I'll Be Back

I'm a runner.

I've been a runner since the first time I set foot in Central Park, about six years ago now, clad in running shoes, for my very first venture around the loops that would end up being my first, and favorite, running home, and I suspect I'll be a runner for a long time to come. I've run two half marathons and a handful of other races. I've run in good weather and bad weather and downright dismal weather. I've had good runs and bad runs and runs where I wanted to lay right down on the pavement and never get up. I've run at all times of the day and night, and during all four seasons.

I've run a lot.

But of all the runs that I have done, my favorite ones have been the ones that happen in the morning. Walking out the door while the world is still sleeping, the air is cool, the sun is rising, and the neighborhood is silent is magic. The jangle of my alarm at that hour is never a welcome interruption, but by the time I get outside, I'm always glad to be there. For years now, a morning run has been the best way I know to greet the day. That hour at dawn belongs to me, and when I'm running through my neighborhood I am the only person alive, which is exactly how I like it. For that hour I feel unburdened, wild and free and like I could do anything in the world. 

More than anything, running at dawn makes me feel fierce and makes me feel at peace; a heady juxtaposition of emotions that I can never get enough of.

It's been awhile though, since I've felt it. 28 weeks to be exact. 

I managed to run through the first few weeks of being pregnant, but with ferocious morning sickness that lasted 24 hours a day for almost 20 weeks and exhaustion the likes of which I have never experienced, I had to slow it down. And once I felt better, a small complication put running straight on my doctor's "absolutely do not do" list, and once that complication was resolved, it had just been too long for me to start running again and be safe all at the time time.

So, despite my hope of being one of those pregnant women you see at the finish line of the Boston Marathon and wonder how in the world she does it and if she's maybe a little crazy, I've been mostly relegated to walking. And walking is nice, but it doesn't exactly give you the same rush of feeling as grinding out the last half mile of a six mile run you thought you would never make it through.

This morning, I left my house at the time I would ordinarily leave it for a morning run, but instead of running I was making a quick trip to the bagel store before work in preparation for the impending holiday weekend. Instead of running shoes and shorts I was wearing flip-flops and a sweatshirt, instead of a water bottle I was carrying car keys, and instead of feeling strong and fierce I was feeling  slow and sluggish and every single one of the extra fifteen or so pounds that I am currently carrying around.

But the morning felt exactly the same.

As I drove down the route that I usually run, I could practically feel the morning air on my face like it is when I pound my way down the street, and I knew every curve of that road. And as I made the turn that would take me where I was going, I glanced back at the street and made a silent promise.

I'll be back. As soon as I possibly can

Because I'm a runner.

Today. Always.

On The Love Of Running

"I always loved running...it was something you could do by yourself, and under your own power. You could go in any direction, fast or slow as you wanted, fighting the wind if you felt like it, seeking out new sights just on the strength of your feet and the courage of your lungs."

-Jesse Owens 

Throwback Thursday: My Favorite Running Home

When I first moved to New York, almost nine years ago, Central Park was intimidating. Its winding roads were unfamiliar to me, and I lived in fear of getting lost in its woods. I didn't understand the walkers, runners and bikers that would circle its paths, and tried to stay away from it as much as I could.

But then something happened.

It started when David and I met. He loved Central Park and exploring it alongside him, the Park became a little less of a scary place.

And then, I learned to run.

If you live on the Upper West Side of Manhattan and you run and you don't like stopping every two minutes for traffic lights and dodging sundry pedestrians, you really only have two choices. You can run the path along the Hudson river or you can run Central Park. Preferring to not run on a path that also borders what passes for a major highway in Manhattan, I chose the Park.

That choice started a love affair with Central Park that lasted until we moved out of Manhattan eighteen months ago, and continues today.

And lately, for some reason, I've really been thinking a lot about my old running home and my early morning Park excursions to greet the day with my habitual three mile loop.

In honor of the place where I learned to run, and learned to love to run, here are my three most favorite Park pictures.

I miss you, old friend. I hope I'll be seeing you again soon.

