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.

If I can run here...

One morning last week, as I picked through the too-soft plums and under-ripe bananas in our fruit bowls at work, a colleague, who was also surveying the sub-standard fare, remarked, “I guess we’re not in California.” No, we are most certainly not in California. We are in the middle of an East Coast heat wave. New York is always a bit hot and sticky in the summer, but the weather over the last few days has been something altogether different. It is above 30 degrees Celsius when I wake up before 6 am, and it is above 30 when I go to bed at night. Today’s high is supposed to hit 38, and that’s before taking any humidity into account. I am trying very hard to leave my A/C off or set to no cooler than 76 degrees, lest I contribute to what might be an inevitable NYC blackout, but it’s tough being so kind to Mother Earth.

Miraculously, though, I’ve managed to cycle and/or run through every day of this heat wave. Zdenek and I rode over 30 miles on Saturday morning -- one for each degree, it seems. (On every other loop, I cut off a mile so that he could ride hard and we’d meet each other back at the start, which actually worked out pretty well for us.) On Sunday, despite having had very little sleep after attending a wedding the night prior, I rolled out of bed to run just over 7 miles in the searing heat. Yesterday I managed the same. Today, even though it was 32 degrees at 6:20 am, I actually opted for a third day of torturous running, after an email from Caitlin confirmed that she just couldn't stomach a ride with me in this weather.

Truthfully, though, I wouldn’t be doing it if I didn’t love it, and I know that every run or ride in adverse conditions just makes me that much stronger. So long as I go slowly and make friends with every water fountain along the way, I usually manage just fine (of course, the humidity hasn’t been above 70% in the morning -- yet -- so this helps considerably). Indeed, there’s something about keeping active in the heat that actually makes it seem that much more tolerable. In fact, yesterday afternoon, having retreated inside my air conditioned apartment for several hours following my morning run, I headed to the gym for my second workout of the day; sitting outside on the patio was far too uncomfortable, but I refused to allow the heat to win. The boiling temperatures are forecast to stick around the next several days, so I hope I don't lose my fighting spirit by week's end.

So while we may not be in California, I’m going to do my best to avoid letting a little heat keep me grounded in New York City. As the song goes, if I can make it here, I’ll make it anywhere. I am certain that applies to running, too.