No-half, please!

Running two bridges was fun. I did seven miles. My knee held up, but it was giving me not-too subtle hints that I needed to be careful. Eight miles was surprisingly peaceful and my knee didn’t hurt. I thought it would be smooth running from there on to the half.

The following week I ran the New York Road Runner’s Fred Lebow Classic. It was 5m. I don’t know if it was the cold or the maclessness, but I was struggling through everything I was doing that week. It was the coldest, hardest five miles I have ever run.

I knew it wasn’t just the temperature – I’ve run outside when it’s been colder - but that didn’t help. My knee and now my hip too were complaining. Though I managed to drag myself to the finish line, at 13:27 minutes per mile I might as well have walked.

A big part of the problem was fear. I had a busy weekend that included a five mile race and a nine mile run. A friend suggested I run the race then continue for four more. I knew it would be hard: it would require not carrying a bag with me and skipping the bagel.

Ditching the bag meant not having a dry change of clothes to look forward to, but the nine mile stopping point left me right by a subway entrance which made the cold less of an issue. A change in the routine was scary, but I thought I could handle it. The bagel was another matter.

One of the city’s best-kept secrets is the New York Road Runner’s bagels. Sure, everything does taste better after a good run, particularly when it is free, but I don’t think I’m exaggerating when I say the bagels they hand out after races are the best. If you want proof, just go stand past a NYRR finish line and watch: you’ll get to see people wearing expensive running gear elbowing each other to get to the free bagels and greedily grabbing as many as four at time. I wouldn't be surprised if many people ran NYRR races only for the bagels.

As I ran my five miles I couldn’t get the bagels out of my mind. My favorite is cinnamon. They make them without raisins. Thinking of skipping it made my heart heavy and my feet along with it. I was dragging in a sorry way – freezing and barely shuffling along.

At around mile four, I decided to put myself out of my misery and give up on the idea of running nine miles. My knee was hurting. It made no sense to continue. I crossed the finish line and grabbed my bagel. I even dropped a couple of tears as I bit into it.

Not one to leave well enough alone, I tried to go for nine miles the following day. My knee and my hip were both worse. I ran about four miles and had to walk home.
I haven’t run since and I’m not running tomorrow’s half-marathon. Though it pains me to skip the bagel, I don’t think I’m strong enough to run a half-marathon right now and I’m not willing to risk my knee and possibly my hip to find out.

Besides, what matters the most to me is not tomorrow’s race, but the one in November. And I'm sure that's going to be the best bagel ever!

For now, rest. But soon, I’ll be running again. The Park Slope Armory opens next week. With an indoor track, treadmills, and machines it has everything I need to supplement my long runs and get ready for the marathon. Best of all, with YMCA charter prices and a co-op discount I have no reason not to join.

Can’t wait!

Winterloss

It was cold, it was early, I was in a rush. It was hours before I noticed, but when I did, I was full of grief and regret.

Dear glove, I found you in a desperate time. The stores were optimistically stocking bikinis while a blizzard waged outside. There were no gloves to be found anywhere. “Sorry, it’s the Spring collection,” they said without a hint of apology.

I had been looking for days for a pair before I found you. You were the last of your kind. Marked down. Final Sale. I couldn’t believe my luck. Though you had no lining, you had flair and you stuck by me for the rest of that season and a full season more.

We were going on two years – ten in glove years – and I shouldn’t have taken you for granted.

Yesterday I got up at five am. I had some coffee and bite to eat before heading out for my shift at the co-op. When I got there I locked up the bike, took off helmet and gloves, turned off the blinker, and headed inside to sign in.

When I came back out hours later you were gone. Inside my bag your partner was still resting next to the keys, alone. Oh, glove, where art thou?

Kombucha

The cashiers at the co-op tend to be curious about fellow members’ purchases. It starts out innocently. “What kind of mushrooms are these?” asks the cashier. On lucky days I end up dispensing cooking tips and recipes, other days I get lectured.

A few weeks ago, after inspecting my lebne and my corn cakes, the cashier swiped my six-pack of beer and asked me if I had ever had kombucha. I prepared myself to defend my beer. I’d heard of kombucha. It sounded healthy.

Now. I don’t have anything against healthy, but healthy and good are not enough for me, which is why I don’t practice yoga regularly.

It’s hard to argue against yoga. Whenever I take a yoga class I can feel its benefits. I’ve limped into a yoga class unable to straighten out much-abused hip flexors and walked out with an easy stride. After a month of bikram yoga and no running, on my first race back I was able to shave almost a full minute off my pace.

