This Bug's For You

A bug flew into my eye on our run yesterday.  It was a pretty warm morning and we encountered quite a few swarms of tiny fruit flies as we ran along.  Every time we ran through one I had the wherewithal to keep my mouth closed, but I figured my sunglasses would protect my eyeballs well enough.  I don’t know what kind of insect acrobatics this little bugger did to get under my sunglasses, but whatever it was, he somehow managed to make contact…with my contact.

As soon as I felt him dying a slow, fluttering death on my cornea, I stopped running and screamed dramatically, “A bug flew in my EEEEYYYYEEEE!!!!!”  I ripped off my sunglasses and thrust the offended eyeball towards A.

A tried his best to tell me how to liberate the bug, but I only succeeded in grinding its carcass even more into my contact lens.  There was no hope for it; I knew the contact had to come out.

As soon as I pinched the lens out of my eye, I had instant relief.  And then I dropped it on the ground.

A saw me hesitate, and before I could do something I’d regret, he pulled my arm and said, “It’s gone, babe.  IT’S GONE.  LET IT GO.”  And he started running before I could protest.

For those of you who have never run with one eye shut, it’s not an experience I’d recommend.  The good news was that we were on a recovery run, four miles at moderate speed, since we did nine miles at pace two days earlier.  The bad news was we were only a quarter of the way in. 

The last three miles were spent running with my left eye screwed shut, pirate-style.  I even had the dumb lip curl going on because I defy you to squeeze one eye closed without drawing that side of your mouth up with it.

Worse than looking like an idiot, seeing only out of one eye really screws up your depth perception.  Sloping driveways were hard to gauge and every step off a sidewalk curb was a little leap of faith.  Not to mention being unable to look over your left shoulder is disorienting as hell.  A did his best to warn me of hazards as we approached, and with his help I managed to finish the run.

The whole experience reminded me of a pair of women I saw a few times running in Central Park.  They were booking it, lockstep with each other side-by-side, with one woman resting her hand in the crook of her partner’s elbow.  It wasn’t until we crossed paths that I realized one of them was blind.  I was blown away by the coordination, the trust and – most of all – the speed.  They were amazing.

I am ending this post with a picture of a fuzzy moth that’s been hanging outside our house all weekend.  It wasn’t the bug that crash-landed into my eye socket.  If it were, I might have spontaneously combusted from fear and disgust.  But considering this guy hasn’t moved in almost seventy-two hours, I’m posting his picture in lieu of the bug I killed to honor all the fallen creatures from the insect world that didn’t make it past the weekend.

Andrea

I had a dream this weekend about a woman I knew long ago.  Her name is Andrea and I knew her when we were both waiting tables at a Manhattan diner.  I was fresh out of college and she seemed infinitely older and wiser than me, although she was years younger than I am now.

I can’t remember how it came up.  Perhaps I was complaining about the monthly cost of a gym membership, which even then could set you back more in New York than rent in any other city. Perhaps it was in response to how I wished my arms could be as toned and lean as hers.  Perhaps it started with an offhand comment about how she was training for a marathon, which to me could have been ten blocks or one hundred miles, such was my knowledge at the time.

Whatever the reason, Andrea suggested that I start running.

I thought it was insane.  My feet were sore after every shift and I couldn’t imagine choosing to further abuse them by running around even more.  My last and only foray into running was in junior high and high school P.E.  I remember I couldn’t even finish three revolutions around the track without having to stop and walk.  Andrea brushed off all these excuses, saying that anyone could run, it cost nothing, and it would be almost criminal to live in such close proximity to a place as beautiful as Central Park and not take advantage of it.  She said I should just try to run the two-mile lower loop and she kept after me until I did.

My first time around I felt like my lungs were on fire. I think I started heaving at one point. I didn’t run the whole thing the first time, but the next time I did.  And the next time.  And the time after that.  And then I ran it twice.

I would excitedly report my progress to Andrea, who pushed me to go further.  She told me the whole park was a six-mile loop, but there was a five-mile cutaway right after the baseball fields.  I set out to do five, but missed the turnoff and ended up running all six miles.  While I felt tricked into going further than I thought I was capable of, the feeling of pride was overwhelming.

