I could not find my head phones. I usually run with ear buds listening to Pandora and the Omar Shariff sound-alike who calculates the distance of my run on my Cardio Trainer app.
I like running to Britney Spears songs like Piece of Me or Pat Benatar’s Hit Me with Your Best Shot. I think, “Yay, world, hit me. Try getting a piece of this.”
I know, I know. I am delirious after just five minutes of running, wondering, Is it time to take that well-deserved water break or walk yet? The music keeps me going.
So running without Britney, Pat or Omar, I felt a twinge of loneliness. The steadiest sound was the scraping labor of my own breath. Then the silence came alive.
running on a country road
There was a cawing of a crow, an old Buick rounding a corner, the wind swishing the hay in the field, and in the mix, my breath.
My breath was just a speck on the country road. Running helps you figure out where you fit in, a small piece in a big picture.
For this epiphany I rewarded myself by slowing down and walking.
That’s what I was thinking when I was riding to work yesterday. But I couldn’t think long, because I kept stopping to snap pictures of peonies.
I played tennis two nights this week. And thus, my energy for blogging has waned. I’ve been waking up all creaky from the tennis, but then anxious to play again. Last night Dan invited me to play for the third night in a row (Thanks Dan!). But instead, I chose sangria and soul food with girlfriends (Thanks Angelique & Cindy) at the fabulous Melba’s in Harlem (Thanks Larry for the recommendation).
I discovered when we walked back to unlock my bike after Melba’s that Harlem was spinning and there was something stronger than white wine in those white sangrias! So I stuck to biking through the safety of Central Park not the mean city streets.
And even though I didn’t play tennis last night, I woke up today, again, all creaky and achey. Tennis or sangria? Pick your poison. You’ll pay in the morning.
With no fanfare a bike room opened in the basement of 475 Riverside Drive, the Interchurch Center.
Bikes now have their own bright room. (Thanks, I think, to the Rockefeller Brothers Foundation and Bike New York who have both moved into the building within the last five years.)
Bikes used to live in a corner overshadowed by the exhaust fumes of the cars. The bikes knew they were second class citizens to the cars. Heck, I knew. And I didn’t really want to admit tell my bike.
The bike racks were in a dusty corner. On more than one occasion, I bumped my head against the fire alarm and knocked my shin against my pedal getting the bike in or out.
I know I shouldn’t anthropomorphize my bike any more
But I can’t stop. My bike is my child. As my real children get older, I still have my good old bike. It will live with me always. It needs its own room. As a teen it needs privacy. But, as a parent, I still need know what it is doing in there.
Like children, biking in New York City has grown up without me noticing. Mine used to be one of a few bikes in the basement. But now there are more than a dozen — more fun for my bike to play with.
I did it. Along with more than 30,000 other bicyclists. The 5 boro bike tour. I can cross it off my bucket list.
I started around 8 am in Manhattan right before Central Park South. (I’d heard the beginning of the tour at Battery Park was a zoo so skipped to the Park.) I finished 45 miles and four hours later in Staten Island.
After a while, all the bridges and boros (boroughs) looked the same. Was I in Brooklyn or Queens? I knew it wasn’t the Bronx because that leg of the tour was brief.
Occasionally a family would be picnicking on their front steps, cheering us on. That felt good. I’d yell to them, “Thanks! We love Brooklyn.” Then I’d wonder, ‘Are we in Brooklyn? Or do I love Queens?’
Although I ride my bike almost every day to work, I’m not a spandex-wearing hottie. In fact, I only just bought bike shorts for the tour. (Still, my tush is a little sore today!)
I usually use my bike just to get someplace. Yesterday, my bike got me to every boro and then at the end, I got to the NYU Hospital. Not for a problem though. It was a celebration for all kids who have had heart problems called the Mend-A-Heart party. My kids love this annual party. And my son is so proud, “Look because of my heart problems, you get to go to this great party!” Yay for broken hearts that are repaired!
Back to the tour — my new bike rocked. It’s a hybrid, not a racing back like most of the bikes on the tour.
I think this was Brooklyn
I was glad I had a basket to throw my banana peels and health bar wrappers into. Also, I could peel off layers of clothing as the sun and exertion warmed me. Occasionally after hitting a pothole, I had to pat down the contents of my basket while riding so my water bottle wouldn’t go flying.
