New York City's finest

Today has been a strange mix of excitement and wistfulness. The New York City marathon is rolling into town this weekend, and the day is sure to bring sunny skies, cool temperatures, thousands of international runners, millions of cheering fans, and one exciting road race. I anticipate that we’ll be hopping in and around Manhattan to spot both professionals and friends making the five-borough, 26.2 mile journey. Watching any marathon is an inspiring and thrilling experience, and it always leaves me cheering on the sidelines, clapping and yelling, desperately wishing that I could be running it, too. But the New York City marathon is a different kind of race altogether. Though I’m excited to be a spectator on Sunday, I’m a bit sad that I won’t be sporting a bib myself.

Boston may lay claim to hosting the oldest and most prestigious marathon, but in my experience, the only city in the world that really knows how to throw a party around running is the one in which I currently live. I was delighted to gain entry to last year’s NYC marathon through the three-strikes-and-you’re-in policy. That is, any applicant who fails to gain a spot through the lottery for three consecutive years obtains guaranteed entry in the fourth year. 2008 was my year. During the summer of 2008, however, I had already committed to training for a September half-marathon and biking as much as much as my cross-training would permit. Once the 13.1 mile race was under my belt at the end of September, I had exactly five weeks to prepare myself for a race twice the distance.

NYC would number as my sixth marathon. The five that came before it were completed following 16 to 18 weeks of regimented training, during which I always ran at least three long runs of 20+ miles (and, often, 23 or 24 miles only three weeks before race day). Leading up to the NYC marathon, however, my longest run over the past four months had been a pitiful 15 miles -- plenty for a half-marathon; a warm-up for the marathon. My coach and I devised the “crash training plan” to get me in condition for 26.2 over five weekends:

1. Week one: 13 miles
2. Week two: a slow 18 miles
3. Week three: a slow 21 miles
4. Week four: taper
5. Week five: 26.2 in NYC!

While it was a bit of stretch for me to imagine how I could possibly complete the marathon on such poor preparation, for the first time in my running “career,” my goal for a specific time was replaced by a goal to enjoy the race. My coach urged me to stick to a pace that would clock me in around four hours. I bought a disposable camera to carry on the course so that I could force myself to look around, take it all in, and snap a few photos. I was determined to just enjoy the experience of running and racing in the Big Apple.

As I learned, the trouble with the NYC marathon is this: when almost 40,000 runners from almost every corner of the planet migrate at the crack of dawn to gather on Staten Island; when those runners line up at the Verrazzano Bridge with helicopters hovering overhead and Sinatra’s “New York, New York” blasting through the mass of shivering, excited bodies; when those runners then make the two mile journey over the bridge to turn a corner and find themselves greeted in Brooklyn by cheering fans holding “Welcome” signs; when those runners wind their way through the diverse neighborhoods of Brooklyn and Queens; when those runners cross the 59th Street Bridge, on which all that can be heard is the sound of feet hitting pavement until, gradually, the sounds of cheering fans in Manhattan drowns everything else out; when those runners make the turn off the bridge and onto 1st Avenue, greeted by a wall of screaming spectators five or ten deep; when those runners race up through Manhattan, across into the Bronx, and wind their way back through Harlem; when those runners continue down Fifth Avenue where, by mile 21 and 22, the ever-so-gradual incline is amplified to painful proportions; when those runners enter into the greatest playground in the world, Central Park, in all her autumn glory; when those runners make the final turn onto Central Park South, past Columbus Circle, and back into Central Park for the final few hundred meters; and when you are one of those runners, it is impossible to “stick to your pace!”

New York City was not my fastest race, but nor was it my slowest. It was, however, my most memorable. During the race, I spotted my friends and family around East 76th Street, and I made my way over to the barricade to give and receive hugs. I exclaimed at the time, “I will never run any other race except this one from now on!” Though that proved to be not quite true -- I’ve since run a marathon elsewhere -- I doubt I’ll run another one like New York. I’ve enjoyed a rewarding summer of cycling and running this year and, indeed, that was point of not planning for a fall marathon. And while I’ll be out there cheering in full force for the runners at the 40th edition of the NYC marathon this Sunday, I am, and will be, more than a bit jealous that I’m not one of them. New York may have crowds, bed bugs, and insanely high rent, but it also has the best 26.2 miles any city could offer. And for one day each November, nothing else matters.

