Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Finally, three years in...
Entry number: 282011
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
2008 Boston Marathon
Quick trip, but I Chinatown-bused it to Boston Sunday night, staying at Kassie/Dave's to catch Monday's race. Dave's teaching at Wellesley, w/ K & D living right on campus. This is exactly the halfway point in the marathon--and a new vantage point for me, as when I've watched races in the past, it's been the finish line I'm parked at, or in the case of NYC, close to the start.
Taking it all in at 13.1 was a different experience, then. Runners have generally found their rhythm and held it for a while by now, which is of course welcome, but 13.1 is also the start of those can-be-torturous middle miles, w/ the beginning well-behind yet the end still far from seeming likely/real. This is why the infamous scream tunnel kinda saves the day--distracting/encouraging for at least a mile or so. Oddly I didn't hear much of anything, having stood a ways down the road from it. That there were like a million cowbells in full effect had to have masked a bit, too.
Anyway, per usual, seeing that first pack of elites emerge (this race: women first, followed by the mens a half hour later) made me almost pee myself. It's insane how fast they're going, how fast they've been going for an entire hour, and how fast they'll continue to go for another hour still. And though as a group form/gait was impressive overall, I was surprised to see a few of the frontrunners looking more than a little ragged. Like, arms were flying around to a surprising degree. I don't know, this is probably routine, strange to me only because of the vantage point newness.
It was especially stirring to watch the Kenyans pass this year, realizing/imagining the challenge of training in their home country in recent months.
I somehow missed seeing ol' Lance go by (one dressed like a bee), who missed his 2:45 goal by five minutes. Also missed a hell of a (women's) finish...
Kassie and I were talking later about how it's pretty surreal, witnessing the aftermath of such an event--several overfilled trash cans and chucked orange wedges the only evidence of 25,000 runners having passed through town not an hour earlier. And given the holiday, several of the shops were closed, making the streets extra-still. Waiting for Kass to drop her ma off at the train station, I stretched out on a curbside bench, sun on my forehead, and napped in total peace.
Yeah, so it was great to see K & D, as that's a trip I'd meant to take much sooner. They're both tearin' it up w/ their respective art, w/ D just recently commissioned to paint a huge wraparound mural in this prominent campus building. K's stuff never ceases to amaze, and it's been fun to watch her style shift in the years I've known her. Totally inspiring, the both of 'em.
Now if I'd only managed to return home w/ my phone charger, jacket, etc., etc., etc. Long sigh/par for the course.
Also running related: If you live in/around good ol' Kent, WA, do go here. Chef's a good man.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Master of My Domain
Last month I traveled to Europe for the first time. Week one was spent in Belfast, where runner types were conspicuously absent. Next stop: London, where it was hard to avoid them.
My last day there, I managed to squeeze in a morning run. While winding through idyllic Hyde Park, I met runner after runner; each time, a familiar feeling tugged at me, one I traced back to August's trip to Missoula, to January's stay in Santa Monica, to last year's rendezvous with Madison, Wisconsin. In sum, to most anyplace I'd ever donned a pair of running shoes--anyplace that wasn't home.
The feeling: Reverence, homage paid to the resident runners of a stomping ground that isn't my own.
As I skirted the ovular fountain, memorial to Princess Diana, I thought about the red-vested, thirty-something guy, presumably a Brit, whom I'd just passed. What went through his mind when the momentous stone structure entered his sight? Anything? Maybe it's the Serpentine, lake at the park's center, that holds special significance for him. Or maybe it's something less obvious, something that only he is privy to: a particular grove of trees, a certain house on the periphery of the green.
Regardless, I exchanged several looks over the course of my run. On my end, these looks were meant to convey respect, a quiet acknowledgment of the relationship that my British counterparts have with their environment as experienced through running. In my way, I was thanking them, masters of their domain, for allowing me to share, and enjoy, their turf.
It's different at home. When it's my own turf I'm treading, I've been known to get a little, erm, possessive. I have a tendency to act as though certain landmarks along my tried-and-truest routes--the gnarled tree stump that bears an uncanny likeness to the plastic trolls my Norwegian grandmother hordes, the row of poplars that takes me back to the home of my childhood, the city street on which I was running when I had that minor epiphany--grant me some sort of ambiguous territorial claim.
"So where do usually run?" I ask, addressing my new coworker upon learning that she, too, is a runner.
"Well, I'm a big fan of the Belt Parkway trail in Brooklyn, been running there for years. You ever run it?"
"Um, yeah. That's actually my all-time favorite running spot," I reply, a slight edge to my tone.
