Friday, November 14, 2008
What I Talk About When I Talk About Running
I recently read Murakami's What I Talk About When I Talk About Running (of course I dig the reference), and though the book's taken a good deal of flack for its 'inanity' and lack of fluidity post-translation, I really liked it. So what if it's a little disorganized; actually, this seems almost fitting, the way he dips in and out of topics, sometimes returning to point A, other times not. Running's like this, after all, marked by all sorts of wayward/tangential thought patterns. And the 'inane' claim I think is unduly harsh/unreasonable, as the mental aspects of running can/do lend pretty readily to cliche--often because this really is the best way to explain it, you know? But, then, I suppose this claim can be made about any number of things. Aaanyway, it's hardly flawless, but the book has enough redeeming elements to have made it well-worth my reading-while. Here are a few passages that stood out for me:
"...for some reason I never cared all that much whether I beat others or lost to them. This sentiment remained pretty much unchanged after I grew up. It doesn’t matter what field you’re talking about--beating somebody else just doesn’t do it for me. I’m much more interested in whether I reach the goals that I set for myself, so in this sense long-distance running is the perfect fit for a mindset like mine."
"As I run I tell myself to think of a river. And clouds. But essentially I’m not thinking of a thing. All I do is keep on running in my own cozy, homemade void, my own nostalgic silence. And this is a pretty wonderful thing. No matter what anybody else says."
"No matter how slow I might run, I wasn’t about to walk. That was the rule. Break one of my rules once, and I’m bound to break many more. And if I’d done that, it would have been next to impossible to finish this race."
"To deal w/ something unhealthy, a person needs to be as healthy as possible. That’s my motto. In other words, an unhealthy soul requires a healthy body. This might sound paradoxical, but it’s something I’ve felt very keenly ever since I became a professional writer. The healthy and the unhealthy are not necessarily at opposite ends of the spectrum. They don’t stand in opposition to each other, but rather complement each other, and in some cases even band together. Sure, many people who are on a healthy track in life think only of good health, while those who are getting unhealthy think only of that. But if you follow this sort of one-sided view, your life won’t be fruitful. ... Some writers who in their youth wrote wonderful, beautiful, powerful works find that when they reach a certain age exhaustion suddenly takes over. The term ‘literary burnout’ is quite apt here. Their later works may still be beautiful, and their exhaustion might impart its own special meaning, but it’s obvious these writers’ creative energy is in decline. This results, I believe, from their physical energy not being able to overcome the toxin they’re dealing w/. The physical vitality that up till now was naturally able to overcome the toxin has passed its peak, and its effectiveness in their immune systems is gradually wearing off. When this happens it’s difficult for a writer to remain intuitively creative. The balance between imaginative power and the physical abilities that sustain it has crumbled. The writer is left employing the techniques and methods he has cultivated, using a kind of residual heat to mold something into what looks like a literary work--a restrained method that can’t be a very pleasant journey. Some writers take their own lives at this point, while others just give up writing and choose another path."
Good stuff.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Irish Riviera
Today's run--a long one, 20 miles--couldn't have come at a better time. Slightly wound-up/anxious courtesy of some issues at work, fantastic news from these guys (in! in! in!), November 4 (hopeful! hopeful! hopeful!), and a few other things, I needed for it to go well. And by 'well,' I mean comfortable/calming/free of the pesky aches that have risen up from time to time while training for this particular race.
It was, do I dare say... near-perfect? I do!
Got to bed last night at a decent hour, anticipating a warmish day, one that I wouldn't want to be running square in the center of. An eight a.m. start? Sure! Or, no. Following the standard 'sitting in front of the computer while considering that maybe I wasn't up for the task at hand after all--physically, mentally,' it was 11 by the time I pushed off, and it was none too cool. Not that I could/can really complain--these last few days have been the finest in recent memory: bright and sunny, crisp yet plenty comfortable, no jacket required. In the words of my corner market guy: "I'll take this every day of the year."
I'd decided on a straight and simple approach: Start on Flatbush, stay on Flatbush. Similar to a (shorter) run I did earlier this year. The initial plan was to turn around once I'd crossed Gil Hodges Memorial Bridge and gone two or so miles up the Rockaway Peninsula shoreline, finishing up at Ave. J where my due reward would await--pizza-lunch at what remains, no question, my personal favorite. Alas, I strayed from this early idea, though I did manage to invest in a halfway-decent slice elsewhere. Far elsewhere. But anyway.