Running The Track

When I was growing up, my parents were both long-distance runners. As it sometimes is with parents who love something so fiercely, they tried to get my sisters and me to pick up the sport. The three of us just weren't having it, but that didn't stop my parents from trying.

Four or five times a week my parents would run the streets of Pittsburgh together. But every now and then they would gather my sisters and me up and head to the track at Carnegie Mellon University, just a mile or so from the house where I grew up, and it is there that some of my earliest memories live. We would sit in the bleachers or play on the edge of the football field while my parents circled the track over and over again, urging us to join in for a lap or two every time they passed by. The answer was always a resounding "no."

It took me twenty years to finally realize that my parents were exactly right; running was the sport that fit me like the proverbial glove. I loved the solo hours out on the streets, the exhaustion and elation of a long run, and the triumphant race finishes. I even loved the aching muscles, runs in the freezing cold or sweltering heat, and the equal mix of pain and pleasure that comes with being a runner.

But lately, that has all escaped me. 

For a bunch of reasons, I had to cut way, way back on running for the past few months. As in, for almost four months, I couldn't run at all.

One day I'll tell that story, but that's not the story I'm writing today.

Even once I was given the green light to start running again, I had a really hard time getting back into the swing of things. The runners out there will understand. Starting again after being away for so many months might as well be starting from scratch and well, that just plain sucks. I kept making excuses to cut my runs short or to avoid them completely and do some kind of other exercise instead, but when you're a runner, sometimes no other exercise will suffice. Sometimes you just have to run.

So yesterday. Yesterday morning I woke up and, as per usual, my first thoughts were filled with all the things I had to do instead of running. Obviously something had to be done. So instead of going to the gym or to my regular running path, I decided to try something different. 

I laced up my shoes, headed for the track at the local high school down the street from my house, and ran there. And the run was hard. Really hard. But there was something else too. Circling the track with its familiar red rubber coating, I thought about my parents and the love of running they passed to me, and everything that once attracted me to this mysterious and miraculous sport. 

And for the first time in months, I felt strong. For the first time in months, I ended a run already looking forward to my next one. 

I am a runner.

And I'm out of excuses not to be.

Running Without Time

The watch gave one mournful beep and died. I nearly stopped, not sure how to keep going without it.

But then there was just me, under a cloudless sky. Breathing hard. Feet pounding the pavement.

Running like time and distance didn't matter.

A Spin Class And An Obsessive Personality

I've pretty much come to terms with the fact that I have an obsessive personality.

When I first discovered running, I immediately started training for a half marathon. When I find a particular food I like, I have to eat it all the time. I can't just read books, I have to own them and they have to live on my shelves in a particular order according to an organizational system that I devised myself and honed with a religious zeal.

I come by this phenomenon naturally. My mom has it, and so do both of my sisters, so whenever any of us get into an obsessive cycle, we just give into it and laugh it off and wait for the crazy to pass. 

So it came as no surprise to me that once I went to my first spin class and loved it, I desperately needed to go to a million more, like, yesterday. For a few minutes I even considered a regular Soulcycle habit, but with the $34 per class price-tag and the knowledge that the more I went the more I would want to go, my better angels prevailed and I started hunting around for a cheaper option.

I found it in the New York Sports Club near my house where there are at least 4 spin classes a day, every day, and as long as you pay your relatively reasonable monthly membership fee you can go to as many as you want.

I was never someone who particularly loved to exercise. I viewed it as mostly drudgery; something you do because you have to, kind of like brushing your teeth or taking out the garbage. But when I discovered running I started to understand why people actually like getting up at the crack of dawn and moving their bodies in strange and unnatural ways. And now that I have discovered spin, exercise has taken on an entirely new meaning.

Sitting in a dark, crowded and stiflingly hot room with music blasting while an instructor yells at you doesn't seem like it would make for a very good time, but it really, really does. I never really thought of myself as a gym person, but it turns out that there really is something to exercising while surrounded by hundreds of like-minded people.