I was jealous--frankly, a predictable reaction. After all, when I look back on my running career to date, it isn't the PRs that come to mind, it's the unswerving relationships I've formed with my surroundings as I've worked to achieve them. Unfortunately, relationships, particularly those of the romantic variety, tend to invite jealous feelings into the mix. In the case of my running, a part of my life with which I'm very much in love, I wanted that trail--that is, the fondness I’d developed for it--all to myself.
What I need is to get the whole sharing thing down, take a mental trip back to kindergarten to re-learn this basic life skill. Of course other runners have bonded with the same sights as I--the retro diners, quaint cafes and Gothic style cathedrals, cattail-flanked duck ponds and Saturday morning Little League games--but this shouldn't detract from my own unique experience. The comfort should lie in the understanding that no two relationships are identical, including those that exist between person and place.
I've been practicing. Take the other day for instance.
I'm running through Brooklyn's Prospect Park--my old standby route. A familiar runner approaches, a guy I've crossed paths with a dozen or so times in the last few months. In addition to my typical restrained nod, I summon a little something extra: a small smile and sustained blink of the eyes. It's my 'reverential look' and it's intended to express the same thing here as it did in London and Portland and Sedona: respect. Regard for one runner's distinctive relationship with, this time, our turf.
Monday, April 14, 2008
Running to the Rescue
Vacations, endlessly hyped, can be a real pain in the ass. Unless, that is, you're a runner. The other week, armed with my trusty Brooks, I saved a long-anticipated getaway from a disappointing outcome with a few strategic strides. Running, I'm now convinced, has the potential to make almost any vacation feel longer, richer, worth it.
Equipped with a weekend plus two delectable days off work, my itinerary--my original itinerary, ahem--consisted of a pair of 12-hour Amtrak journeys (New York City to Montreal and back) sandwiching 50-odd hours that would be spent cavorting with dishy French Canadians. Oui oui!
Things got off to a rousing start. Upon reaching the station, an unsavory announcement reached my ears: "I'm sorry, train 71 from New York City to Montreal has been canceled." You don't say. You don't! Ah, but you just did. Harumpf.
I then learned that the next Canadian-bound train wouldn't depart until the next morning. Yet I was hell-bent on getting out of the city without further delay, so I decided on a half-day and night in Poughkeepsie--a small town two hours north and directly en route to my final destination. Certainly I could imagine worse than a brief stay along the Hudson, river flanked by trees electric with fall colors. Still, pining for Montreal and mourning a day lost there, the sentiment "waste of time" more than crossed my mind. It lingered.
Time would tell.
I put in a call to Amtrak, and minutes later I had an updated itinerary: NYC to Poughkeepsie in T-minus twenty minutes; Poughkeepsie to Montreal at 10:00 a.m. the next day.
By 2:00 p.m., I was settled into my discount motel in, yes, placid Poughkeepsie. Another hour, and I was breathing sweet autumn air, shoes snug, water bottle topped off, watch primed for an hour's worth of crisp afternoon running.
And what an hour it was. At the advice of the motel's front desk attendant, I wove through the nearby campus of Vassar College, marveling at the confluence of old and new architecture. Immense brick dormitories; a library extravagant with turrets, stained glass, and sculptural detail; buildings displaying the clean, sweeping lines of Scandinavian design...
Thirty minutes in, I left campus for more modest surroundings: neighborhoods characterized by colorful ramblers, casually manicured gardens, retrievers barking at who knew what, kids caught up in pre-dinner make-believe... Residents walked by; we exchanged smiles and waves. There was a mayoral race in progress, and there were all sorts of campaign signs, with "Poughkeepsie Needs a Work Horse, Not a Show Horse" standing out in my mind. Toward the end of my workout/tour, my growling tummy, teased by a string of aromatic restaurants--Italian, Chinese, Middle Eastern--demanded a shift in attention, and visions of thick Tuscan bread and sauteed snap peas accompanied me on the home stretch. (Italian won out in the end.)
The next morning, while awaiting the arrival of the taxi that would whisk me to the Amtrak station, I felt vaguely sad to be leaving this riverside burg, with its academic influence, its two-car garages, its energized politics. Halfway to Montreal, drowsy post-nap, I realized what it was: Over the course of an hour--over the course of my run--I'd forged a connection with this "Queen City of the Hudson," as it's known. I was never "supposed" to be there, it was a chance maneuver, a mistake; yet through running, I'd developed a meaningful relationship with it, an affinity for it.