Andrea encouraged me to buy proper running shoes.  She encouraged me to run with her, which I did once but could barely keep up.  She encouraged me to enter my first race, a 10K in the park that I finished with just enough time to shower before working the lunch shift.  She encouraged me to keep going until I no longer needed to be encouraged.

Then, I left that job.  I kept running, but we didn’t keep in touch. When I moved away from New York, it seemed pointless to find her just to say goodbye.

Every time I go back to visit, I run Central Park.  And every time I run Central Park, I find myself looking for her.  Once when I was there with A, I thought I saw her running towards us.  I called out but this woman clearly didn’t recognize me.  (I then became convinced it was her twin – because she did have a twin – and I almost chased her down again, but A advised me to just leave the poor lady alone.)

There is a large part of me that would love to run into her to see how she’s doing and to thank her for introducing me to something that’s turned out to be such a large part of my identity.  What’s funny is that in this age of social media, it’s seems almost impossible to lose touch with someone.  Indeed, if I wanted to I could easily reach out to her online.

But as much as I’d like to see her again, I’ve also been someone who firmly believes that it’s natural for relationships to be transitory, that one must shed situational acquaintances to bring true, life-long friends into sharper relief.  I also find that maintaining a passive cyber connection can sometimes pervert the memory of what you originally shared.  Therefore I prefer to look upon my friendship with Andrea in the rear view, remember what a positive influence she was on me during a very impressionable period in my life, and hope that on an unassigned plane of consciousness she knows that she contributed to the happiness of someone she has long since forgotten.

And, of course, I hope she is still running.

Resistance Is Futile

It is dark.
I slept like shit.
But I know I must
Get on with it.

I down some brew
Then water, too.
I hit the loo
And try to pooh.

I tell myself,
“This will be fun.”
I tell myself,
“Just get ‘er done.”

I stretch my quad.
It’s feeling sore.
I open up
My sports bra drawer.

I guess I wore,
To my dismay,
My last clean top
The other day.

I could just
Return to bed.
I go to my
Hamper instead.

I pull out clothes
All drenched in sweat.
I put on the bra
That’s the least wet.

I lace my shoes
Then stretch my thighs.
I rub the sleep crust
From my eyes.

My hat goes on,
I grab the key.
I think I might need
One last pee.

I step outside.
Still feel like hell.
I’ve come this far,
I might as well.

I start to run
And soon I find
I stumble on
Some peace of mind.

It’s just begun
But I must say
This will be
A kick-ass day.

Salmon Run

A and I got into a conversation about bicycle safety with the hipster who was ringing us up at Trader Joe’s this weekend.  Considering the configuration of his facial hair and tightness of his jeans, I was not surprised at all that he was a rider of bikes, and based on his profile I’d venture to say they’re fixed gear ones at that.

He told us that he was a “salmon rider”.  As an animal lover I was shocked and horrified until he explained that it just meant he biked on the wrong side of the road, riding towards traffic instead of with it.  He acknowledged he’s breaking traffic laws, but as a nonconformist badass who laughs at the face of convention, he felt it was the safest way to ride.

I realized that A and I are Salmon Runners.  (Sidebar: that reminded me of the hilarious Salmon Swimming Upstream we saw at the Bay To Breakers race in San Francisco.)  If the sidewalk is crowded or nonexistent, we run in the street towards oncoming traffic.  It feels safer for a number of reasons, but mainly because we can see that the drivers are seeing us.

It seems that the general consensus amongst the running community is that one should run against traffic, but there are detractors.  I read an op-ed piece by a runner who claimed you are just as visible running with traffic as against – in fact maybe more so because a driver is more likely to expect you on his side of the road.  Furthermore, since you are running away from his car and not toward it, he has a longer time to see you and adjust accordingly.  The writer also claimed that runners who are on the wrong side of the road have an increased risk of being hit by drivers making right turns who don’t look both ways.  This was a particularly compelling argument for me because I encounter this all the time, even when we are on the sidewalk.

Despite the validity of these arguments, A and I are still dedicated to our salmon running.  We have learned to always expect drivers to do the wrong thing, and the best way to do that is to be able to see what’s coming our way.  If a car hits us, while it might technically be the driver’s fault, we’ll be the ones who live with the consequences so the onus is on us to keep ourselves safe.

And if the sage behind the Trader Joe’s counter can do it, so can we!

