Best run (Sept. 25) since I don’t know when. There is something about the fall. 62 degrees Fahrenheit, the AWAKE! LED clock bleeds as I climb the grade on the Brooklyn Bridge to Manhattan, dodging the inevitable throngs of tourists, in a mood to forgive them their inattentiveness to both runners and cyclists, intent as they (the tourists) are at getting photos of the Freedom Tower – oh no, WTC 1, as the bureaucrats would have it – but by the tone of the near-genuflecting gentry on the bridge I’d say it’s Freedom made Sacred, how solemn-appearing are the picture takers of the tower before their dark tourism visit to the September 11 Museum.
And on, feeling no pain, quite the contrary as light on my feet as I can remember (thanks Eddy! Foot Freedom!), mind alert, spirit lifted, struck (to wit, drawn particular attention to) by the super-size fancy-pants strollers of Tribecistanis; my favorite ironic T shirt, a skinny girl exercise-walking in an oversize “Viva La Revolucion” (as in fresh from the Bolivian jungle, Sandinista chic, del Blasio for mayor), just short of the Christopher Street Pier, forty-five minutes from Brownstone Brooklyn, five minutes shaved from my twenty-miler eleven days earlier, all is well, water up, and return, the northern view of the Freedom Tower (Yay!) and on, the pro-lookalike tennis teacher, sitting on a park bench, waiting on his obscenely high hourly rate student(s), and later, near City Hall Park, a suit on the phone overheard saying “I wouldn’t think that we can adjust the hourly rate” and close to home, overheard conversation from a construction crew, working on the Whole Foods development at Third Street and Third Avenue, speaking, I swear to God, joual!
Eighteen days and counting until Steamtown ...
Next: Running for Your Life: And All the Rest is Literature
J, my fellow hound owner friend (Go! George!) brought up “World War Z,” the zombie apocalypse movie http://bit.ly/Qs8zC7 (on Sept. 24), saying it was a capstone of zombie representation in today’s undead obsessed culture. How so?
Many ways. Let’s take running. In scene after scene zombies flail away in comic-menacing bluster, bodies as if rebuilt by a methed-up Victor Frankenstein, looking in a not too far-fetched way like clots of desperate-faced joggers in Central Park, the mid-pack shufflers in the New York City Marathon. A capstone of our mass society, the likely end result of four generations of industrialized culture, which yields the conundrum: sanitized corruption of human potential, the wicked byproduct of which fouls the Earth to such a point that even those who have an individualistic bent cannot extract themselves unless they are among the privileged elite who from their fortified cities defend to the death the right to throw off the masses (think those streams of zombies in the WWZ trailer above, with no place to go, yet will never stop in their reckless climb up and into these fortresses only to suffer the release of a certain death once inside.)
The Hollywood story, of course, sees an antidote. Here is where the audience (which sees itself not as a zombie, rather in our “American Idol”-entertainment culture we are conditioned to see ourselves as the Other, one who is superior to the poor MF-ing zombies, weak and pathetic, not at all like me) is given the sappy bromide: Hands across America, we are all one, aren’t we?, Brad Pitt, he will bring us all to the Promised Land, one of concord and hope.
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Steaming toward Steamtown. Nineteen days and counting!
Next: Running for Your Life: And All the Rest is Literature
It’s done. Not to Harlem, but three hours from brownstone Brooklyn to the modern pier jutting into the Hudson River at West 70th Street and back to brownstone Brooklyn, which according to the Googly amounts to a mile short of twenty miles, but given that the pedestrian route isn’t as direct as the driving one (through Battery Tunnel and up the West Side Highway vs. inner city Brooklyn, cross the Brooklyn Bridge and lower Manhattan to Battery Park City and the Hudson River park north), I’m thinking that I met my goal, running at least twenty miles without stopping a month or so before the running of the Steamtown Marathon in Scranton, Pa.