Or maybe it doesn't and there isn't, and I'm just a glutton for punishment, in an obsessive way of course.

But this is one obsession that shows no signs of abating any time soon. I know this because during the Academy Awards this past Sunday night Pharrell got up and performed his song Happy from Despicable Me 2. And while I loved that the performance was so great and I really loved him getting the likes of Lupita, Meryl and Amy Adams shimmying, what I really loved was the fact that Happy is the warm up song in my Sunday morning spin class and when he started singing I could actually feel my feet pedaling, as if I was sitting in the class.

So call me crazy, or call me obsessive. It's ok. I'll be the first one to tell you that I'm both.

But while I tell you, I'll probably be spinning.

The Park That Will Always Be Mine

I lived in New York for almost five years before I really discovered Central Park.

I knew it existed, of course. My friends and I spent Saturday afternoons lazing around the Great Lawn, every now and then we would go to a summer concert or outdoor movie, and the first fall that David and I were together we used to eat breakfast there on Friday afternoons. But the vast green space in the middle of this concrete-filled metropolis remained, for the most part, a mystery to me.

Every time I walked into the park I got hopelessly turned around. I could never figure out where I was, or how to get where I needed to be, and heaven help me if I somehow needed to cross the park completely from west side to east. I never remembered where the ice skating rink was or where I could find the tennis courts, and I though I knew that the Central Park Zoo existed in theory, I would have been hard pressed to tell anyone how to get there.

Three years ago on a whim, I signed up to train with The Leukemia and Lymphoma Society's Team in Training for a half marathon in Manhattan. I'm not quite sure what possessed me to do it, but one minute I was minding my own business pouring through some estate planning documents for a client, and the very next minute I was making plans to attend the first session of a thirteen week program. I had flirted with running before - having two marathoners for parents will do that to a girl - but I never got particularly serious about it. Nevertheless, on a cold November night in 2010 I made my way to the middle of the Central Park 72nd Street transverse to start my training.

And it was on that cold November night that Central Park became mine.

Over the next months I did every single training run on those roads, never venturing past the gates of the Park and into the city - the Park gave me everything I needed. Three or four times a week I would circle the roads with the army of runners that call Central Park home. I learned the routes and I knew every twist and turn and hill, and how to run three miles in any direction from my 72nd Street starting line. I took my first tentative steps on those roads, and, in time, steps became strides, and fear turned to confidence. I felt like I could run forever, as long as I was running in the Park.

And after the training was over, I couldn't stay away. I kept on running, and the Park became my home. Those loops and roads hold my secrets - the ones I whispered to myself in the middle of a ferocious ten mile run. They hold my laughs and my stories and even some of my tears. The Park became a part of me, and I a part of it. It is the place that has shaped me and made me and helped me find my way.

I don't live in Manhattan anymore and yet the Park still pulls at me.

Every time I am near it, I have to go in, even if only for a couple of minutes. And when I am there I see myself, running the loops, stretching by the 72nd street benches, running through rain, snow and blazing heat, nursing injuries, and running through highs and lows.

I may not live near it or run in it very much anymore, but it will always be mine. Because it was there that I found myself, and it was there that I became who I am.

I Wasn't Such A Badass After All

I guess I should have been nervous as I made my way to the imaging center in Columbus Circle, but the truth is, I felt like a major badass.

It had all started a couple of weeks before when I felt a nagging pain in my left leg on a long run. I was halfway through my training plan for what would be my very first half marathon and feeling strong. An injury was definitely not on the schedule, so I did what any runner would do and pretended it didn't exist.

That worked until it didn't, and I finally convinced myself to go get it checked out.

I wasn't exactly jumping up and down at the thought of going to see an orthopedist, but I wanted to run in the race, so I got adult about it and called a doctor that came highly recommended.

A cheerful receptionist asked me to describe my problem, and when I told her it was a running injury she said, "Hon I think you would be better off with a sports medicine doctor who treats athletes like you," and rattled off a name and number.

Athletes like me? I'm an athlete?

