Ran the Brooklyn Half-Marathon this past Saturday. Having trained at a 9-minute per mile pace, my goal was to finish in under two hours (9 minute pace translates into 1 hour and almost 58 minutes). I am proud to report that I finished in 1:53:26, which is an 8:39 pace per mile. I placed 2,553rd out of 5,832 participants. But the race, obviously, wasn't about me against the other 5,831 runners; it was about me against the 3,279 slobs that finished behind me. No, I mean it was about me running against myself, challenging myself to do my best.
The morning had not started so well -- I made it to the subway platform as the N train was pulling out, meaning I'd have to wait for more than ten minutes early on a Saturday morning for the next train to arrive. I made it out to Coney Island about 20 minutes before racetime, had to put my bag on a bus for pickup later at the finish, had to use the port-a-potty and then get in the race corrals. The lines at the potties were long, and I basically had enough time to do about a quarter of my normal stretching routine before the gun sounded, and I was able to slip into the race corrals as the horde began to move forward.
The first 2 1/2 miles were along (and double-back again) the Coney Island boardwalk. That was cool. I mean, the weather was chilly, but the sight of the beach and ocean to the immediate left, the creaking and thumping of the wood underneath you, the occasional sand hazard to run through or around...a whole different "race" experience. The beginnings of these long races are always so cool...everyone's in a good mood, optimistic about what lies ahead; there's a folksy comaraderie. Did I spell comaraderie right? It looks funny. In any event, I was at exactly nine minutes at the first mile marker, which surprised me, as the crowd was thick and although I was attempting to weave through the thick parts to get some sort of pace going, I assumed I'd be behind the mark until we hit the more open streets. I was still on pace at two miles, and by the fourth mile marker, on Ocean Parkway, I was slightly ahead of pace. Interesting.
Ocean Parkway is a grand boulevard of Brooklyn -- large median down the center, beautiful homes line the sides. A friend who had run the Brooklyn Half in the past had joked that the Ocean Parkway run is frustrating because the cross-streets are all lettered in reverse alphabetical order ("Avenue Z" and then "Avenue Y" and so on), and so you spend time trying to figure out what number letter "M" is in order to calculate how much longer you have until you make it to Prospect Park. Lo and behold, by the middle of the alphabet I was stumped as to how much more Ocean Parkway lay ahead of me.
By the sixth or seventh mile I was more than a full minute ahead of my nine-minute pace goal. On the one hand, this was great. On the other hand, I was concerned about gassing out at the end. The last four miles of the run are in hilly Prospect Park, and I did not want to be the idiot who tanked with a mile to go. But I was feeling exceptionally well. Without a running partner for the first time in a long race (you know, of the two other long races I've ever run), I was able to focus exclusively on my running, making myself relax my body, maintain a pace and good form on hills, etc.
I entered Prospect Park at the nine-mile marker, and I was about a minute and a half ahead. Now I could turn on the psychological games: this was my park, where I run all the time...get out of my way, shitheads. I know, it's a bit simple and juvenile, but I'm not a very sophisticated runner. When I hit the big hill at the northern end of the park, I was practically laughing to myself -- I own this hill! Around the bend to the west side of the park where I knew that Cathleen, Max, Eliza and my mom would be waiting for me near the Third Street entrance...and then I saw them from about 50 yards away. Such a lift! I kissed them all, and then ran away with a new bounce in my step. Literally. I had about two miles to go, and I was psyched. Down the big hill at the southwest corner, and then the last big hill (in the unchartered, for me, interior part of the park). As I ascended the final hill of the run, some guy on the side shouted out "the 13-mile marker is right around the corner." That's all I needed; I bolted into a full-out sprint to the end, weaving in and around folks ahead of me as a I flew to the finish line.
I often use the experience of the two marathons I've run in other contexts: the mental determination I employed in those runs to overcome physical pain and fatigue in order to finish...it is helpful to look back and know that I have the ability to dig deep in the face of challenges. The half-marathon -- a dramatically more humane and less punishing distance to run -- provides me with something different. Not sure yet what that is, perhaps something about what it takes to exceed a goal, but I'm filing away the 1:53:26 of moments that were that race, and they'll be there when I want or need to use them.