My little piggies

In preparation for the NYC marathon this Sunday, the NY Times has been printing a range of running- and marathon-related articles over the past several months. I can relate to many of these articles: running in bad weather, nightmares on the night before the big day, fueling strategies, and, of course, injuries. Although I've never been sidelined by a serious injury, I've had my fair share of sore knees and quads. Perhaps the most annoying recurring injury I seem to suffer, though, afflicts my little piggies.

It all began after my inaugural long distance race, the Race Around the Bay, when I removed my shoes to find that several of my toenails had gorged up with blood blisters. Not really knowing what to do about these blisters, I opted to simply lance them to relieve the pressure. The blisters shrunk and my toenails remained attached. (Hurrah!) A few weeks later, the salesperson at my local running store advised me to go up one-half size in my running shoes to prevent toe jamming. I did, and have been wearing an 8.5 running shoe ever since.

Several months later, after my first marathon (the Toronto International), I was again stricken with Bruised and Bloody Toe Syndrome. Larger running shoes had provided some relief during regular training runs but, it seemed, failed to solve the problem on the much more vigorous and demanding race day. I conceded that my anatomical defects -- my second toe is longer than my big toe -- were always going to cause me problems in races. Because popping the blisters seemed to work so well before, I conducted a second round of bathroom surgery.

All went well for a day or two, but soon my toes were hot, red, swollen, and sore. I was convinced that I had badly bruised them. This being the start of the Toronto winter, wearing flip flops to and from work was not an option, and so I made an appointment with the doctor to have my piggies checked out. And thank goodness for that! My self-performed surgery had, in fact, given me a bad case of cellulitis, a bacterial skin infection that, if not properly treated, can actually kill a person. The doctor promptly prescribed antibiotics and a topical cream and sent me on my way.

Since that day more than five years ago, I have been afflicted with cellulitis two more times (and, in the process, discovered my allergy to penicillin). I have bruised my toes in almost every race. I've lost several toenails when all was said and run (including this most recent one). (This is saying nothing of my other toe afflictions, including plantar capsitus.) My toes destroy any chance I might have for a good finish line photo. My toenails are now a bit misshapen and bumpy. They don't grow quite right. They still ache after a long run. Unfortunately, I imagine they'll be like this for the rest of my life.

But things would have to get pretty bad (or my running habits pretty insane) before I'd consider the solution highlighted by the most recent NY Times article, which filled me with both intrigue and disgust: permanent removal of one's toenails (view the photo if you dare). This was printed in the "Fashion and Style" section of the paper, and I do admit to being a bit dull in the "style" department. It's possible that I'm missing something. But the thought of permanently removing my toenails makes me love them all the more for what they have endured. My little piggies -- in their entirety -- are here to stay.

Multitasking

With the slight uptick in temperatures this week, I've been pleased to get in as many extra cycling days as possible. It has, of course, come at the expense of my running, and by the time Friday rolled around, I had only logged five miles all week long. On Friday morning, because we opted to take advantage of the warm weather and cycle yet again, Zdenek assured me that we'd go for a run after work. When we wrapped up our work day at 6:30 pm and headed home to the Upper West Side, we did so under dark skies that threatened to open up and drench us at any moment. The air was cool but humid. The winds were strong. The sun had set. I asked Zdenek if he still intended on going for a run, to which he emphatically replied, "No!"

While most other New Yorkers headed out to bars and for dinner in celebration of the work week's end, we had no formal plans, and I was determined to get another five miles into my log before the weekend officially arrived. I had only to say to Zdenek, "That's fine, I'll go by myself," before he was rolling his eyes and lacing up his shoelaces alongside me. (Truthfully, I'm not sure I would have gone by myself, because Central Park after dark is no place for a lone girl, but thankfully, Zdenek never called my bluff.) I sweetened the deal by offering to tuck my ID and credit card into my running shorts so that we could multitask by finishing our run at our favorite Upper West Side wine store. (Runner's World has often suggested combining a run with errands, though I'm not sure running to a liquor store is what they had in mind.)