And I started thinking that maybe this whole doctor thing wouldn't be so bad after all.

On the day of my appointment I sat in the waiting room of my brand new sports medicine doctor and looked around at all the lean, fit people, thrilled to be a part of such athletic company. When I got called back to the exam room and told the very young and very good looking doctor about the pain I had been feeling, he told me he thought it was probably shin splints and then spent 10 minutes talking to me about distance running and marathon training. It seems he was similarly obsessed, and similarly afflicted with shin splints.

"It happens to us runners. It's no big deal," he said.

Us runners.

I left the office with a prescription for an MRI to confirm his diagnosis and the distinct feeling that with this injury I had just joined a special club of runners.

I felt like I had arrived.

I was almost excited when I walked into the imaging center a couple of days later, expecting to once again be sitting among my fellow runners in the injury trenches.

I wasn't.

Frozen in the doorway, I took in the other patients scattered around the room. The elderly woman in the wheelchair with an IV pole attached to her arm. The frail young man, head criss-crossed with scars. The boy with casts on all of his limbs. The cluster of somber faced women - some without hair - sitting by the doorway marked "breast imaging." A doctor in a lab coat murmuring something to a crying woman.

I took myself and my running injury to an empty chair in the very back corner of the room and sank into it as my leg gave a dull, pathetic throb.

I didn't feel so badass anymore.

New Years Day 2014

New Years Day dawned clear and cold. It was 10:30 by the time I dragged myself out of bed and pulled on running clothes. After a late night I was still pretty exhausted, and with visions of a warm blanket on the couch, vats of coffee and some kind of delicious breakfast, exercise was the very last thing I wanted to do.

But that didn't much matter.

Because certain traditions we keep, whether we feel like it or not. And a New Years Day run is one of my most sacred traditions. It is one I learned from my dad back in his long distance running days. He taught me to begin each year as I mean to go on. And I am a runner. So I start each and every year with a run. Not necessarily a long one, but just enough to breathe cold air as my muscles warm, to remind me of how much I love this solo sport.

And I love it most especially in the winter.

It was 27 degrees when I got in my car.

I could have run the streets of my neighborhood. It would have been easier, and wouldn't have required a car ride, but my Bronx River Pathway was calling me, pulling at me, so it was there that I went, and I was rewarded with this view, and this stunning winter sky:.

And even though I was tired, once I got going I felt great. My last mile was the fastest that I have ever run, so I think we're starting off the year exactly right. 

Happy (and tired) girl, post record-setting mile

When I got home the endorphins were still flowing, so I decided to hit the kitchen to bake a New Years Day treat. Behold, chocolate chip muffins, before and after. The recipe said it would yield twelve regular sized muffins, but sometimes you just need a giant muffin amiright? So I double filled the muffin tins, and well, happy 2014 to us.

Discerning eyes will count 5 here. I ate one before I remembered
to take the "after" picture. 

With my birthday tomorrow and a giant snowstorm on the way, I am loving this month already. 

Hope your New Years Day was equally delicious. Happy January!

Welcome Back Winter (and my blue running jacket)

The very first thing I do when I wake up on Sunday morning is check the weather, mostly so I know how to dress for my run.

For the past three plus years, Sunday has been my long run day. Depending on the time of year, and whether I am training for anything, long run can mean as little as three miles, and as many as ten. But regardless of how long I plan on being outside, the one thing I have learned in these three years of running is that the easiest way to completely ruin a run is to dress wrong, and I've made some pretty big mistakes in my day.

The 2 degree night running hills in Central Park where I didn't wear a jacket and forgot my gloves comes to mind. Or the time it was in the 70s and I decided that my 3/4 running pants were a good idea instead of shorts. Or the time I wore summer socks in February and I honestly thought I would lose toes due to frostbite.

One can't be a runner and not go through these kinds of wardrobe malfunctions. But over the years, I have gotten a lot better at predicting what I should be wearing, depending on the weather.