Sunday, May 4, 2008
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Hold My Hand
In March 1996 Cathleen and I flew down to West Palm Beach, visited my grandmother (Kahn), and then spent a few days in the Keys. Of the four or five nights we spent in the Keys, we dined twice at a little restaurant called Mangrove Mamas. It was the lone structure on Sugarloaf Key to have survived The Hurricane of 1919, or something like that. Half of the building lacked a roof, and the other half looked like it was a shanty that had been assembled with pieces of scrap earlier that afternoon. The seafood was out of this world, their Key Lime Pie had been voted "Best in the Keys" by the Miami Herald for several years running, and the place had a magical ambience that I can still feel when I think about it. The first night that we ate there we were directed to the bar while we waited for a table to open up. We drank beers out of mason jars while listening to two guys play guitar, and whenever I hear Hootie and the Blowfish's "Hold My Hand," I am immediately transported back to that place. If the sum of one's life boils down to a collection of moments, for whatever reason -- youth, the first vacation with the woman I loved, the beer -- that was one of my moments.
I had another moment today. On the heels of a productive weekend at home (built shelves in the livingroom for our TV components; assembled shelving unit for storage room and organized a portion of the mountain of crap in there; grilled a whole fish Saturday night), the four of us were pretty spent by the end of the day. Helen (with Grace) came over for a playdate with Eliza, and Max was finding himself the object of nobody's attention and none too happy about it. So I dragged him out to run an errand with me. We drove to the local CVS for soap, shampoo, sunscreen and some other odds and ends. As we walked around the store, I was holding his hand, a not unusual arrangement when we are out. This time, however, as we walked through the aisles of the store, I felt Max blithely stroking the inside of my palm with his thumb. Comforting himself, connecting with me, or just enjoying the texture of my hand...I'll never know. But when we approached the cashier to pay for our items, it took a great deal of willpower for me to let go.
I had another moment today. On the heels of a productive weekend at home (built shelves in the livingroom for our TV components; assembled shelving unit for storage room and organized a portion of the mountain of crap in there; grilled a whole fish Saturday night), the four of us were pretty spent by the end of the day. Helen (with Grace) came over for a playdate with Eliza, and Max was finding himself the object of nobody's attention and none too happy about it. So I dragged him out to run an errand with me. We drove to the local CVS for soap, shampoo, sunscreen and some other odds and ends. As we walked around the store, I was holding his hand, a not unusual arrangement when we are out. This time, however, as we walked through the aisles of the store, I felt Max blithely stroking the inside of my palm with his thumb. Comforting himself, connecting with me, or just enjoying the texture of my hand...I'll never know. But when we approached the cashier to pay for our items, it took a great deal of willpower for me to let go.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Evil, and the people who take it
I went on a home intake today in the Baychester area of the Bronx. The client was a 30-year-old woman in a wheelchair who lived with her son (approx. 10 years old) in the bottom of a two-family brick rowhouse. The landlord of her building lived upstairs until February, at which time a fire burned out his apartment. He turned off the gas and water in the building and moved out. My client's apartment was undamaged, and because a decent, affordable, wheelchair-accessible apartment is hard to find, she stayed in her apartment. But she hasn't had any water or gas (and thus heat) in the apartment for two months. But only now did she call for legal assistance.
No gas, no water for two months. And she's in a wheelchair. And living with a young kid. I kept repeating questions to her during the intake, as if I couldn't believe what was going on.
So you had no heat during the end of February and throughout the cold days of March? How have you been cleaning yourself? (Bottled water). How have you been cooking? (On a hotplate).
Unasked: what the hell finally angered you enough to want to do something about it?
I find that many of my clients suffer from what an old coworker of mine referred to as "battered tenant syndrome." They are poor, and are so used to being poor and the substandard quality of everything that you get when living in poverty that they don't expect to live in an apartment that meets the minimal requirements of the City's housing code. They accept fourth-rate living as a fact of life. So they'll live, without much complaint, with broken windows, peeling plaster, ceiling leaks, rat or cockroach infestations...but then there'll be that one thing that they just can't take anymore, that pushes them over the edge, like a ceiling collapse, and they'll finally seek help. This severely-disabled woman lived two months without gas or water.
And get this -- her scumbag landlord...he shows up a couple of times a month to get his mail out of his mailbox. My client never sees him, but she knows from her Social Services worker that he is still dutifully cashing his rent checks every month.
We're filing an emergency application in court tomorrow morning, seeking an order compelling him to get the gas and water back on.
No gas, no water for two months. And she's in a wheelchair. And living with a young kid. I kept repeating questions to her during the intake, as if I couldn't believe what was going on.