Verrazano-Narrows Bridge
Of the 5 bridges you cross on the 5 boro bike tour, the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge at Mile 35 was the deadliest. It just kept climbing for miles and miles and miles. At several points going up, I had a mirage that there — just ahead — it was about to go downhill. But no. It was completely uphill the whole way. Okay, maybe the last two minutes I hit some down hill.
I was thinking that whole way up — what goes up must come down. Then just when I felt like giving up, I was inspired by my friend P’s text, “Stay strong,” she wrote. “Free massages at the end.”
But I didn’t need one of those free massages, I just needed to lay down in the green grass of Staten Island. Really exhausted and really proud.
When I posted on this fitness blog that I wanted to lose 5 to 10 pounds, I got a huge number of readers — more than 60. The number of readers inspired me. I’d hit a nerve. I planned to update regularly on the good news of my easy weight loss. Ummm… Hmmm… Not so much.
Since posting that goal, I’ve said nothing on this blog. I have nothing to report.
As someone who’s never tried to lose weight, I’ve discovered that the story of weight loss is boring. And not too fun. I am not a fan of depriving myself, even in small amounts.
I have tried to cut my portions. Like last Sunday, instead of eating a whole burrito from Chipotle, I split it with my son. I am trying to eat a little less, eat a little healthier and ride my new bike a little more. This does not make for a good story. Good stories have drama — big news, big changes, big ideas, big laughs.
Yet — small is beautiful. Take, for example, small boxes from Tiffany’s, small children in strollers, small status udpates, small acts of kindness.
I’m all for little things making a difference over the long haul. I’d like to post some huge, big news. But all I’ve got today is this one small idea. Small is beautiful.
I want to lose 5 to 10 pounds. It’s not a lot and it’s not a big deal. But I want to be faster and lighter. Being fast is important to me, as an overachieving Type A mother and writer living in New York City.
My weight has crept up. When I first met my husband about 18 years ago I was just under 110 pounds. I’m about 5’6” so yes, that was too thin. Since those happy salad days when I was single and 30, I’ve eked up a pound or two every year.
After my son was born 14 years ago, I was around 135, and then along came my twin daughters and another pound or so every year. You get the idea. A pound a year isn’t much, but if I live to my late 90s, that’s another 50 years and another 50 pounds! And I’ve heard from older women, as we age it’s harder to lose weight.
So I’m posting this goal on this blog, Running Aground. There’s been a kind of magic for me to blogging — it’s turned some things around. This is my goal — by the end of 2011, I’m aiming to lose 5 to 10 pounds and be back under 140 pounds.
Blogging works. I achieved my goal of running a 5K after blogging about it. I”m proud of myself for running a 5K on a rainy, hilly Upper Manhattan race a month ago.
Like my 5K goal, this 5 to 10 pounds weight loss goal is a SMART goal — Specific, Measurable, Achievable, Realistic and Time Sensitive.
I see two trends I can immediately implement to work towards my goal: more cardio, less carbs.
Since my plantar fasciitis, I’ve slacked on my cardio, but with the nice weather, I’m going to dust off my bike (or buy a new one) and bike a bit in Central Park and Riverside Park to kick in the endorphins.
I’m doing this to feel good, and, yes, to look good too. And to stay fast.
I am a fan of gentleness. I should write a book about the gentle approach. I try to be easy on everyone — forgiving and kind. Especially myself. But not with running. I can’t be. I have to be unforgiving and unkind.
I have to just do it. The Nike ad is right. You don’t want to do it. But you have to. Because it works. Seriously.
I got my sorry self out of the house at around 9 yesterday morning, stepping over the kids’ snowpants and my own bad self esteem.
I headed down into Riverside Park to the river. The sidewalk was clear; the snow still clinging to the branches. I ran for 1.1 miles. And it took me 14 minutes! Yes. Beat that!
I stopped for bagels and strawberries for the fam on the way home. I seriously walked into the apartment giddy with happiness.
Running is a mood enhancer. I am going to sign up for a 5K in March with my kids and my coworkers (Join us — http://www.coogans.com/events/).
I am going to run slowly, but I am going to stay in the race. And I’ll be happy when I’m done.
