemed as though my eyelids had been permanently fused shut. But I absolutely cannot pass up an opportunity to cycle. The season is too short, and the Park too perfect at six o'clock in the morning to stay in bed. One cup of coffee later and I was able to clip in and ride off.

As we got going, Zdenek said that we probably had time for only two loops this morning. Perhaps it was the knowledge that my ride would be 20 minutes shorter than usual that motivated me to work hard for the remaining 40. I'm not sure. But about one mile in, we were pushing the pace and I was enjoying it. I climbed Harlem Hill -- unassisted -- with every ounce of determination and power I could find, and Zdenek congratulated me at the top for a job well done. We finished the first loop a good 45-60 seconds faster than our usually solid lap time, and Zdenek asked whether I wanted to push again on the second loop. I replied, "We can try, but if I can't keep up, I won't keep up." But I did keep up. The whole way. And we finished that second loop in the fastest time I have ever clocked (save maybe once last season when I was drafting at the back of an entire pack of cyclists). True, I drafted off Zdenek this morning, too (and had a stranger drafting off me), but I still worked to my maximum capacity. My heart rate monitor will back me up on that one!

We cooled down with an easy four mile ride (so much for having time for only two loops), during which Zdenek remarked that he thinks I missed my true calling: I should have been a cyclist. Had I started earlier, I would now have the technical and handling skills that can only be cultivated over many years of riding. Certainly my body type (short, with thick legs) seems better suited for athletic endeavors on two wheels than on two feet. A few weeks ago on a ride together, Caitlin also asked me whether I've considered bike racing, because she thinks my riding skills and ability are now strong enough to make me competitive in the (very) minor leagues. (Unfortunately my tire-changing skills still need some work, though I am proud to report that I did handle 75% of the job on my back wheel last week.)

I'm not sure how I feel about bike racing. The difference between a bike race and, say, a full or half marathon, is that competitors actually try to win bike races, while most running "races" consist of a handful of serious competitors leading thousands (if not tens of thousands) of recreational runners. But anyone who is daring and motivated enough to enter a bike race is not what one would call a "recreational" rider. No, three seasons of riding have shown me that cyclists are a serious bunch, and it takes a great deal of skill, technical equipment, and dedication to keep up with them. I'm also unsure how I feel about the prospect of crashing in a race -- the early stages of Le Tour have once again confirmed that cycling hard in a pack of riders is an invitation for an ambulance ride. (Perhaps I need to consider triathlons, in which I can ride solo and drafting is forbidden.)

In any case, it still amazes me on an almost daily basis how much I love this sport, and how I do wish I would have discovered it sooner. There are few activities more exhilarating than a hard, fast bike ride, and there are few things on television that I'd rather watch these days than a professional cycling race. Running may remain the purest, most accessible form of activity (and nothing beats training for and running a marathon for a sense of a triumph), but it can't compete with cycling for the adrenaline rush. And this is especially welcome when I can barely open my eyes in the morning.

Who invited us?

Somewhere between my leather pants and my Lululemon shorts, I think I became old. I’m not sure when, exactly, the transformation took place. I’m pretty sure it was after I got married, because I think I still wore leather pants up until that point. In fact, I did a lot of stuff until a few years ago that, looking back, clearly fit into my “youth” phase: chief among these was skipping dinner before a night of drinking with friends, only to head out for late-night pizza at 2 am. Sadly, I can’t remember the last time I indulged in middle-of-the-night pizza because, frankly, I am home asleep in my bed in the middle of the night. Every night.

My age was brought into sharp relief last night at Lady Gaga’s Monster Ball concert at MSG. Zdenek and I headed down there after watching our pre-recorded Stage 3 of Le Tour. (This has been the most exciting three days of cycling I’ve seen in a long time, and, happily, my man is now back in the maillot jaune. This seemed like a worthy reason to post another photo of him looking resplendent in yellow.) We arrived just a few minutes before Gaga took the stage at 9 pm. The concert was quite the spectacle, and we did enjoy ourselves, but it soon became painfully obvious that we were a bit out of our element. Some of the concert goers were dressed like Gaga herself -- the woman behind me had stripped right down to her bra -- while I looked sporty in Lululemon shorts, a tank top, and flip flops (it was, after all, stiflingly hot). Everyone around us sucked back $8 beers throughout the show, whereas Zdenek and I had to chug back our $1.50 bottle of water before being allowed to enter the stadium. We stood most of the time in order to see the stage, but not necessarily because the music forced us up and out of our seats. And while we did sort of move around in rhythm to the beat, we also had our hands in our pockets a lot of the time. And at some point, with teenage girls screaming around us, the smell of pot wafting through the air, and a couple a few rows down “performing” in their seats, Zdenek turned to me and asked, “Who invited us to the Monster Ball?”

But even though I recognize that I’ve become an old, boring, thirty-something, I guess I don’t mind so much. I really do enjoy getting out of bed before 6 am seven days of the week in order to bike or run. I know that we’ve actually lost certain friends in New York because we prefer to be at home and in bed no later than midnight (and even that’s pushing it), whereas most of the New York crowd only gets going at around 11 pm. I don’t feel funny wearing flip flops and shorts to a concert because, frankly, I’ve done the leather pants thing, and it’s just not as comfortable. (In fact, I wore a 4-1/2 inch pair of heels to a wedding on Saturday, and though they looked great, by 9 pm I was cursing every time I had to get out of my seat to make a trip to the bathroom.) Yes, age has taught me that my feet feel best in runners or clipped into bike pedals; that oatmeal, not pizza, is the ultimate early-morning food; and that it is more enjoyable to run a few miles before the crack of dawn than to stumble out of bed to down a few Advils for a pounding hangover. We may not fit it at the Monster Ball these days, but somehow, that seems okay.