I knew it was supposed to be cold and windy yesterday, but I didn't know exactly how cold and windy we were talking. So when I woke up, far later than normal, and checked my Accuweather app, here is what I found:

A real feel of 4 degrees and 40 mile per hour wind gusts? Sounds just perfect for an outdoor run. (I'm being half serious. I love running in the cold. I could do without the wind).

So I donned my running tights, long sleeve shirt and jacket, grabbed gloves and a hat, and was out the door. It was my first real run in tights and a jacket, and I was thrilled with the result.

I had to cut the run a little short due to wind gusts pushing me off the path every 2 minutes, but it felt great to be out there in the blazing sunshine and frigid air. Running in the cold makes me feel fierce and it makes me feel alive.

Welcome back winter. My blue running jacket and I have missed you.

Running As The Seasons Change

I had forgotten how much I love it.

Running in the fall, that is.

I had forgotten because it has been two years since I have really been able to experience fall running the way it should be experienced.

Last year we moved to the suburbs right at the beginning of the season, and while I started running in our new neighborhood right away, it took me a long time to get my running mojo back. Combine that with a snowstorm the second week in November that basically destroyed any semblance of fall color, and last year was basically a lost season for me.

It was last March that I discovered the place that would become my new running home. After learning to run, and learning to love to run in Central Park, I didn't think I would ever find another place I could call my own.

I was wrong.

It started off as mere curiosity. I had heard talk of a pathway that ran for 13 miles alongside Westchester's Bronx River Parkway. After three years of running in Central Park I wasn't too happy with the street routes that I had been taking, so one Sunday I made my way to the Bronx River Pathway to try it out. It was March, but winter was still taking it's last bite of New York as I started to run on the concrete path. The trees were bare, and the wind was downright frigid, but it was love at first site.

All though the spring, and then the summer, I ran the pathway. It was there that I completed the second half of my training schedule for my second half marathon and watched the change of seasons, all the while wondering what my new beloved running path would look like in a riot of fall colors.

I have not been disappointed.

Running on my pathway this fall, in a place that has finally become my home, I feel more alive than I have in a long, long time. The smoky scents, leaves crunching underfoot, the crisp air and the stunning colors have given me back a vital piece of myself that had been missing for months. And I didn't even realize it was missing until my love of running implanted itself snugly back in my soul.

These past two months have infused me with an energy to run that I have been lacking as of late. And I know, without a doubt, that I have the season to thank. This season of running shorts with long sleeve shirts, and short sleeve shirts with running gloves has given me myself back.

And I am grateful.

Every time I make my way to the pathway to run, I pass a welcome sign at the entrance gate.

And until these past few weeks I hadn't given it much thought. But lately, every time I pass that sign, I smile. Because really, that sign is welcoming me back to myself, back to my life, and back to the utter contentment I feel when I lace up my sneakers and run the path.

It is the sign that, in all seasons, will welcome me home.

26.2: May 4, 2014

Three years ago, I decided to run a full marathon.

It was November 7, 2010, and I was standing on the corner of 96th Street and First Avenue in Manhattan, otherwise known as Mile 18 of the New York City Marathon. I had just registered with a friend of mine for my very first half marathon through the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society's famed Team in Training, and the head coach asked us to come stand at a TNT cheer station on the marathon course as a little motivation before our training season began.

So on that unseasonably cold fall day, we joined the sea of spectators and, cowbells in hand, cheered for the purple-clad TNT runners as they made their way up to the Willis Bridge which would take them into the Bronx, and through the home stretch of the Marathon.

Having grown up with two distance runners for parents, I was no stranger to the mystique of the marathon. One of my first really clear memories is actually cheering for my dad when he ran his first. So running was in my blood.

I had tried, unsuccessfully, to become a runner for years. There was a stretch in high school when I would run three miles after school a few days a week, but by the time senior year arrived with its SAT and college application mania, that habit had fallen away. Then there was that time in college when I dabbled in distance running, but there always seemed to be something better to do, like eat pizza, or frequent the soft serve machine in the cafeteria.

But five years after college, when I found myself still carrying the 20 extra pounds caused by the aforementioned pizza and ice cream, I decided to try again. This time I was determined to make it stick.