So you had no heat during the end of February and throughout the cold days of March? How have you been cleaning yourself? (Bottled water). How have you been cooking? (On a hotplate).
Unasked: what the hell finally angered you enough to want to do something about it?
I find that many of my clients suffer from what an old coworker of mine referred to as "battered tenant syndrome." They are poor, and are so used to being poor and the substandard quality of everything that you get when living in poverty that they don't expect to live in an apartment that meets the minimal requirements of the City's housing code. They accept fourth-rate living as a fact of life. So they'll live, without much complaint, with broken windows, peeling plaster, ceiling leaks, rat or cockroach infestations...but then there'll be that one thing that they just can't take anymore, that pushes them over the edge, like a ceiling collapse, and they'll finally seek help. This severely-disabled woman lived two months without gas or water.
And get this -- her scumbag landlord...he shows up a couple of times a month to get his mail out of his mailbox. My client never sees him, but she knows from her Social Services worker that he is still dutifully cashing his rent checks every month.
We're filing an emergency application in court tomorrow morning, seeking an order compelling him to get the gas and water back on.
Monday, April 21, 2008
A Rat ran into my Foot
It did. I was walking the dogs tonight, and everyone had set their trash out on the sidewalk for pickup tomorrow morning. On late, warm nights when the trash has been put out, I've occasionally seen rats scurry from buildings and across the sidewalk to the trash bags and bins that sit curbside. But never too up close. And certainly never so up close that the fucking rat ran smack into my foot. I sort of yelped and did a little awkward jig, and the rat ran back towards the building and down the stairs to the basement. For those trying to do a little mental mock up at home, it was a big rat, such that I felt it on the side of my foot and ankle.
Walking back down the block towards our home, Oprah stopped to sniff at something. I tugged at her leash and said, "c'mon, I'm scared." She could identify with that.
Walking back down the block towards our home, Oprah stopped to sniff at something. I tugged at her leash and said, "c'mon, I'm scared." She could identify with that.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Ready for the race
The Brooklyn Half-marathon is in three weeks and I think I've finally gotten my body to a point where I can run it. I ran 12.5 miles today and felt reasonably well enough in doing so. I've managed to maintain a 9-minute pace throughout the past few weeks of long runs, and now I have the next couple of weeks to "rest up" by tapering my distances (10 miles next weekend; 8 the next). I've been experiencing some calf and hip tightness on my left side, and had a severe lower back spasm for about 48 hours after last weekend's 12-mile run, but no serious injuries. I think I'm ready to take this one on.
It's not the real thing
A Billy Joel quote! Anyone reading this blog would have the most distorted sense of my musical tastes. I know a lot of Billy Joel lyrics because I was alive during the 80s, but the only person that I know who still listens to Billy Joel is my sister-in-law Theresa. This blog entry title is for you, T.
I have not posted in a while (almost two weeks) and although it might have been because I had nothing to say, the truth is that I always have something to say. I generally write posts late at night, but lately I've been spending those late-night hours obsessing over the at-bat by at-bat performances of my baseball fantasy team's west coast players.
Oh yes, I am in a fantasy league.
Last year, Mark coaxed me into joining a fantasy league with him. Mom always told me to stay away from friends like him. I had always suspected that I'd enjoy participating in a fantasy league because I am a huge baseball fan, I love stats, and I can be as OCD about something as the next guy. But I resisted joining one in the past precisely because I was afraid that the OCD in me would take over. Little did I know.
So Mark and I joined this league last year where, among the other 11 team owners, two of the guys are producers for a major networks sports' programming (yes, we are competing against guys who do sports for a living). Mark and I literally did not know what we were doing as draft night approached. We did not have a full grasp of how rosters were slotted, how the salary cap worked, how the scoring worked, how the free agent pickup rules worked...hell, we didn't even know how much the league cost. And yet we were steamrolling into the draft like we had a chance. The draft took place in a bar in midtown, but Mark was at a medical conference in Baltimore and so we communicated by cell phone for two hours until my phone battery died. In a straight draft situation, this would have been an abysmal setup; matters were made worse by the fact that our league has an auction draft, and so by the time I had communicated to Mark what player was on the board for bidding and we had decided whether to bid $5, the bid would already be up to $8. And so on. We compiled a terrible team and by May it was clear that we were far out of the running. We spent the remaining four months of the season trying to trade for "keepers" (you get to carry 12 guys over to the following year's roster, and so we were trying to get good players with low salaries). We set a record in the league for lowest number of points in a season (the league is scored in four offensive and four pitching categories).