Had I skipped the run, I'm convinced I would have missed this. I wouldn't have received the same range of visual cues, thus my Poughkeepsie schematic would have been comparatively flimsy. Perhaps more significant, had I chosen instead a leisurely stroll along the main drag, my not-quite-a-daytrip would have been absent that binding thread that mysteriously sews itself between runner and nature, the thread that people invoke when they speak of the spiritual aspect of the sport.
The thread that, apparently, saves vacations.
Monday, December 31, 2007
A GWB w/ Merit
Riverside Drive. I mean, Riverside Park Path. On my final day of apt/cat-sitting for Du & Ojijo, I got in a great run along here, remaining (more or less) Hudson-side for the duration. Or until I found my way up to the bridge, which proved no small feat (again).
Riverside Park is a narrow four-mile strip (72nd to 125th) between the Hudson and curvy Riverside Drive, designed by the Central Park guy, Olmsted. All sorts of vegetation, monuments, quaint walking bridges and tunnels, rec facilities... lot goin' on.
GWB from my starting point. I think I zoomed in here, though, so it probably looked farther.
North River Sanitation Plant.
Closer...
Harlem, near Fairway Market. The trail was under construction, I think, so I had to re-route for a bit. Unexpected combination of industry, blue-collar pubs, and country club-variety cafes near the water. I guess I'm never up here, though, so wouldn't take much to surprise.
[insert pic]
Once back on the path, I experienced maybe my first 'wait, you say I'm in Manhattan?' moment. Obviously things had become a little tricky, causing me to skirt and dart and otherwise chance my way around.
Same crumbling point on the path. I edged down a slick hill of rock to get closer to this.
Beneath. Now, to get on it.
So close, yet so many roads, lanes, ramps...
On it. It was mid-afternoon, though it looks closer to dusk in this image. That's Jersey over yonder, downtown Manhattan to the left... Of all I've enjoyed in the last three years, this view (second time) is one of my absolute favorites. It's just so sweeping--and rare, given the little time I've spent up this way. I loved being able to pick out what must've been the Statue of Liberty--barely visible, the tiniest of lines--from so far north. And the ESB, closer but still so negligible looking. Just as mesmerizing was the appearance of the water--the slight shifts in current, the wavy, sparkling track of sunlight... This bridge's side rails are none too high, which you do your best to forget.
From Jerz.
Back homeward.
I haven't pinned down exactly what it is, and I probably won't, but since moving here my love affair hasn't dimmed at all. Maybe on some level I associate bridges w/ taking risks, yet w/ the assurance that substantial support is provided. Then there's the head-hurting beauty of such enormity, such painstaking craftsmanship...
Very much zoomed in on.
From down below, you don't realize how twisty the shoreline is. It is.
Another hit to the heart.
Shifting waters, shifting roads...
Washington Heights, somewhere around 178th. I took the train back to the UWS from here, catching said train from a station I'd seen once before (similar running route, I believe, like two point five years ago). It was precisely tube-like, reminding me of a) London's Underground, and b) those canisters you'd use at drive-thru banking centers back in the day. Rats make themselves right at home at this station, judging by the way a big fat one hung out on the platform and stared up at me for a good five seconds. (Happening upon this, I had to share. Apologies.*)
WH.
*Please accept this gentle poem [kooser.pdf] as compensation for any ratty and/or bloody dreams that befall you.
Monday, December 17, 2007
Choked Up
The running's going well these days, largely because I'm bribing myself off Park Slope's 4th & 5th avenues, dangling promises of exotic new scenery. I don't know, I was more adventuresome for a time there, making trips out to Brighton & Manhattan beaches, Sheepshead Bay, Coney... Of course, that was back when I was running more than 10 miles per stint, making it easier to reach more distant pockets, but still--even just five miles will get one out pretty far in Brooklyn, and if you double that distance, all the further/better. Ten miles out (versus five out/five back) does require reliance on the subway to get back to one's starting point, but on a leisurely Sunday, I've generally got the time to spare. Especially if I'm procrastinating--then I have all the time in the world.
Anyway, this is just what I did last Sunday (not yesterday; yesterday I shied away from the out-of-doors' nastiness in favor of daylong pajamas, a few achingly good books, Lucinda Williams, and my most challenging-simple-as-it-appears cupcake recipe to date). I'd always meant to take Flatbush Avenue in a southeasterly way, and this particular nine-miler seemed like the perfect opportunity. I had music w/ me this time, as I sometimes do when I'm having a hard time scraping myself off the couch/chair/floor, and I let a violin and a pretty voice carry me along 5th, then Flatbush, where I remained for the entire duration of the run. Running downhill for the stretch of FB that goes past the Brooklyn Museum, the newly revamped Brooklyn Public Library (where I was offered a copywriting job several months back, though I'm sure I didn't mention it here), and the botanic gardens, I looked up at the bare, nubby branches reaching high across the sidewalk, slowed down a little, took a long breath, and felt pretty alright. I think I knew it was going to be a good run.
