Early yesterday evening, after seeing an IMAX film at the American Museum of Natural History on the Great Lakes, I was inspired to put on my swimsuit and head to the pool. Going into taper week, my schedule called for only a modest 35 minute cross-training session, so I figured I could use a nice, easy swim. My gym’s pool is always a bit of an adventure: flippers and snorkels abound, few swimmers know proper lane etiquette, and the water is much, much too warm. But such is life in Manhattan, where we take any 25 meter pool we can get.
I jumped in the “fast lane” (again, a sign that the pool is really for novices, since I’m anything but a fast swimmer) and was surprised to find the water moderately cool. So far, so good. My lane was shared by only two other relatively good swimmers, which was also a positive sign. Maybe the conditions were right for a solid workout? Unfortunately, when I pushed off the wall on my first lap, I found it next to impossible to see through the murky water. I asked my lane mate if it was my goggles or if he was also having visibility issues, and he confirmed that it was indeed cloudy water. Yuck.
I tried to ignore thinking about what was really in this water and continued my swim, taking it lap by lap. This seemed to work pretty well, except when the wall would suddenly come into focus without warning -- there were definitely a few awkward flip turn moments when I realized the end of the pool was only a few inches from my face. But I managed a one mile swim before heading home to make one of my favourite Jamie Oliver recipes.
Last night’s swimming experience is probably a sign of what’s to come on May 2. Just as I decided on a whim yesterday to go for a swim, I finally registered Zdenek and myself for the marathon today (registration closes tomorrow, and this is definitely the longest I’ve ever waited to register for any race). The conditions for my marathon are murky: Zdenek has been battling some sort of illness for the last few days, and just today I woke up feeling that a cold is imminent.
So I’m trying to decide whether I want to run hard and try for a solid marathon (if not a PB), or whether I should make having fun my top priority and run without any concern for time. I figure I’ll take it mile by mile and see how it goes. If I feel good, maybe I’ll lay it all on the line. If it seems more appropriate to just treat the day like a 26 mile long run, maybe I’ll do that.
I just hope I have time to see the wall and adjust accordingly before it smacks me in the face.
Monday, April 26, 2010
Friday, April 23, 2010
Nine sleeps
A couple of years ago, Reebok came out with a series of ads telling people to just “run easy,” rather than “just do it.” At the time, the ads were mocked for encouraging people to strive for mediocrity, and I kind of agreed. Today, though, I seem to be looking at these ads a little differently and a bit longingly. Not necessarily a good sign when the race is only nine sleeps away.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Victory laps
Recently I found a bed bug. On my bed. Because I have several good friends who have been devastated -- financially and emotionally -- by New York City bed bugs over the past couple of years, panic immediately ensued. Was our capture definitely a bed bug? How did it get in here? Was it just a single stowaway from a crowded subway ride home, or was it a sign of many more to come? And weren't the couple hundred dollars we spent last year on mattress and pillow and box spring covers (after our neighbour revealed that she had bed bugs) worth anything?
After confirming with the exterminator that this was indeed a bed bug (his email to me after seeing the photo: "Def bed bug"), we decided to hire a dog. This dog, who makes multiples of what I do on an hourly basis, was guaranteed to sniff our place out and pinpoint, with 95% accuracy, whether or not we actually had bed bugs living in our apartment (we had no signs of them otherwise). It seemed right to share the dog with our neighbours and have all apartments "inspected," since the dog can sniff rather quickly -- as dogs typically can -- and easily cover 10 units in less than one hour.
And so Zdenek and I posted a large notice in thick, black font to the front door of our building. ATTENTION RESIDENTS, it began, We have reason to suspect that we might have bed bugs... We invited our neighbours to sign-up, at no cost to them, if they wished to share the dog services. Now, if I were one of my neighbours, I would have gladly jumped at the chance to have a dog sniff for blood-sucking vampire bugs around my mattress. But I didn't know what to expect from my neighbours because, truth be told, we didn't really know many of them! There are 14 other tenants in our building and, until posting our note, Zdenek and I had met exactly four of them. Although announcing that we might have bed bugs didn't seem like an ideal way to introduce ourselves, it was the quintessentially New York way.
Happily, every single neighbor signed up for the bed bug inspection (using the pen that Zdenek ingeniously taped next to the note). A few days later, I raced home after work to meet the exterminator and bed bug dog, who, unlike the bug, was an adorable specimen (part beagle, part Jack Russell terrier). Soon it was time for her to earn her keep. She immediately passed the control experiment -- sniffing out the site where the exterminator, Jeff, had planted a vial of bed bugs (sealed with 75 micron mesh) under our couch cushion. Then came the real test, in which she had to make two nerve-wracking laps around our apartment to see whether she could sniff out any "wild" bugs.