This year, armed with the knowledge of, oh -- the rules -- we began our research on players during the winter. By January we were reading articles and top ten lists, and by February I was spending my entire lunch hour on baseball and sports websites. Mark and I sent dozens of emails back and forth debating the merits of keeping this player over that player, whom we should be targeting in the draft, etc.
I am, at heart, a competitive mother. I'm not a claw-your-eyes-out-so-I-win kind of guy, but I do not like to lose. It is why I loved debating in high school, it is why I still love to play ultimate frisbee, and it is certainly part of what I like about lawyering (preventing my client's eviction is rewarding, but beating the crap out of that landlord attorney in oral argument is its own reward). Now that I'm playing a lot less ultimate (and almost no truly competitive ultimate), fantasy baseball is where I can get my competitive jones up.
The draft this year was a far better experience than last year. Mark missed the first half because he was teaching his meditation class, but he was there for the end when my brain was beginning to melt (the draft is a four-hour experience). The draft did not go entirely to plan (and we had spent many an email and phone call hammering out an overall strategy), mostly because I was a little gun-shy early on to spend big bucks, but we put together a reasonably-balanced team. Two weeks into the season and it is unclear exactly where we stand. The baseball season is, as they say, a marathon, not a sprint, and so I can't read much into the fact that we went from 3rd place to 10th place over the course of this past weekend, though I can be concerned that we're not getting stolen bases and our pitchers can't seem to record any wins. But we're in it. Oh yes, we're in it.
I have not posted in a while (almost two weeks) and although it might have been because I had nothing to say, the truth is that I always have something to say. I generally write posts late at night, but lately I've been spending those late-night hours obsessing over the at-bat by at-bat performances of my baseball fantasy team's west coast players.
Oh yes, I am in a fantasy league.
Last year, Mark coaxed me into joining a fantasy league with him. Mom always told me to stay away from friends like him. I had always suspected that I'd enjoy participating in a fantasy league because I am a huge baseball fan, I love stats, and I can be as OCD about something as the next guy. But I resisted joining one in the past precisely because I was afraid that the OCD in me would take over. Little did I know.
So Mark and I joined this league last year where, among the other 11 team owners, two of the guys are producers for a major networks sports' programming (yes, we are competing against guys who do sports for a living). Mark and I literally did not know what we were doing as draft night approached. We did not have a full grasp of how rosters were slotted, how the salary cap worked, how the scoring worked, how the free agent pickup rules worked...hell, we didn't even know how much the league cost. And yet we were steamrolling into the draft like we had a chance. The draft took place in a bar in midtown, but Mark was at a medical conference in Baltimore and so we communicated by cell phone for two hours until my phone battery died. In a straight draft situation, this would have been an abysmal setup; matters were made worse by the fact that our league has an auction draft, and so by the time I had communicated to Mark what player was on the board for bidding and we had decided whether to bid $5, the bid would already be up to $8. And so on. We compiled a terrible team and by May it was clear that we were far out of the running. We spent the remaining four months of the season trying to trade for "keepers" (you get to carry 12 guys over to the following year's roster, and so we were trying to get good players with low salaries). We set a record in the league for lowest number of points in a season (the league is scored in four offensive and four pitching categories).
This year, armed with the knowledge of, oh -- the rules -- we began our research on players during the winter. By January we were reading articles and top ten lists, and by February I was spending my entire lunch hour on baseball and sports websites. Mark and I sent dozens of emails back and forth debating the merits of keeping this player over that player, whom we should be targeting in the draft, etc.
I am, at heart, a competitive mother. I'm not a claw-your-eyes-out-so-I-win kind of guy, but I do not like to lose. It is why I loved debating in high school, it is why I still love to play ultimate frisbee, and it is certainly part of what I like about lawyering (preventing my client's eviction is rewarding, but beating the crap out of that landlord attorney in oral argument is its own reward). Now that I'm playing a lot less ultimate (and almost no truly competitive ultimate), fantasy baseball is where I can get my competitive jones up.