It was a very good run. Because Flatbush Ave. is the main thoroughfare through Brooklyn, going all the way from the Manhattan Bridge to Jamaica Bay, I passed through several neighborhoods/sections: Ditmas Park, Flatbush, East Flatbush (sortof), Midwood (sortof), Flatlands, Marine Park, Bergen Beach... FB was originally an Indian trail, in the late 1920s straightened to its current form (though there are still remnant streets in the grid, recalling the past). You see some great old homes lining parts of it, and a few buildings in particular stood out. This one's pretty grand (such visible age), and several mighty churches and synagogues popped up en route.
I loved Flatbush--embarrassingly, it was my first real look at it--for its energy (lots of foot traffic), its storefronts and building facades (all sorts of color & architectural detail), the intoxicating smells drifting out of so many West Indian restaurants... I almost lost my footing/ran into people a few times, distracted as I was by all the stimuli.
Then there's a lengthy stretch connecting Flatbush and Marine Park that's pretty sedate, w/ parts looking plain forgotten. Hardly a bad thing, but there's little retail presence for a ways, and when the avenue broadens from four lanes to eight (w/ a median) in the vicinity of King's Plaza (retail presence heightening momentarily), the experience turned foreign and strange. The day was dim, w/ clouds swirling low, and there something uncanny, almost eerie. I never would've called this "Brooklyn," and when my eyes settled on a sight straight out of some quaint marina town (the sailboats and breezy housing of, turned out, Bergen Beach), then Nick's Lobster, I kindof fell in love all over again w/ my borough. Amazing. Technically I should've turned back at this point, knowing full-well there'd already be a certain amount of walking involved in reaching the nearest train station (this area's known for subway inaccessibility; buses only), but I figured I'd take it just a bit further, curious to see what lie up ahead.
It was a park--a really big one from what I could tell (and have since confirmed). I saw a golf course, birds, long green hills... I missed the salt marshes that are apparently there for the seeing (neat history), but I'll surely return at some (warmer) point.
While I didn't know this at the time, I later learned that I was steps from being in Queens. As in, the Rockaways. A convenient pedestrian bridge away. The prospect! Looks like a chilly winter beach run isn't far off...
Anyway, I slowed to a walk, reversing direction. A Dunkin' Donuts coffee and a 25-minute trek later and I was on the 2: safe, warm, Slopebound.
For as long as I live here, I'll never leave Brooklyn. Here's a map.
Tuesday, November 06, 2007
2007 New York City Marathon
Ack, busy. Wrapping up loose ends here at work, because... I got a new job! As of Nov. 20, I'll be a real live editor/writer for these guy--er, girls. Quite exciting for me, considering the main reason I moved east in the first place was to take on full-time work as an editor (and/or writer). One cool thing (among many) is that the hours are flex-y. I can work 9 to 5 or 8 to 4... I think I'll try out the earlier range to start, as I love the idea of 'home by 5'... Of course, this'll mean a pretty distasteful rise-time if I wanna get my runs in beforehand, but we'll see. Also cool is the location: an express train stop closer to home and real close to Bryant Park and that fabulous liberry. Whoop!
Back to running: As ya'll know, last w/e meant Marathon Sunday, and the trials the day before. I watched the marathon from right outside/inside this great Park Slope bar, which is a few short blocks from the cave and about 7 1/2 miles into the race. Croissants, coffee, bigscreen TV, good company... An ideal setup.
Amazing.
This runner clearly coulda used one of Petey's famous high-fives. But alas, my cushy son was nowhere in sight. (Sorry Petez. I promise to take it up w/ that other parent of yours, ensuring the same gruesome fate--locked in the apartment!--doesn't befall you next year...)
The littery aftermath. What slobs. ;)
Outside Sheep Station.
Inside Sheep Station: prime end-of-race viewing. The women were especially thrilling to watch, w/ Radcliffe (GBR) and Wami (ETH) running as if attached by a string (so consistently close) up until the very end, when Wami surged ahead (or alongside) of Radcliffe only to inspire a counter surge that put Radcliffe back in the lead for good.
Such a sweet scene at the finish line, w/ an elated Radcliffe hugging her baby (born in January!) and husband... 
Bar's owner, a runner himself, wielding weaponry. 
Watching warm.
Day before: Olympic Trials in Central Park.
That sign repeatedly came at me. Frightening.
Five miles to go, a frontrunner.