And it did.

I got rid of those 20 pounds and then a few more. Central Park became my home and it was there that I really learned to run, and to love to run. And when we left the city last year, it was running that helped me through the anxiety and confusion that came from the move, and from trying to find a place for ourselves in our new suburban home.

I missed that Team in Training half marathon due to injury, but the following year I ran my first half in Pittsburgh, and then last year I ran it again. And when I crossed the finish line for the second time, I knew I was ready. I knew that I would be back next year, and I would run the whole thing.

I registered this past Tuesday, so exactly seven months from tomorrow, I will line up in downtown Pittsburgh at dawn with 26.2 miles stretching ahead of me. I will run the streets of the city of my heart, and fulfill a dream years in the making.

Training starts now.

Here we go.

Sunrise Over Me

I was up before my alarm went off, the iridescent glow on my cable box telling me it was 5:54am. 

I was wide awake. 

The half-light of dawn peeked around the edges of the windows and beckoned me outside. It drew me up, out of bed, and out the front door where the morning was silent but for the call of the birds surveying the neighborhood from their perch high atop the trees.

I stretched out my legs and set off through the early morning mist blanketing my street. I knew that by the time I got home the mist would be a memory, burned off in minutes by the rising sun. But for now it settled comfortably around me, bringing me into its center and carrying me through my first mile. 

My habitual route took me in a loop around my neighborhood. I ran through streets just beginning to shake themselves awake after a long night of slumber. I ran past houses - some still dark with shades tightly drawn, and others with kitchen lights glowing cozily as families rose to greet the day. 

On the corner a bathrobe-clad woman reached outside to grab her newspaper, a small dog prancing around her ankles. She smiled and waved to me, and I to her. I don't know her name, nor she mine, but every time I run, there she is, this woman who is one more reminder that this place now belongs to me.

Nine months ago I despaired of ever finding my footing again, but now here I was, waving at strangers who are really not strangers, running the streets that have become my own. 

Time is a funny thing.

I made the final turn with half a mile to go. I picked up my pace, running towards the sun, now high in the sky. For just a second I closed my eyes and, feeling the rush of wind as I raced down the final stretch, gave thanks for running, for early mornings, for silent streets, for health. 

For home.

I ended the run as I usually do. Standing on my deck in the back of my house, guzzling water, stretching out. Usually when I'm done I go straight inside to get ready for the day. But not today. There were showers to take, outfits to pick, coffee to drink, commutes to start, and work to do, but I wasn't quite ready. 

So I sat on the deck for a few more minutes, holding this unexpected morning close, tucking it into my heart where it would be if I needed it.

This morning will sustain me.

Because tomorrow's run might be harder.

This is Thirty

On January 3rd, I turned thirty. I wrote a long post on that day, ruminating on all that I had lived and learned in the decade between twenty and thirty, and the ways that I had grown and changed from the time I was a college sophomore. And now, seven months into thirty, I find myself thinking about all the ways that thirty is both different - and very much the same - as twenty-nine.

This is thirty.

Thirty is three decades of living. It is the knowledge that while there is a lot behind me, there is much more - and a lot of the best things - still to come.

Thirty is finding my first gray hair and wondering how long it will be before more follow.

Thirty is three years of marriage. It is good and comfortable with the life that we are building together, but it is also being married to someone who can still surprise in the best way possible. Thirty is looking at my engagement ring daily with a smile and a warm rush of memories, but being equally thrilled at the wedding band that now serves as its mate.

Thirty is thinking about the family that we want to have, and what we want it to look like. It is realizing that we can plan all we want, but that sometimes things are out of our hands. Thirty is being ok with that.

Thirty is owning my first house in the suburbs instead of renting a tiny apartment in Manhattan. It is buying my first car. It is having big closets, a dream kitchen, a deck, and a room meant just for reading. Thirty is settling in to what will hopefully be my forever neighborhood, and joining a synagogue for the very first time. It is meeting new friends and carving a place for ourselves in a community.