Starting out, I wasn't feeling too hot. The first four miles--skirting my own Park Slope, passing through lively Flatbush (the neighborhood, not the street), heading into Midwood--passed laboriously and, frankly, I was just kinda bored. That happens these days during runs, every so often--more than in the past. The bored part, I mean, which tends to get me a little nervous, just because it's new and, well, it's pretty much the last thing I ever want to associate w/ running. Well, 'injury' is up there, too, but I'd almost rather contend w/ some nagging ache/pain (distraction!) than I would boredom. Yeah.
Somewhere around mile five, or maybe six, things started lookin' up. First off, I'd lost the shirt--a loose tee that was flappin' around and just generally irritating me. (Shorts & sports bra weather well into October? I'll take it.) And, I don't know, the roadway opened up (literally--expanding into an eight-lane, median-divided street toward Kings Plaza) and the scene quieted down significantly, which, again/in retrospect, was just what I was looking for in today's jaunt.
After Kings Plaza came the postcard-ready Bergen Beach, Nick's Lobster & Fish Market (considered returning for lunch, before fast recalling the absence of a train stop for several miles), Floyd Bennett Field (NYC's first municipal airport, just learned), the golf course and rolling park I fell in love w/ the first go-round... And the trees! Oh, the trees. Boy were they somethin'. The reds especially stood out--crimson and burgundy, brilliant offset by all the green still unchanged.
On crossing the bridge this time, the structure itself was more impressive than I remembered. It's not a large bridge, at least compared to the ones I'm accustomed to, but the shape is interesting--especially from a considerable distance, at which point it made/makes me think of a pair of rising/opposing waves. The color's also neat--sortof an icy blue. Oh, but in starting across and eyeing an appealing stretch of clean, velvety sand below, I realized I was probably gonna need to reevaluate my route, momentarily captivated by a fantasy involving my bare toes post-run, the ocean, that soft warm sand... And that sealed it: DiFara's would/will be there next week. Or, y'know, maybe.
Just off the bridge, I turned right, having opted for a left on a previous run. Good move. Here's an aerial view of what lay before me. Breezy Point, which, sadly, is off-limits to me (residentially). Eesh, even their website's forbidden. Too bad, 'cause after experiencing it, I was sending texts far and wide, proclaiming its breezy beauty and its aptness as my next home (probably moving soon here--cave's just too much money and too much dark). Ah well--I'll have to settle for more routine treks out that way.
Soon in, I came upon a harvest festival of some kind, kids carving pumpkins, parents grilling corn. It was all very festive, w/ a hefty and clearly evident dose of community spirit. I definitely felt like an outsider, though not unwelcome. Moving on, I reached this next, the only retail hub in the area. I stopped briefly for water and to confirm my whereabouts, then continued on...
Here's one teensy street I believe I ran up, after rounding the better part of this stretch of the peninsula and encountering more of that thick and dazzling fall foliage, a series of sweet, disjointed promenades strewn w/ that lovely pale sand and smooth pink shells, and neat views of a very distant Empire State Building, the Coney Island parachute jump, the Verrazano, planes flying in and out of nearby JFK Airport... And while the occasional person would amble--and I do mean amble--by, tanned and smiling, for the most part I was left to my lonesome, the only sound the lulling crash of the waves just beyond. Because even when I would come upon someone, it's like people were operating according to some unspoken rule, like, 'feel free to move your lips, just don't let any sound out.' My time spent here was the most serene in... months? Longer? I kept thinking of the Oregon coast, even Calif., minus some of the rockiness.
In reading up, it sounds like the vast majority of co-op dwellers are only present through the summer months; I suppose our recent nice weather's responsible for drawing some of them back out this w/e. Or maybe it was that festival I ran into? At any rate, they struck me as a friendly enough bunch, and quite keen on displaying our country's flag. I can't tell you how many residences have this feature; they also fly from roadside posts at regular intervals. Must be due to the area's military background.
W/ about five miles to go, I ran northeast toward the 116th St. train stop (A train--or, shuttle train to the A), and at this point I was starting to feel pretty tired. I'd been running a pretty consistent 9:00/mile pace--a bit faster than ideal for a long training run, but still a pace I felt good about--and experienced a bit of a dropoff through the next three miles, but at around 18, knowing I was so close to the end and pleased to be feeling as good/strong as I was (especially compared to my last 20-miler, at the end of which my legs felt like rotting wood stumps), I kicked it up a bit, remembering to focus on my form, going over some helpful mantras, this sortof thing. Oh, and I'd started daydreaming about my post-run meal, par for the course.
The scene around me these last few miles was pretty ho-hum relative to what I'd witnessed back in/at Breezy Pt. I was following the shoreline, but a stone wall separates pedestrians (and fishermen--there were many out today) from the water, and the grassy space in between roadway and walkway was pretty litter-y. I kept to the housing side, where homes and lawns are very well-kept but modest--not at all stuffy. I took advantage of the occasional sprinkler, the effects of the midday sun taking a toll...
