Notes from NYC

Day 117 of 130
Ks covered: 862
Ks to go: 240
General mood: Good
Running highlight: Running in Central Park
Equipment status: In use while traveling
Body status: It’s official, I’m down two toenails.

Is sub-urban kind of like sub-human? That question has confronted me this week as I attempt to train at a weeklong exec-education course in New York City.

Like a scene from Crocodile Dundee, yesterday I managed to sever my mesmerized fascination with the bidet just long enough to find my way to Central Park for a run. Not, mind you, before enduring the sniggers of the concierge for having the audacity to wonder if it would be safe and if anyone ran there at 6am.

In retrospect, I need not have worried. The scene of Central Park at 6am was what would happen if Woodstock was sponsored by Nike. The branded uber-fit conga snaking around the running paths was so far removed from my usual amble through the subdivided gentility and nearly established trees of Oakville that I wasn’t sure I’d woken up yet.

Adding to the surreal scene, I quite literally ran into a known-since-kindergarten friend who was also out there, running with her boyfriend. She happens to be an ex-Olympic athlete, (of course!) so my game attempt to run with the statuesque pair felt like Dopey dwarf stumbling along with Snow-white and the Prince.

Now, my struggles may be somewhat self-imposed. Being sans-kids in Gotham has been more socially intense that anything I’ve experienced for 10 years. I mean, the course is 8am-6pm and then I actually have wine, meet friends and stay out until after sunset. The worm in my Big Apple is that I just can’t do it any more! With the pounding headache and gut-rot involved, the A.M runs on this trip have been less happy than Amy Winehouse on World Sobriety Day.

So here’s my thinking: Being a suburban Mum has its advantages. Sure, the Mum part is akin to being a reverse vampire: you can only function in the daytime; the kids suck the life out of you; and you walk around with a sort of sunken-eyed hunger for a few years. And sure, the closest thing Oakville has to the Empire State building is the clock-block atop the shopping mall.

But it’s what I haven’t had to deal with that makes the difference: At home, I have the perfect excuse to go to bed early: no one expects me to go out at night and there’s nothing damaging to do if I did. I mean, we don’t even have the bovine ingredients for cow-tipping. At home, I rarely have to compete for space to run: OK, so maybe there’s the odd rampant car and the occasional attack from our local rabid squirrel, Stevie, but there is a distinct shortage of there-to-be-seen types running past the Ford Plant in Prada sweatpants. And crucially, at home, I can’t hear people going for it in the room next door. Well – except when my in-laws visit.

Ew.

Though, I will admit I’m pretty proud of myself for getting my butt out there. In my previous life as a non-semi-serious-runner, I would bring a single set of work out clothes on any trip (no matter the duration) and those clothes would live in my suitcase for the trip’s entirety. Now, I’m out there running with the pretty-people and that, my friends, feels good.

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