Slow It Goes

A’s IT band is still far from one hundred percent, but his heart is no longer completely buried in his wounded knee.  He has been making both metaphorical and literal strides in his recovery, and we’ve been back to going on short, flat, slow runs together.

I am taking advantage of our decreased pace to experiment with some technical adjustments that might help my form and stamina.  I read about a rhythmic breathing technique in Runner’s World that advocates three steps for the inhale, two steps for the exhale.  Thanks to my swimming, I often find myself breathing in some kind of rhythm while running, but this technique was really difficult for me to execute.  I had moments where I think I got the hang of it, but then it would disappear.  I think I’m so used to the three- or four-count meter that is the standard for Western music that using an alternating five-count is hard to intuit and maintain organically.  It's too early to tell if this kind of breathing is reaping any benefit, but I might try it a few more times to see how it feels.

Another thing I'm working on is being mindful to only move forward with every step.  This sounds like it should be obvious, but I think I have the tendency to splay my foot outward once I push off from the ground.  This leads to me planting my foot back onto the ground diagonally in front of me instead of straight ahead.  This means I'm not advancing forward the full length of my stride and translates into wasted energy that gets compounded over the course of many miles.  To combat this problem, I have been watching my feet as they land on the ground, making sure my toes are directly in front of my heel and I'm not landing pigeon-toed.  I find that when I turn my hips out like a ballerina, my feet end up at the proper angle.  It’s an odd feeling, but hopefully the more I work on it, the less extreme it will feel.

And finally, in an effort to experience the best of both the road-running and trail-running worlds, instead of sticking solely to pavement, I’m starting to seek patches of uneven terrain in the urban landscape.  These are mostly found in the small swatch of earth between the sidewalk and the curb, an area that apparently is called many different things but has no official name.  I’ll run along this strip of land if there are no major obstructions while A nurses his knee on the sidewalk beside me.

Hopefully the things that I am working on will incorporate themselves so wholly into my running technique that I eventually won’t have to even think about them.  Because I know it won’t be long until A is back to peak form and I’ll be huffing and puffing just to keep up again!

The Level of Idiocy at the Pool Today Made Me Lose My Faith in Humanity

My swim this afternoon was ruined by a plethora of Chekhovian archetypes.  The ridiculous cast of characters turned what was meant to be a relaxing lunchtime workout into a Russian tragicomedy of aquatic proportions.

The Cast (almost in order of appearance)

The Rotund Pool Regular, late 50’s

An avuncular older gentleman often seen lounging in and around the pool area.  Just as happy shooting the shit in the sauna as shooting Siberian foxes while sniffing pumpernickel bread.  Prone to entrapping the uninitiated into one-sided conversations that move at such a pace as to indicate he has nowhere to be, spoken in a cadence that can best be described as “Hawaiian”.  Has some real chestnuts of wisdom to impart if only he would take that stupid snorkel off and get to the bloody point. 

The Lover, mid 20’s

A newbie who finds himself in a brutal love triangle between the cold, antiseptic waters of the pool versus the warm, slimy embrace of the Jacuzzi.  He spends his entire time in a delicate dance to appease both very demanding, but very different, mistresses.

The Old Maid, 28 tops

Does her business, keeps her head down but her eye on the clock.  Clowns in her midst are but a small burden to bear considering all the many other of life’s hardships.  Avoids trouble and vacates the pool according to regulations as is her duty and nothing more.

The Ingenue, early 20’s

Looks the fool in a string bikini and no swim cap, but is wily and resourceful beyond her innocent façade.

The Crazy Old Bat, ancient

Jumps into a full lane and does whatever the fuck she pleases with laughter in her crazy eyes and hate in her shriveled heart.

The Dreamer, 30’s

Backstroking in the middle of the lane as if he was lazing in the lake at the summer house, he pays no mind to spacial relationships as only the most aristocratic among us can afford to do.

The Asshole, 30’s

Dives headfirst in the middle of a crowded lane, caring not that it is already at full capacity.  The Crazy Old Bat and the Ingenue scatter like mice as he chops at the water like his arms are hatchets, making waves that disrupt the entire pool.  Then he pees in it, because he can.

The Ruined, 35

The once hopeful middle-aged woman who enters the water with a pure heart that by journey's end is replaced with a fetid turd of hatred towards her fellow man.