I shampoo every other day and I’m fine. But lately, I’m going three days between shampoos. Recent studies — okay, a handful of my friends at Happy Hour — have told me that they no longer shampoo every day.
One of my BFFs, let’s call her Grace, and I had the same therapist, let’s call her, June. June has gorgeous long wavy hair. June always looks fabulous in that pulled-together yet slightly-harried-Upper-West-Side-Mom kind of way. June told Grace that she has used no poo for years. My ex-therapist has not shampooed her hair in years and she is a great therapist (okay, I know, totally unrelated!). (If you’ve ever wondered What the heck do people talk about in their therapy sessions? Now you have an inkling — ‘to shampoo or not to shampoo? That is the question.’ Yes, there are bigger issues to discuss in therapy, but who am I to judge? I’m blogging about going no poo.)
‘No poo’ is a movement for a more natural cleanliness and a snub to corporate conglomerates who have drummed it into our smelly heads that shampooing daily is essential. It is not. It is better, especially in the winter, to go a few days.
My daughters can go a week between shampoos and they always look fabulous in that pulled-together yet slightly-harried-Upper-West-Side-Kid kind of way.
Grace said her stylist recommended that if she really must shampoo her hair, only shampoo the roots and condition the ends. I have not tried that. But one of my daughters tried it and reported it worked well. When I tucked her in that night and kissed her head, she still smelled delicious as always.
The smell of my kids’ heads releases my happy pheromones.
I was in yoga on Saturday morning. Because it was Heritage Day, we could not meet at the Heritage House. So we met on the band shell of Ballard Park. It was a little like being on stage. Well, it was like that because we were on stage.
Almost everything that Michael, the teacher, says during class is brilliant. He said that in a new translation of the Upanishads, published in 2008, a line was written, “Hope is never false.” And he was making a political statement. 2008 was about hope. Hope is never false.
Wow. His July theme for the yoga classes was independence. Because Independence Day can be celebrated for days beyond the 4th of July. It can be any day. It can be every day.
I looked up at the sky from the band shell. I think I was in warrior pose. The white clouds were striated. The blue sky was almost too blue. I started to cry. I have no idea why. The beauty of the sky does that to me sometimes. I cry during church when the choir sings too. I don’t know why. I am an intellectual. There are times when yoga, a cloud or music sneaks past my intellect and makes a direct hit for my heart. Or maybe it’s my soul.
I know I should be running. There’s really nothing like running. The only thing remotely like running is walking.
Yesterday Barbara and I drove with my sleepy daughters to visit Mandy and her baby in Summit, New Jersey. We sat in the sunny suburbs. We pored over the school auction catalog. (Last night was the big fundraiser. Spent too much).
Then we walked in a public park. Morris County Park. Maybe it was half a mile there and back — past a stream, past dog walkers and curled-up caterpillars. We had to step off the path when little tyke bike riders rode by. The girls bickered. Then held my hand. Mandy’s funny husband, KC, pushed the stroller. Baby Nathaniel wore a baseball cap.
It was absolutely idyllic. We stopped near a playground. We chatted at a picnic table.
The thing about walking that’s better than running is you can talk to several people at once. When you run, you can only talk to one person. But when you walk you can spread yourself around. Or you can talk to no one. You can stare at the teeny tiny shoots of green emerging from the dead leaves. And you can marvel at the miracle of it all.
The miracle of growth. Of that new baby growing into some big kid. Impossible to arrest the march of growth (in March!). My little kid was once that little baby in the stroller.
I miss the baby days. I love babies. Their silliness, chubbiness, simplicity. The way they have no subtext. They feel something, even gas, they express it. They do not censor themselves. I love my grown-up kids. Their witty remarks, their athleticism. But I miss their snuggly baby days. I try to hang on to them as long as possible. I still baby them.
I was a bit depressed on Friday, having to write about Haiti — the incredible sadness of losing my coworkers in Haiti. And then worries over Chris’s inevitable decline with Parkinson’s. But then, I see a baby, or feel the sun, or one of my kids hugs me tight, or I walk or ride my bike, or yes, I run. Or like on Friday, I ducked into a NYC museum and see great art. And I feel better.
These fixes are non-pharmaceutical cures for whatever ails me. Take two walks in the park and call me in the morning. Tell me if you don’t feel the same way. Feel some inevitable March of growth.
100 Days of Poems and Pics 