After weaving through the crowded sidewalks and questioning our sanity for attempting a run on such a miserable evening, we entered Central Park. Within minutes, the rain (that, according to the weatherman, was not supposed to arrive for several more hours) began to fall, and for a moment we may have grimaced. Over five miles, we passed no more than 15 other runners -- together we represented the small cohort of New Yorkers for whom a Friday night run is synonymous with "happy hour." I'm certain that I have never seen Central Park so deserted. Zdenek and I had no big date planned for yesterday evening, but yet we found ourselves on an unexpectedly romantic one. We ran side by side in the quiet darkness of the Park, into the rain and wind, while the rest of the City carried on a few miles away.

Six good reasons

In spite of all the work I have to do, and even considering that I could have used more sleep this week than I have obtained thus far, I am in an extraordinarily good mood right now.

1. It appears that I may be close to tying out a major project (or, at the very least, the first iteration of it) that has been a long time in coming.

2. It is a beautiful, sunny, warm autumn day!

3. I had a super-duper fun time riding my bike today and yesterday, and an equally super-duper fun time running on Tuesday. In fact, Tuesday night's run in the unseasonably warm fall weather was smokin' fast (for me), and all of my troubles seemed to melt away in the first 1/2 mile. Our bike rides yesterday and this morning required only booties, and we're taking it a bit easier, enjoying the scents and sights of fall in Central Park.

4. There is only one more day until the weekend.

5. There is only one more weekend until the New York City marathon!

6. My salad at lunch was delicious, and the deli guy gave me a sixth topping for free (I chose asparagus).

Muffins with meaning

It's been a drizzly, cold weekend in New York City. For once, though, I don't mind the weather so much, because it's allowed me the opportunity to stay warm and cozy at home without feeling like my time could be spent more productively. On Friday night, I was asleep on the couch by 9:30 pm and made the 15 foot migration to my bed 20 minutes later. We managed a respectable 13 mile run on Saturday morning, and then rewarded ourselves by snuggling under a blanket to watch "The Curious Case of Benjamin Button" while drinking Belgian-style brews and eating strong cheeses. Later, we actually rallied to meet friends at the frou-frou Morimoto, where we indulged in an extraordinary amount of sushi and, of course, more beer. Today has been both relaxing and rewarding thus far: a couple of hours reading the NY Times followed by a quick 5 miles in a mostly deserted, rainy Central Park. I'm now showered and cozy in my favorite Boston Marathon sweatshirt, enveloped by the warm, delicious scent of baking banana pineapple muffins. The best part of my weekend is rising up (literally) as I type this.

These muffins are my mom's favourite recipe -- or at least, they are the ones she made most often when I was growing up (and probably still does, though I'm home too infrequently to be sure). At that time, most yellow bananas in our house fulfilled their destiny as a midday snack or as filling for a peanut butter-banana sandwich. But for the one or two bananas each week that turned brown and soft with neglect, a more delicious fate was in store. These potassium powerhouses would soon find themselves peeled and mushed, mixed with a bit of crushed pineapple, and stirred into a pastry mix. Twenty minutes later, my mom would retrieve the fragrant, yellow muffins from the oven, scoop them out onto an old newspaper for cooling, and then dish one out for me with a pat of butter on top. Sometimes these muffins were prepared on Saturday mornings, but just as often, their tempting aroma would fill the house on midweek evening and provide a comforting bedtime snack.

It was somewhat significant for me to whip up this same batch of muffins for my husband soon after we were married. I don't fancy myself a domestic goddess, and I don't derive a great deal of satisfaction from mothering those around me. But carrying on the tradition of almost-weekly banana pineapple muffins seemed to rest on my shoulders once I left my mother's home and moved into one of my own. With both purpose and pride, I transformed the first brown banana in our apartment into my mom's signature muffins (and I'm certain that my sister does the same for her family on a routine basis). Because the muffins are, in fact, very good, and because anything baked with love is downright delicious, Zdenek showed his approval by helping me to finish the whole dozen within days.