I am delighted to report that the hound detected no interesting scents in our tiny abode. And as she then proceeded to make the laps around every other apartment in the building, I watched nervously from the corridors with Zdenek and my landlord. With each bug-free apartment, I felt a little more weight lift off my shoulders. And when our entire brownstone was finally declared bed bug-free, I actually did a little dance.
Since the inspection, I've slept much more soundly and have resumed focusing on the marathon that is less than two weeks away. I have only one more set of interval workouts tomorrow and then it's taper-time until May 2. It's been sixteen weeks to get this far, and I've run all of the required laps that are meant to get me to the start line well prepared. But when it comes right down to it, the most significant laps of the last few weeks were those made around my apartment on four legs.
After confirming with the exterminator that this was indeed a bed bug (his email to me after seeing the photo: "Def bed bug"), we decided to hire a dog. This dog, who makes multiples of what I do on an hourly basis, was guaranteed to sniff our place out and pinpoint, with 95% accuracy, whether or not we actually had bed bugs living in our apartment (we had no signs of them otherwise). It seemed right to share the dog with our neighbours and have all apartments "inspected," since the dog can sniff rather quickly -- as dogs typically can -- and easily cover 10 units in less than one hour.
And so Zdenek and I posted a large notice in thick, black font to the front door of our building. ATTENTION RESIDENTS, it began, We have reason to suspect that we might have bed bugs... We invited our neighbours to sign-up, at no cost to them, if they wished to share the dog services. Now, if I were one of my neighbours, I would have gladly jumped at the chance to have a dog sniff for blood-sucking vampire bugs around my mattress. But I didn't know what to expect from my neighbours because, truth be told, we didn't really know many of them! There are 14 other tenants in our building and, until posting our note, Zdenek and I had met exactly four of them. Although announcing that we might have bed bugs didn't seem like an ideal way to introduce ourselves, it was the quintessentially New York way.
Happily, every single neighbor signed up for the bed bug inspection (using the pen that Zdenek ingeniously taped next to the note). A few days later, I raced home after work to meet the exterminator and bed bug dog, who, unlike the bug, was an adorable specimen (part beagle, part Jack Russell terrier). Soon it was time for her to earn her keep. She immediately passed the control experiment -- sniffing out the site where the exterminator, Jeff, had planted a vial of bed bugs (sealed with 75 micron mesh) under our couch cushion. Then came the real test, in which she had to make two nerve-wracking laps around our apartment to see whether she could sniff out any "wild" bugs.
I am delighted to report that the hound detected no interesting scents in our tiny abode. And as she then proceeded to make the laps around every other apartment in the building, I watched nervously from the corridors with Zdenek and my landlord. With each bug-free apartment, I felt a little more weight lift off my shoulders. And when our entire brownstone was finally declared bed bug-free, I actually did a little dance.
Since the inspection, I've slept much more soundly and have resumed focusing on the marathon that is less than two weeks away. I have only one more set of interval workouts tomorrow and then it's taper-time until May 2. It's been sixteen weeks to get this far, and I've run all of the required laps that are meant to get me to the start line well prepared. But when it comes right down to it, the most significant laps of the last few weeks were those made around my apartment on four legs.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
A different kind of endurance test
This morning’s schedule called for 1200 m repeats at about the fastest pace my short legs can carry me for any sustained amount of time. After a very hard 11 mile run on Tuesday night, and looking ahead to a whopping 23-miler scheduled for this Saturday, I figured that my legs and knees could use a change of surface, so I opted for the gym. Additionally, every gym trip helps to justify our stupidly-priced membership, and, because I had to get up just after 5 am to fit in this workout, it is comforting to be in close proximity to both water and bathrooms at that uncertain hour.
And so although it was a lovely, dry morning, I figured that the gym -- despite its still, hot air -- was the safer option. At the very least, in my sleepy state and with tired legs, I knew that I’d be forced to run my prescribed pace on the treadmill, while I couldn’t be so sure that I wouldn’t slow down considerably if it was just me versus the open road. And I was right. By the fourth repeat, my HR was climbing to strangely high territory. By the fifth 1200 m repeat my legs were beginning to burn, and I began counting down the remaining time by the second. By the sixth repeat, I could barely go quickly enough to prevent myself from flying off the back of the machine altogether. And when I finally started my cool-down, I kept the pace a tad higher than I should have because, I figured, the faster I finish this workout, the faster I get to go home, drink a cup of coffee, and eat my cereal (and by this time, Zdenek was already complaining on the treadmill next to me that he was hungry). In running, it seems, quickness helps not just when you’re working hard, but also when you want to stop working. Quickness is everything.
The same cannot be said of other sports -- in particular, golf. This past weekend, Zdenek and I flew to Canada to spend Easter with his parents. On Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights, we stayed up until (relatively) late, drinking, eating, and talking with my in-laws. It was good to be with family, and we seemed to cover every subject under the sun. It was exactly the way I would have designed the weekend. But when I am with my in-laws, I know that a golf game is always on the table. On past visits, I have run 18 miles while the rest of the family golfed 18 holes, but this weekend, we had only an easy 13 miles on our Saturday schedule. The weather was beautiful, and we had plenty of time for nine holes in the afternoon.