Thirty is sleeping late on Saturdays, drinking iced coffee every morning, watching 30 different TV shows regularly, and reading romance novels.

Thirty is running my second half marathon with a third half and also a full on the horizon. It is a long run every Sunday on the Bronx River Pathway and short runs two days a week at sunrise. Thirty is fifteen minutes of yoga in the backyard to greet the day, and wondering if this is the year that I will finally start taking spin classes. Thirty is learning to enjoy exercise, and how to be healthy in a way that lasts forever. Thirty is knowing that I will always have to work at these things, but thirty is also knowing that it's worth it.

Thirty is finally feeling like my career has begun. It is being happy and comfortable in the job that I have and in the work that I'm doing. Thirty is working on this blog, and feeling like I have found my voice. Thirty is a deep need to write my own story and to share my words with the world. It is knowing that there is a book inside of me somewhere, and deciding that the time has come to write it.

Thirty is lucky enough to have a few friends - the soul-deep kind - who know me all the way through. Thirty is knowing that even though my parents and my sisters live far away, I have family here in New York because this is where my friends are. Thirty is knowing that we are lucky to have each other, and that we always will.

Thirty is trading e-mails, recipes, accessories, phone calls and FaceTimes with my sisters. It is being proud of them and the lives and families that they are building. It is knowing that no matter where we live, and how far away we might be, we are each other's missing pieces. Thirty is knowing that this will never change. Thirty is knowing that we only get closer as we get older, and as time marches on.

Thirty is happy.

This is thirty. I am thirty.

Yoga As The Sun Comes Up

When I was in Cape Cod a few weeks ago for my friend's bachelorette weekend, at check-in we got a schedule of the weekend's events. The cheerfully orange piece of paper contained every activity from fishing and beach bonfires to camps for kids and a late afternoon dance party. There to relax, get a tan, and read some books, not very many of these activities intrigued me, but for one:

Saturday 8:30 am - Yoga on the beach

I am a runner, and I dearly love my solo sport. I like hitting the streets alone at dawn and soaking up the quiet before my city awakes to face another day. I like the serenity that comes from logging mile after mile with only the sounds of my breathing and the staccato rhythm of my running shoes hitting the pavement for company.

Over the years I have tried various group exercise classes, everything from spinning and step to yoga and pilates. I always get excited at first, but burn out after a few classes. Group fitness just isn't for me. I know this now.

But lately, as I put together a training schedule for the full marathon I want to run in the spring, I have been thinking about some other exercise to add to my routine. It seems that you can not train for a marathon only by running, so I need something new to do, at least a day or two a week. Apparently it makes you a better, faster and stronger runner. And who doesn't want to be better, faster and stronger?

So on my vacation, I woke up before 8am, gathered my things and headed down to yoga on the beach overlooking the Nantucket Sound. I was skeptical, due to the aforementioned aversion to group exercise classes.

But I was wrong. It was glorious.

From the first minute I sat down facing the ocean on the beach towel serving as my yoga mat, I felt calm and centered. I moved through the positions much more easily than I though I would, and loved every second of the class. I spent the entire rest of the day in the peaceful haze that comes from a good morning of exercise, and vowed to do yoga more often.

When I got home I went straight to Target and bought myself a yoga mat, and have since spent fifteen minutes every morning in my back yard, greeting the sun as it rises over the horizon.

I never really understood why people treated yoga as practically a religious experience, but I do now. For those fifteen minutes, when it's just me standing under the sun, I feel the presence of something indescribable, just like I do on Friday afternoons, when I stand in front of my candles and welcome Shabbat into my home.

There is a lot going on now in this life of mine, but for a little slice of time, when the sun is rising and I am standing on my yoga mat or lacing up my running shoes, it feels like there is nothing to worry about at all.

Back to the Park

My First Favorite Running Path

I had occasion to visit Central Park one night last week.

My firm was having an evening event for the summer associates at the Central Park Zoo, and I went with some of my work friends. We had some fun checking out the animals, and spent some time at the buffet, and before long I decided to head home. 