Warts & All

A short while ago, I discovered what appears to be a wart on the bottom of my foot.  It is specifically on the pad of my big toe.  The discovery was quite accidental; I think I was putting on lotion or something.   The good news is that I can’t feel it at all and it hasn’t in any way impeded my running, walking, or standing.  Other than the presence of a small white bump, I wouldn't even know it's there and doesn't affect me physically at all.  Psychologically, however, is another story.  It bugs the hell out of me.

I can’t stop thinking of myself as now warty and diseased.  I heard I could lance or chemically freeze it off, but I don’t want to risk not being able to run as it heals.  I read online that warts tend to go away after a while on their own, but till then I’m stuck looking at its ugly whiteness on the bottom of my foot.  I hate it.

Ironically, I have two hairy moles on my nose that bother me not at all.  Go figure.

Two If By Sea

One lingering reminder of our trail race is A’s injured IT band.  He’s not quite sure how he hurt it during the race, but since then it gives him trouble after any run longer than four miles.  And yet, he keeps running.  He is a most impatient young grasshopper.

Finally in an effort to get his IT band back to rights, he is taking some protracted time off from the longer distances.  To supplement his exercise routine, we’ve been ramping up the swimming.  Inspired by Diana Nyad, last weekend we ventured into the open water.  It helped that our area is experiencing quite the heat wave which has warmed our normally frigid ocean to a nice temperature for swimming.

The only other time A has done an open water swim was when we did a triathlon two years ago in a protected bay that had very little tidal currents.  This time around we were braving the open ocean, rolling waves and all.  A was understandably nervous.

We swam parallel to the shore north to south between two jetties about a half mile apart.  I did this swim last year in the opposite direction, and felt the undercurrent was against me.  This year, we thought we’d choose the path of least resistance.  Unfortunately that meant that A, who only breaths out of his right side, risked having incoming waves push water into his mouth every time he took a breath.

We foolishly didn’t swim in the ocean before our tri, but we did watch a few instructional videos about open water swimming online.  The most important thing we learned is that it is imperative to sight, which is periodically raising your head from the water to see your destination.  Unlike the pools we are used to swimming in, the ocean floor doesn’t have a big black line on it to help you stay the course.  Even if there were, the ocean water at our beaches is so opaque – a mottled green, to be exact – that you can’t see the bottom, much less a few inches in front of you.  I can barely see my own hand in front of me when I stroke, and sometimes not even that.

I try to practice sighting when I swim in a pool because I know it’s one of the toughest things about getting into the open water.  It takes a lot of effort to raise one’s head high enough to breach the choppy water, and I finished the half mile with a tired neck.  I often switched from freestyle to breast stroke in order to give my neck a rest, but that obviously slows me down and I ended up taking quite a bit of water up my nose.  Also having the currents push on my body can make me feel a bit nauseous.

One nice surprise was that I anticipated that staying together would be difficult, but thanks to A’s jaunty purple swim cap I had no problem keeping track of him in the big ocean.  He thinks I’m faster than he is, but the truth is we swim pretty much at the same slow, deliberate pace.

All in all, I find open water swimming extremely challenging but invigorating at the same time.  A enjoyed how raw and close to nature the experience felt.  He compared it to going from street running to trail running, times one hundred.  I guess we both liked our ocean experience well enough since we are doing it again this weekend.  This time, however, we’re picking a more protected marina area.  I’m hoping we don’t emerge from the water dripping with motor oil.

She Loves Me, She Loves Me Not

Since I had so much fun writing my last reverso poem, I decided to try my hand at another.  This one's about my love/hate relationship with that great hamster wheel we call the treadmill.

I Hate You

Dear Treadmill,

You are my

Achilles' heel, okay?

You make the

minutes feel like hours.

I left work where

I don't care

If I work up a sweat

during my lunch break.

I fit you in,

but I have to go back.

You kick my ass.

You are so fast

and set  to climb

at almost ninety degrees!

I hate that it is

just staying in one place.

I want to be

on the ground

outside

when it's warm.

I Heart You

When it's warm

outside

on the ground

I want to be

just staying in one place.

I hate that it is

at almost ninety degrees

and set  to climb!

You are so fast

you kick my ass.

But I have to go back.

I fit you in

during my lunch break.

If I work up a sweat

I don't care.

I left work where

minutes feel like hours.

You make the

Achilles' heel okay.

You are my

dear treadmill.