The draft this year was a far better experience than last year. Mark missed the first half because he was teaching his meditation class, but he was there for the end when my brain was beginning to melt (the draft is a four-hour experience). The draft did not go entirely to plan (and we had spent many an email and phone call hammering out an overall strategy), mostly because I was a little gun-shy early on to spend big bucks, but we put together a reasonably-balanced team. Two weeks into the season and it is unclear exactly where we stand. The baseball season is, as they say, a marathon, not a sprint, and so I can't read much into the fact that we went from 3rd place to 10th place over the course of this past weekend, though I can be concerned that we're not getting stolen bases and our pitchers can't seem to record any wins. But we're in it. Oh yes, we're in it.
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
Fiver
Five years. Max celebrated his fifth birthday yesterday. He looks so much different than he did five years ago.
Sleeping on the floor next to my bed (will that end before his tenth birthday?), he bounced up from his sleeping bag at a little after 6 a.m. and proudly declared, "it's my birthday!" Whipped from less than five hours of sleep, I pulled him into bed with me in a desperate effort to keep my eyes closed. At five, fortunately, he still likes to cuddle. That didn't last too long, and we eventually made our way to the livingroom where a brand new bicycle sat underneath a bedsheet and ribbon. Upon pulling off the sheet, Max looked over the new bike and asked, "why did you get me a bike? Why didn't you get me something I wanted?"
Ummm, a week ago your mouth was agape looking at a bike in a store window. Five years, and it just doesn't get easier, does it?
He realized before the morning was over that he actually liked the bike, but not before Cathleen had engaged in some serious self-flagellation about our decision to make this his gift. Later that morning Cathleen brought corn muffins and honey to his class for snack (the healthy option was his idea), and I left work early for us all to hang out together. We sang Happy Birthday and consumed local bakery-made cupcakes (oh, sooo rich), and then we headed out to the courtyard of a local elementary school with the bike. Max did a pretty good job for his first riding effort, and even after he fell over once he was willing to get back on for a final ride. We walked home in the rain, rested for a bit and then headed out for sushi for dinner. Max is very into sushi these days, and although he basically sticks to eating rice, shrimp tempura and eel-based maki rolls, I think it is pretty darn cool of him.
It is so fascinating to see him at five...such a real little person, and yet so evolving and unformed in so many ways. He bubbles with sophisticated thoughts and philosophies, and yet there is so much that he can't wrap his brain around. He is beginning to formulate a sense of justice in his (and the) world, and yet he practically has "id" stamped on his forehead. Sweet, loving, rebellious, rude, giggly, funny, angry, needy, independent, creative....you see all of it within any 30 minutes you spend with him. And few things in the world make me happier than when I see his sincere and unfettered smile breaking across his face.
Sleeping on the floor next to my bed (will that end before his tenth birthday?), he bounced up from his sleeping bag at a little after 6 a.m. and proudly declared, "it's my birthday!" Whipped from less than five hours of sleep, I pulled him into bed with me in a desperate effort to keep my eyes closed. At five, fortunately, he still likes to cuddle. That didn't last too long, and we eventually made our way to the livingroom where a brand new bicycle sat underneath a bedsheet and ribbon. Upon pulling off the sheet, Max looked over the new bike and asked, "why did you get me a bike? Why didn't you get me something I wanted?"
Ummm, a week ago your mouth was agape looking at a bike in a store window. Five years, and it just doesn't get easier, does it?
He realized before the morning was over that he actually liked the bike, but not before Cathleen had engaged in some serious self-flagellation about our decision to make this his gift. Later that morning Cathleen brought corn muffins and honey to his class for snack (the healthy option was his idea), and I left work early for us all to hang out together. We sang Happy Birthday and consumed local bakery-made cupcakes (oh, sooo rich), and then we headed out to the courtyard of a local elementary school with the bike. Max did a pretty good job for his first riding effort, and even after he fell over once he was willing to get back on for a final ride. We walked home in the rain, rested for a bit and then headed out for sushi for dinner. Max is very into sushi these days, and although he basically sticks to eating rice, shrimp tempura and eel-based maki rolls, I think it is pretty darn cool of him.
It is so fascinating to see him at five...such a real little person, and yet so evolving and unformed in so many ways. He bubbles with sophisticated thoughts and philosophies, and yet there is so much that he can't wrap his brain around. He is beginning to formulate a sense of justice in his (and the) world, and yet he practically has "id" stamped on his forehead. Sweet, loving, rebellious, rude, giggly, funny, angry, needy, independent, creative....you see all of it within any 30 minutes you spend with him. And few things in the world make me happier than when I see his sincere and unfettered smile breaking across his face.
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