It went as planned on Friday, Sept. 13, hours before sundown when fasting starts over the Yom Kippur holy day, and while there is nothing automatic about running for twenty miles (or reasonable about deciding to do such an injury-susceptible exercise on Friday the 13th!) it went well, my “dogs” holding up, and the rest, plenty of water on the route, from brownstone Brooklyn to the Brooklyn Bridge to the Hudson River Park, just enough electrolyte chews to keep my strength (and pace) up. This week marks my second to last training week of sizable runs, perhaps a ten-miler on Wednesday (Sept. 25), before I begin tapering (not bond-buying but slowing to jogging, from ten milers to threes and twos), the last week in September.
Onward to the goal, a marathon, my lucky No. 7, in Scranton on Sunday, Oct. 13!
Next: Running for Your Life: All the Rest is Literature
Wishing it were as it were – meaning fall in September. Cold mornings and brilliant blue skies. Sept. 11 mornings. Not here, twelve years later. No coincidence that I had chosen to run the longest since the Boston Marathon 2012 (not the terrorist-bomb marathon, the one before). But instead, with the humidity in the scary zone, the heat clearing 90 degrees, I treadmill-ran for an hour in A/C indoors. In New York City this late summer and early fall the new normal is sleep shirt-drenching humidity, breezes that belie cooling off, rather just move sweat droplets along the skin not dry them, stay the natural relief that we who were born during early fall crave in our favorite season, the one before the strong cold sets in, teeth-grinding with the thought, sweetness to pair with fiber, winter when men and women are tested, what doesn’t kill you, instead the body hovers in limbo, the humid horror of Sandy, the new normal, as I say, that was Halloween 2012, not fall, no, anything but, if weather is a color make it gray-purple, if a substance, mud, in part because mud cannot be numbered, not like apples, say, or buildings; mud defies the consciousness shaped like pages in a book, think the horror movie Blob http://bit.ly/UNvgQE mud covers and smothers, throws you off and under, waiting as I do now, and every year, for the real fall to come.
(Here’s hoping that Friday afternoon, before the holiday sundown of Kol Nidre, the Jewish new year, when the stifling humidity is supposed to break, I will finally be able to get in my long run, 20+ miles to brownstone Brooklyn to Harlem. Waiting…)
Next: Running for Your Life: Running to Harlem
Maybe it’s my stronger core, smoother foot strike, overall body strength, but I learned on Aug. 30 that I can still run, continue to train, while waiting for my orthotics to be refurbished. Thank God for that – and for Eddie, who runs the coolest shop in the Rockefeller Center concourse, old school cobbler who I trust will make those pain-relieving lifts as good as new on Wednesday (Sept. 4), a week before I’ll be taking on that pesky long run (Sept. 11th, of course, and my route will take me right past Ground Zero . . .) with the idea of getting in three hours, running or walking, whatever it takes to put in the long one, 20 miles to 22 miles. From Brooklyn brownstone to Harlem. While I had hoped to do it at the end of the August, Sept. 11 will mark 32 days before Steamtown. Pretty much exactly where I want to be, in my training schedule, with tapering beginning two weeks later, around Sept. 25 . . .
In the meantime, I’ve been able to keep up running without the orthotics. In the past few days, I’ve managed, 1.8 miles (Aug. 30), 7.6 miles (twice) Saturday and Labor Day, and today (Sept. 3), 3.8 miles. And I’m sitting, now, with the slightest of left forefoot pain.
All of this is to say, that I’ve passed through the down moment that I wrote about here in my last post. In fact, here’s a diary entry from Bellport, LI, after that 7.6 miler on Saturday (Aug. 31):
"Run was great! Thinking core all the way, lift up and separate, in part, I think, what had hurt me was the hardness of my body, how I wasn’t thinking chi, and here I’ve done so much work on the core, as strong as I’ve ever been, if that’s possible. Instead, by not feeling light on my feet, a string puppet held aloft by two fingers, I do not “go away” in my mind and spirit; too much hard, not enough soft, how soft works to prepare the body, also the mind and spirit, if you don’t go away, then what, pray tell, is the point?”
Next: Running for Your Life: Fall Mood