I wish I liked yoga and was able to keep up practicing it for more than a month at a time, but for me most yoga is like that would-be suitor: very nice, but too boring to hold my attention. It would be lovely, I think as I cover my mouth to stifle a yawn,

What’s worse is the holier-than-thou company it often keeps.

“I’ve had green tea with kombucha.” I replied, tightening the hold on the beer and moving it away from her.
“No. This is a cold drink. When I get beer I usually swap out a few beers for kombucha,” she volunteered.
“Why?” I couldn’t imagine what beer had to do with kombucha.
“It’s so good! I love it!” She said as she scanned the rest of my items.
“You love the taste?”
“The taste is ok, but I love the way it makes me feel!” she replied, and I could see she was already looking forward to finishing her shift and buying herself some kombucha.
“Feel?” I wasn’t getting this.
“It’s kind of like I’m buzzed, but alert, relaxed. And it’s good for you!”

I filed that away under things from the co-op I might to try someday. Thanks to Veteran’s day, this morning I was able to shop in a relatively un-crowded co-op and look for kombucha. I started in the beer aisle and was redirected to the yogurt case.

It’s with the yogurt because it needs to be kept refrigerated. It has probiotics, B vitamins (my favorite!), is naturally effervescent, might have trace amounts of alcohol due to fermentation, and may have floating, living cultures in the bottle. Also, please avoid shaking. I’m guessing you don’t want to disrupt those living cultures.

I was skeptical, but I tried to keep an open mind when I tried it. I’m not sure how many bottles of the stuff you have to drink to feel its effects, so I will only report on the taste.

It was a little sour a little fizzy; light, almost citrusy. Refreshing. Kind of like a slightly flat seltzer mixed with leftover juice from the olive jar. The bottle contained two servings. I meant to have only one, but the whole bottle was gone before I noticed. I loved it, but unless you like to drink the vinegary liquid that olives come in, you might not like it.

I almost went for the fridge to grab a second bottle, when I had nightmarish visions of myself buying goji berries (I hate them), and alfalfa sprouts (they tend to go bad in my fridge – not sure why). Thanks Anna, for sharing this video and helping bring me back to my senses.

Roadkill

One of the advantages of having a uniform is that you don’t have to worry about what to wear. When you are the poorest kid in the school bringing homemade popcorn for lunch, that’s a relief.

To make things worse, my mother used to sew most of my clothes and I hated having to wear a purple jumper made just for me when all the other kids were wearing balloon skirts.

But I didn’t hate everything I wore. I also had hand-me-downs.

I have a cousin who is very close to me in age. Her father worked in fashion, her mother loved clothes, and every few months I’d get to rifle through huge garbage bags filled with my cousin’s discarded clothing. Things I had coveted a month ago and had seen her wear only once or twice were there. Piles and piles of almost new store bought and even imported clothing up for grabs. For me! Skirts, dresses, bows, ribbons, pockets, all the extra details my mother didn’t bother sewing were there. And I didn’t have to share with my brother. The only thing better than those bags was when the school library received book shipments.

But all that ended when we hit puberty and my cousin stopped growing. I didn’t. At almost 5'4 I'm the tallest woman in my family by at least four inches and now I have no cousin giving me hand-me-downs.

Sometimes I get them from friends, but it's rare and often awkward. It’s hard to explain that I’m not being sarcastic – I’m really that excited.

Fortunately for me, Brooklyn is a great place for hand-me-downs from strangers. A walk down the brownstone belt is better than a trip to a mall. Clothing on railings better than on racks. I’ve gotten cashmere sweaters from boxes by stoops and three weeks ago, just as the weather was starting to turn, I picked up a J-Crew black wool pea coat.

Last Monday I was riding my bike back from an early co-op shift. I was tired – still recovering from Halloween excesses. I passed a black lump on the road. It was wet from the rain and it looked like it might have been run over by a bike or two, but it was still recognizable.

I checked for oncoming traffic and circled back to take a better look. It was a pair of elbow length black gloves with jeweled wrists – the kind of thing I would never buy, but have always wanted to have. Without hesitating I placed the limp wet gloves in my basket and sped off, hoping no Audrey Hepburn would come out chasing after them.

She didn’t. I hand washed in the tub and it took them about a day and a half to dry before I could try them on. They fit like a glove and I can’t wait for an excuse to wear them.

Breakfast at Tiffany’s brunch party anyone?