But before I left the park, I paid a visit to the Central Park running path. It was the first time that I've been back since I moved away this past November. 

It was a hot and sticky night, but the road was full. And for a few minutes I stood there, watching the runners, awash in memories of my Central Park running days. Of making my way to the park every morning, my brain still hazy with exhaustion. Of feeling the haze clear as I began to run while the sun rose over Manhattan. Of my pace quickening as I reached the transverse that signaled the final turn towards home. Of leaving the park ready to face my day, knowing that I would be back tomorrow.

For more than three years, those roads were my home.

As I stood there, I thought I would feel sad. That I would wish that, just for a moment, I was back in the park, back on these roads. 

But I didn't.

Because I have a new home now. And for a long time, when I ran my new path I closed my eyes and imagined I was back in the Park. But I don't do that anymore. Now I run with my eyes open, happy to be where I am, to be running in a new place. To be making new memories. 

With a final glance back I turned and left Central Park and headed to catch my train, knowing that my new roads were waiting for me, and that I would be paying them a visit as the sun rose in the morning.

Summer Running

The temperature is rising, and that only means one thing...

Time for summer running.

Now if you know me at all, you know I'm a little bit of a polar bear. Fall is my favorite season, but I love when the weather turns cold and it starts to snow. I especially love to run in the winter, when I can don my pink fleece running jacket and run the streets as the frigid air sears my lungs.

I never feel quite as alive as I do when I am running in the cold.

But, since being a runner means running all year round, and not just during the seasons that please me, I have finally pulled my running shorts out of hibernation (and invested in a season's supply of body glide), located my singlets, and mentally prepared myself to sweat through the summer. 

Summer running means carrying water on shorter runs, hitting the road on Sunday mornings practically before the sun comes up to beat the heat, and lots and lots of sunscreen. It means fewer races, more people crowding my favorite running paths, far more time spent lying on the floor after my runs out of sheer exhaustion from the effort it takes to slog through the summer heat, and snarky blog posts because while running in the winter for me is practically a religious experience, in the summer it's usually just something I have to survive.

I don't particularly like it, but since I recently decided to run a full marathon that is exactly ten months and three weeks from today, I just have to do it.

So, as the temperature starts to rise, I declare my summer running season - and the beginning of my marathon training - open. 

Happy National Running Day

I am a runner.

Although you wouldn't know it by my re-setting of this morning's 6am running alarm for a 7am non-running alarm due to exhaustion and lack of sleep, a few times a week, I run. I run short distances on weekdays, and long distances on Sundays. 

I learned to run and to love to run in Manhattan's Central Park, and when I left Manhattan seven months ago and moved to the Westchester suburbs, it was running that helped me get acclimated when I felt like our new place would never be a home.

And today, on National Running Day, we celebrate running, and the people who love it.

Since I started running, one of my favorite things to do is to snap pictures as I go. It helps the time pass, and it helps me remember my runs, both the good and the bad, and the journey that I have taken through this amazing, frustrating, beautiful sport. 

So here, in celebration of National Running Day, is a collection of my favorite shots. A photoblog, if you will, of my running journey to right here.

Half Marathon #1
May 2012

A Rainy Central Park, 72nd Street Entrance

Central Park Road: My First Favorite Running Path

My Very Last Central Park Run
October 2012

Inaugural White Plains Run
November 2012

First White Plains Morning Run
November 2012

Beginning of Winter Running Season
December 2012

First Post-Snowstorm Run of the Season
January 2013

First Bronx River Pathway Run, My Second Favorite Running Path
February 2013

Snowy Pittsburgh Run: Panther Hollow Bridge
February 2013

Flag Flying at Half-Staff Post Boston-Marathon Bombing
April 2013

#RunForBoston
April 2013

Pittsburgh Half Marathon Weekend
May 2013

Pittsburgh Proud, Boston Strong
May 2013

Running the Bridges: Pittsburgh Half Marathon
May 2013

Half Marathon #2
May 2013