With half a mile to go, I knew exactly where I was, recognizing some key landmarks from before. As I slowed to a walk, I marveled at the lack of 'wooden-ness' in my legs, relieved at having completed this one w/ relative ease. A well-timed confidence boost, for sure.
Last but not least: cheeeese pizza. It was no DiFara's, just some random place off the main drag, but crap did it hit the spot. As I devoured the thing, I headed beachward, admiring the clear, unbroken stream of blue overhead and eventually peeling off my salt-crusted socks to dip ten very happy toes into a very chilly Atlantic. I then did a little beachcombing, careful to sidestep all the glittering jellyfish and wishing I could take home w/ me the feeling of the sun on my bare shoulders and back, the hypnotic din of the surf, before lying directly on the sand for One Satisfying Nap.
An hour later: back home. Back home and pondering how to justify not packing up and promptly moving out to the ocean (what better place to write?), when said ocean's such a tantalizingly short commute (well, an hour) from my Midtown job...
Friday, August 22, 2008
catchup
Goodness. Been a while. (Hi!) Things've been a tad hectic, partly due to much recent attention given to my grad skoo app (finally finally finally taking the plunge, though w/ a 15 percent acceptance rate, I'm hardly holding my breath) and partly due to training requirements. Regarding the latter, it's been an interesting ride these last few months. I've had a hell of a time running in the heat/humidity this year/summer, even w/ a few years of experience under my belt by now. Eesh. I was so miserable for it that I made the decision to start running my hard/long workouts in the evenings--late as I can, really. I'm thinking this'll only last through August and maybe the first half of September, 'cause it definitely fouls up one's social calendar. (Heh.)
But yeah, for this reason and for others I can't quite place--oldladyness, maybe--training for this race feels like a bigger, more serious commitment than in the past. The fact that I really really really want to qualify for Boston again probably adds something. One thing, I switched training schedules a few weeks back, opting for ol' Hal's sage advising over some Portland Marathon-sponsored garbage the pops put me up to back in July (dangit!). That first sched called for super-high mileage, and besides the fact that my body was acting hurt-y and it was damn hard to find the time required to keep honest, I was slowing down--of all things! What I need/ed, I figured, was a return to some good old-fashioned speedwork, which is just what this replacement schedule's good for. Signif lower mileage, too, which has been nice. I think it's working.
Anyhow, I'm up to 14-mile long runs, w/ a 16-miler on the books for this Sunday, placing me about halfway into my training. And it's neat, because I feel like I v. recently--as in, a week or so ago--hit that sweet point in one's training when the whole deal just starts getting/feeling easier. And this, well, this brings the fun back, which was something absent from my workouts in weeks/months prior. Amazing, what staying on schedule will get a runner. Yeah.
As far as specific runs, I've been sticking pretty consistently to quiet, straightforward Fourth Avenue. To be honest, it's just the easiest: convenient and familiar and right on the R line should I decide on a 'point a to point b' run over an out-and-back. (Uh, yeah, done that maybe twice.) Plus, it makes up a reasonable stretch of the actual marathon course, so there's that. Still, I've done a good bit of river crossing these last couple of months, rotating pretty evenly between the Brooklyn, Manhattan, and Williamsburg bridges. Nothing like covering this ground at 2:00 in the a.m. on a Sunday. Nothin'. Views of these are also pretty cool, though only good through 10:00 in the p.m.
Oh, also, and this is something I'm quite excited for, a dear person just gifted me w/ an early bday token: a session w/ these folks (Monday!), and timing couldn't be better. See, I've been having this knee thing--not at all debilitating, just pesky and a nuisance and slightly worrisome when I think about the months ahead. Last thing I wanna do is recreate the dealbreaking experience of a couple years back, when that damn stress fracture sidelined me for a good four months, and so soon before race day, too. Drat. Still bitter.
I've also spent even more time than usual these days reflecting on running's mind-body connection. *Dear person* referenced above has been instrumental in encouraging this, and some great eye-opening conversations have resulted.
One recent decision I made was to, at least where lengthy and/or hard workouts are concerned, lose the headphones. I've never been one to pair music w/ running more often than not, but had fallen back on the practice to a greater degree in the last year. Because it can help, for sure. Thing is, I've determined that it most def distracts my attention from form/posture, and this just isn't something I'm willing to compromise--I can't compromise it, not if I want to be at my best come November 2. So there it is: no more Arcade Fire. (Drat--sorta. I love running to that shit.)
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.