To be clear: I am most definitely not a golfer. Although I’m not very good at it, it doesn’t leave me frustrated or cursing on the green as it seems to do for those who truly love the sport (a perverted love indeed). It does, however, bore me. I find that on the first couple of holes, I’m relatively focused. I concentrate, take note of my stance, and practice my swing a few times. By about the sixth hole, however, I start to lose interest. I just want the game to be over as quickly as possible. I don’t return my club (one of only three that I use) to the bag between turns. I forgo practice swings in favor of connecting with the ball -- however poorly -- more quickly, which just leaves me chasing it down the fairway in ten foot increments, thus wasting even more time. Towards the end, I sometimes don’t even finish the hole at all, instead opting to take whatever score the scorekeeper decides I might be worth. I just grab my ball and head off to the next hole, ticking them off like miles in a marathon.
Something about golf just bores me and strikes me as a waste of time (and money and water and green space). I may not be quick enough to be a great runner, but I surely lack the necessary focus to ever become a great golfer. Golf just isn't challenging for me in an adrenaline-rushing, heart-pumping kind of way. I don’t grin from ear to ear like I sometimes do when riding my bike. I don’t enter a zone the way I can while running hard and long. It doesn’t even seem good for my body in the way yoga or swimming does. And it most certainly does not reward speed. To attempt to play quickly will certainly just backfire and end up prolonging the game. In golf, unlike running, to be quick is to suck, and I am definitely not cut out for the patience demanded over nine or 18 holes. Eighteen miles, on the other hand, is a different story.
My kind of golf
And so although it was a lovely, dry morning, I figured that the gym -- despite its still, hot air -- was the safer option. At the very least, in my sleepy state and with tired legs, I knew that I’d be forced to run my prescribed pace on the treadmill, while I couldn’t be so sure that I wouldn’t slow down considerably if it was just me versus the open road. And I was right. By the fourth repeat, my HR was climbing to strangely high territory. By the fifth 1200 m repeat my legs were beginning to burn, and I began counting down the remaining time by the second. By the sixth repeat, I could barely go quickly enough to prevent myself from flying off the back of the machine altogether. And when I finally started my cool-down, I kept the pace a tad higher than I should have because, I figured, the faster I finish this workout, the faster I get to go home, drink a cup of coffee, and eat my cereal (and by this time, Zdenek was already complaining on the treadmill next to me that he was hungry). In running, it seems, quickness helps not just when you’re working hard, but also when you want to stop working. Quickness is everything.
The same cannot be said of other sports -- in particular, golf. This past weekend, Zdenek and I flew to Canada to spend Easter with his parents. On Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights, we stayed up until (relatively) late, drinking, eating, and talking with my in-laws. It was good to be with family, and we seemed to cover every subject under the sun. It was exactly the way I would have designed the weekend. But when I am with my in-laws, I know that a golf game is always on the table. On past visits, I have run 18 miles while the rest of the family golfed 18 holes, but this weekend, we had only an easy 13 miles on our Saturday schedule. The weather was beautiful, and we had plenty of time for nine holes in the afternoon.
To be clear: I am most definitely not a golfer. Although I’m not very good at it, it doesn’t leave me frustrated or cursing on the green as it seems to do for those who truly love the sport (a perverted love indeed). It does, however, bore me. I find that on the first couple of holes, I’m relatively focused. I concentrate, take note of my stance, and practice my swing a few times. By about the sixth hole, however, I start to lose interest. I just want the game to be over as quickly as possible. I don’t return my club (one of only three that I use) to the bag between turns. I forgo practice swings in favor of connecting with the ball -- however poorly -- more quickly, which just leaves me chasing it down the fairway in ten foot increments, thus wasting even more time. Towards the end, I sometimes don’t even finish the hole at all, instead opting to take whatever score the scorekeeper decides I might be worth. I just grab my ball and head off to the next hole, ticking them off like miles in a marathon.
Something about golf just bores me and strikes me as a waste of time (and money and water and green space). I may not be quick enough to be a great runner, but I surely lack the necessary focus to ever become a great golfer. Golf just isn't challenging for me in an adrenaline-rushing, heart-pumping kind of way. I don’t grin from ear to ear like I sometimes do when riding my bike. I don’t enter a zone the way I can while running hard and long. It doesn’t even seem good for my body in the way yoga or swimming does. And it most certainly does not reward speed. To attempt to play quickly will certainly just backfire and end up prolonging the game. In golf, unlike running, to be quick is to suck, and I am definitely not cut out for the patience demanded over nine or 18 holes. Eighteen miles, on the other hand, is a different story.
My kind of golf
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