It's been months -- if not more than one year -- since the scent of banana pineapple muffins has filled our Upper West Side apartment. I'm not sure why, exactly, other than perhaps I'm trying to avoid having a dozen baked goods around when there are only two of us to partake. (Zdenek has instead made good use of mushy bananas by folding them into his pancake batter after Saturday morning long runs.) But today, as we were heading out the door to face the rain and cold, Zdenek suggested that "we" (meaning me) whip up a batch of banana pineapple muffins this afternoon, and I didn't require any convincing. On our way back from the Park we stopped off to buy a crushed can of pineapples; thirty minutes later, we're both salivating at the thought of a warm, delicious muffin on this dark and dreary Sunday afternoon. And I know there's a pretty good chance that, thousands of miles away, the same treat can be enjoyed this weekend around my mom's kitchen table.

A very good thing

It's been a rather stressful week and I'm juggling a few too many things. Yesterday, the accumulated effects left me too tired to get out of bed for a run; today, I promised, things would be different.

In the rain, cold, and darkness of the early morning (I even had to pull my winter running gear out of storage!), I managed a quick and energizing 10km. When it was over, I reflected aloud that it was "definitely a run worth getting out of bed for." Despite the miserable conditions, it was a treasured 50 minutes of sanity and peace in the day. No wonder: a recent study in the Journal of Epidemiology and Community Health that is being widely quoted in the popular press today has offered an explanation:

The annual prevalence of anxiety disorders for those living in a residential area containing 10% of green space within a one kilometre (0.62 miles) radius of their home was 26 per 1000 whereas for those living in an area containing 90% of green space it was 18 per 1000.

For depression the rates were 32 per 1000 for the people in the more built up areas and 24 per 1000 for those in the greener areas.

Central Park lies exactly 0.93 km from my doorstep. And that is a very good thing.

A cold reality

I can pinpoint the day I realized with certainty that Zdenek had fallen in love with me. It was a Sunday morning in Toronto, back in January of 2004. I was training for my first long-distance race, the 30km Around the Bay Road Race in Hamilton, Ontario (which, incidentally, is the oldest road race in North America). As part of my training program, I was participating in scheduled "race pace runs" with my local running group. These runs, meant to simulate race-day conditions and allow the opportunity to practice pacing, nutrition, and other race strategies, were staged in rain, shine, or (being Canada) the freezing cold. That particular Sunday, I was scheduled to run 16 miles. My running partner, Siobhan, was off visiting family in sunny Florida.

As Sunday drew closer and the mercury plunged lower, it became apparent that I was in for a miserable 16 miles. The temperature for that morning was predicted to hit a high of -31 degrees Celsius (which, for my American friends, translates to about -24 degrees Fahrenheit). I'm not sure if I asked or he offered, but somehow, in a stroke of both genius and true love, Zdenek and I decided that it would be a good idea for him to keep me company on this run. Since his maximum mileage in those days was about 11 short of what was called for that day, he agreed to ride his bicycle next to me along the route, carrying extra water (ice) or Power Gels (frozen goo) as needed.

While I remember being cold that day, once I began moving, my body warmed up and I was able to maintain a pretty steady temperature under my three layers of pants, four layers of shirts, balaclava, and touque (sorry, American friends, you'll have to figure that one out on your own). Running has a nice way of making and keeping you toasty, even under conditions that no human should ever endure. Zdenek, on the other hand, was not so lucky. Sitting pretty much motionless on a bicycle seat for two and a half hours in blizzard-like conditions almost cost my future hubby his toes. At the end of the run, I complained that I was tired; Zdenek stuck his frozen feet to the car heater and feared that he would face amputation. Thankfully, as it turned out, his feet and all ten toes remain attached to his body. In fact, about two years later during a winter trip to Calgary, he again agreed to ride a bike next to me while I did a long run in Arctic-like weather. The man is a trouper and, if I haven't said it enough before, he is my biggest supporter.

I was reminded of these stories on this morning's ride in the Park. The mercury today hit a balmy 5 degrees Celsius (about 42 degrees Farenheit), making for idyllic running conditions. We opted, however, in another flash of genius, to bundle up and ride. I worked as hard as I could for 60 minutes, but my legs remained stiff and cold, my feet soon lost feeling altogether (even with my booties), and the tears streaming down my face kept blurring my vision. My best efforts to get my core temperature up were thwarted by the cold wind; in cycling, it seems, the harder you work, the faster you go. And the faster you go, the colder you are.

As we coasted down the hill at the north end of the Park, Zdenek commented that he'd "never ridden like this before;" a few minutes later, he conceded that our cycling season was "almost over." Freezing my bum off (literally, it's the only place on my body that wasn't protected by a fleecy layer), I appreciated a fraction of what Zdenek must have endured "riding" his bike next to me in the Canadian winter. It's a good thing for him that, this winter, his recently acquired running endurance will allow him to keep warm, too.

Bundled up this morning

And yet this was taken less than two weeks ago!

Excuse me, but are those Jawbones you're wearing?

Proof that my brother-in-law (affectionately known as "Litespeed") really has joined us for a ride

Hijacked

Last night, Zdenek and I went to the gym for a $400 weight lifting session. At least, that's what I estimate those 40 minutes of bench presses, bicep curls, and planks cost us. We pay about $100 each per month for our local gym memberships, and I'm pretty sure we haven't been there in at least two months. Cycling and running are infinitely superior to any class or activity that can be found within the confines of four walls, and I've been happy to keep some upper body strength by doing regular push-ups and core exercises at home. But last night, we decided to pump some iron in the formal sense of the word. I didn't feel horribly weak going into it, but I surprised both Zdenek and myself by cranking out several extra reps on the bench press without much effort. I may have paid a high price for it, but, 24 hours later, I'm still pleased about my effort and the outcome.

Whether I'm trying to maintain a strong pace for the last few miles of a run, or wheezing and burning up a long climb on my little red Giant, I feel at my best when I'm controlling the effort and, in turn, dictating the outcome. Certainly it explains why I was so upset by a dream to which I awoke this morning: I was somewhere in the mountains, enjoying the scenery and wildlife, when I saw two foxes in the distance. As one of them came closer to me and I prepared my camera to take a photo, I suddenly realized that this was no fox at all, but rather a ferocious mountain lion looking for its next meal. From out of nowhere, a hunter fired a shot, at which point I awoke. I wasn't frightened by this dream as much as I was perturbed. I couldn't understand why my brain would do something like that to me. My brain and I had agreed that there was a beautiful fox to admire, and then, without warning, my brain decided to change course on me. I didn't get it. Aren't my brain and me playing for the same team? It was frustrating and annoying to be hijacked in this way.

Indeed, I feel like there are a few things going on in my life at present that, however frustrating or suboptimal, are beyond my control. Perhaps that's why, when I had the opportunity on this morning's ride, I simply did my own thing. For a couple of miles I rode beside Zdenek, and then soon I was out in front. It helps knowing that Zdenek will never have trouble staying on my wheel (the same cannot be said of the inverse scenario), but still, I didn't look back. I didn't want to be paced. I wanted to set my own pace.

I can accept (or at least I think I can accept) that there are many instances in which I need to cede control, and I know that my directions and outcomes may often be hijacked. No matter how hard I will it, there are some things that I simply can't dictate: the actions of those around me; the limits to my own abilities; the basic laws of nature. I know that these things are bigger than me, and that the outcome is certain when it's Jodi vs. them. Perhaps it's because of these facts that I relish those times that I can be in the driver's seat.

Full and thankful

Today is both Canadian Thanksgiving and my parents' 46th wedding anniversary (Happy Anniversary, Mom and Dad!). It's also Columbus Day here in the United States. Indeed, no matter how you look at it, today is a holiday.

Sadly, I got no such holiday today, and instead headed off to work for my usual stint. My husband fared a little better than me -- one small perk of working in the financial markets, I guess. It's probably a good thing that I was forced to go to work instead of lounging around at home, because I'm certain that I would have spent it in an unproductive and lazy way after the many indulgences of the last 48 hours.

Zdenek's parents have been visiting for the last few days, and it's been a huge treat having them around. Even though we're surrounded by millions of other people on this island, there are only a couple dozen in the world whose absence leaves a noticeable hole in our day-to-day.

In homage to the Canadian holiday that allowed my in-laws an extra day off of work to make a trip south of the border, I prepared several culinary delights this weekend that left us all stuffed and rubbing our bellies. For her part, New York City cooperated by providing us with warmish temperatures and a bit of sunshine, at least on Sunday. As usual, we have much to celebrate, and much to be thankful for.

When in Rome

One stereotype that definitely holds true is that New Yorkers lack manners. Occasionally I see some story about an out-of-town visitor who had a heart attack in the middle of a Manhattan sidewalk and five New Yorkers rushed to his aid, and the visitor later gushes about how kind and generous New Yorkers really are, and how the stereotype of a rude New Yorker is simply unfounded. I agree that one can find polite, mannered residents here -- indeed, in a city so dense, there have to be a few good eggs among the rotten ones. But by and large, New Yorkers have a well deserved reputation for being too forward, pushy, inconsiderate, and rude (though I'm not sure I can blame them -- life here demands a certain level of aggression to get by).

There is one place, though, in which being forward and pushy seems not to matter: on a bike. I am constantly amazed at what constitutes acceptable behavior so long as one is dressed in spandex and wearing a team jersey, and I'll admit that I am pleased to be a part of it all. Zdenek and I have had several rides this year during which we've latched on to fellow Central Park or highway 9W cyclists, riding close enough to catch both their slipstream and their conversation. I recall one particularly good return ride from Nyack, on which I spent a solid 15 minutes riding 12 inches behind a team of five men, working my butt off to keep up, but going immeasurably faster than I could have ever managed alone (eventually, I was dropped). On another morning ride in the Park, one fellow cyclist rode for almost 45 minutes on my wheel (while I was, in turn, riding Zdenek's), never uttering a word, but ever present behind me. Unlike runners, cyclists don't nod to, smile at, or make conversation with one another. But they have no shame in joining -- or rather milking off of -- your workout, uninvited. With cyclists, such actions are considered neither creepy nor aggressive, but par for the course.

Or so I thought, until this morning. Zdenek and I crawled out of bed at 6 am, planning for a run, but when we checked weather.com to find that is was a balmy 14 degrees Celsius out, we opted to cycle instead (could be the last one of the season!). I was pleased to find that I required neither leg warmers nor bulky gloves this morning, and for once I felt light and aerodynamic on my bike (and as it turned out, we rode our fastest laps of the entire year this morning!). About 10 minutes in to our ride, Zdenek and I found ourselves behind a very fit 30- or 40-something woman and her very fit 30- or 40-something male training partner. They were moving at my top speed, and it was immediately obvious to both Zdenek and me that we had, perhaps, found our ride.

Strangely, though, after following their wheels for only a few minutes, the male portion of this duo moved to the side so that Zdenek was, instead, following only the woman (and I was following Zdenek). Then, without warning, the guy began darting in and out in front of Zdenek in what appeared to be deliberate attempts to cut us off. From my vantage point behind, I could sense what was going on ahead, and this guy's actions reminded me of some kind of mad, stinging insect trying to defend its nest. He was signaling for us to back off or, better yet, get lost. Our tailgating was clearly unacceptable behavior in his books.

Later in our ride, we caught and passed the guy again (he was riding solo at this point). Though I ended up barely 10 feet in front of him, he simply refused to ride my wheel, and instead rode just a few feet off to the side. It was bizarre. I would have felt more at ease if he had ridden (even in silence) directly behind me, and benefited from my hard work and, in turn, that of my husband. Paradoxically, this guy's apparent show of good manners on the bike came off as strangely aggressive and far too competitive for a morning ride in Central Park. His proper behavior seemed entirely out of place -- for a bike, or New York, or both.

I can only surmise that he was from out of town.

In clover

It took some time to get out the door this morning. Once I was dressed in my leg warmers, booties, and new cycling jacket, we headed out into the early dawn for our usual three loops of the Park. Bundled up in my fuzzy warm attire, I wondered how long I'll be able to continue cycling before running will become the warmer, and therefore only, option.

Somewhere around Tavern on Green on the West side, and again by the Reservoir on the East Drive, the strong, warm, comforting scent of cloves was all around us. I've been enjoying Central Park on an almost daily basis for over four years, and I have experienced this a few times before. Today, it was an unexpected but pleasant surprise in the chilly air, and it made me want to wrap my cold fingers around a hot cup of cocoa and enjoy a slice of gingerbread (or two). (Appropriately, a coworker has just informed me that a slice of chocolate chip pumpkin loaf awaits me this afternoon. Three cheers for coworkers who bake, and especially for those who bring the fruits of their labor into the office the next day!) After my ride, I did an online search to see if I could find anything about the location or source of the Central Park cloves. I didn't manage to find any clues, but I was somewhat amused to learn that "in clover" not only implies a carefree life of ease, comfort, and prosperity, but is also synonymous with "cozy."

Perhaps due to the lingering scent of the cloves in my head, I selected my longest, coziest fall sweater to wear today. Walking to work, wrapped to my knees in wool, I began thinking about our plans for the next few months: My in-laws will be visiting us in the Big Apple this weekend to celebrate Canadian Thanksgiving. During US Thanksgiving in November, Zdenek and I intend on making a trip home to Calgary for a few days of blue sky and fresh mountain air. And in December, we're off to Europe to visit Zdenek's extended family in the Czech Republic, as well as to connect with old friends for three days in Paris. Although I've been to Paris a few times during the summer months, something about visiting the City of Lights in the days before Christmas seems absolutely magical. This morning marked the beginning of what is bound to be a memorable and unique holiday season.

A girl understands

This has been a tough week so far. I haven't dealt with any major crises, I'm not putting in particularly long hours at work, and, as far as I know, everyone that matters to me is happy and healthy and generally doing well. Nevertheless, my sleep has been severely lacking, and the hours that I do get are not quality ones. On Sunday and Monday of this week, a rather sudden pain spread through the entire right side of my face and neck, leading me to think that a full-blown illness was only hours away. Although the pain and swollen lymph nodes that accompanied it eventually abated, I still feel absolutely exhausted. Making matters worse, I've been feeling as though my quads and butt are, shall we say, ahem, "growing." I don't feel heavier, but I'm concerned that my pants are a wee bit tighter in the upper leg and seat region. As any woman knows, such observations are a sure way to turn a mildly frustrating week into one of full-out depression.

This morning, after a visit to the company pantry to collect our daily ration of fresh fruit and Kashi granola bars, Caitlin -- who shares my affinities for running, cycling, and sleep -- and I sat in my office, commiserating about our mutual feelings of exhaustion. We concluded that we are either (a) getting older and therefore in need of more rest, (b) affected by the change in seasons, or (c) barely fighting off a swine flu or other virus that is making the rounds. Having cleared that up, I then proceeded to tell Caitlin about my ill-fitting garments. She sympathized immediately. More importantly, she assured me that any growing quads or butts are most definitely the result of cycling; larger legs and glutes are the price one must pay for powering up hills on two wheels. She's absolutely right, I thought. I know that I can always count on Caitlin to make me feel better!

Several hours later, still feeling exhausted, and, by this time, with a low-grade headache and a craving for a chocolate chip cookie, I left my office in search of more coworkers with whom I could I blow off some steam. As usual, I ended up in Caitlin's office, which she shares with a few male coworkers. I plunked down on the office futon (don't ask). Immediately, Caitlin got up from her desk to plunk down next to me. I began to complain to everyone in the room, whether or not they were interested or listening, about my general state of malaise. One of the men suggested I take an Advil. Another offered me a cup of coffee. The third stared at me blankly. It was clear that the men in our office seemed incapable of properly appreciating my problems, and their quick solutions were of no help at all.

But Caitlin -- sweet Caitlin -- just reached with me into the box of Godivas from a nearby desk. Ignoring the men, we each grabbed a chocolate and popped it into our mouths. Side by side, chewing the sticky caramel and allowing the creamy praline to melt on our tongues, we pondered the possible causes of a girl's growing thighs.