Ode to a Dad

Growing up, my Dad has been many things to me.



A tickle monster
A storyteller
A sailor
A captain
A coach
An athlete
A pusher
A know-it-all
A teacher
An adviser
A cheerleader
An intimidator
A snowboarder
A type-A personality
An audiophile
A Canuck with acute American political beliefs
A broker
A road biker
A planner
A fan
A support

He's not really a chatter, though he won't think twice to tell you what's on his mind. He's a straight-to-the-point kind of Dad who will tell you how it is and not cushion the blow. He's a dedicated, hard-working and loyal friend, colleague and team mate. He loves a good political joke (especially one that might rag on "my president") and will laugh out loud at clever commercials. He's a fair-weather sports fan but will always return when the seasons anew. He's a bit of a wimp when it comes to movies - no terror, suspense or gore - but that's OK, because so am I. He's a die-hard Leonard Cohen fan and thanks to him, I'll be one too. He's got calves that have taken him on 100-mile bike rides and maybe one day, together, a marathon. He's a fantastic speech writer and impressive consumer of news (so to keep his know-it-all status, of course). He's a grill master of the cooked-raw variety. Though his list of home-cooked menu items are few, his Christmas waffles are hands down the best I've ever tasted.

As much as he jokes that I must have been swapped at the hospital, I know I am my father's daughter and I have never been so proud to be.

Yes, my Dad has been many things but tomorrow, though he'd shake the label off, he is a superhero. And it's just one of the things I love him for.

xoL

Training day: Longest and finalest run, T-minus three days

Here we go party people.

What was once 16 weeks has dwindled down to a measly four days.

Saturday was my last attempt at a long run and it was, dare I say, a success.

I clocked in 18.75 miles.

I ran from Greenpoint to Williamsburg, across the Williamsburg bridge, across Broome Street in Manhattan and an already bustling Soho, up the West Side (lovely), across 106th street, into Central Park (where I saw, I kid you not, a gaggle of dogs doing circus tricks, a rare bird show and the end of a half-marathon race), South through the winding park paths, East across 59th street (the bowels of the tourist industry), across the Queensboro Bridge, down through my new hood (Long Island City, people, get into it!), across the Polaski Bridge, and back through Greenpoint ending and at an early Halloween celebration in McCarren Park.

Sure I wanted to chop off my throbbing legs, but I survived and it was enjoyable.

Now I just have to tack on a teen tiny seven (SEVEN?!) more miles come Sunday and we're golden. Pooped, but golden.

I have become completely and totally paranoid about injuries but I'm trying to take it easy. I'm fitting to do some sprints tomorrow to keep the stamina up, a Bikram yoga class Thursday night and a leisurely run Friday morning before jetting off to good ol' Chi-town.

I feel the potential to forget my sneakers in Brooklyn is so real I can reach out and touch it. The more I think about the possibility the more it seems they will sit this trip out. To prevent this first-and-last-marathon-ending scenario I have left post-it notes around my belongings as reminder. My belongings, at this point, comprises the remains of a suitcase in the corner of a living room, but you'd be surprised how many helpful notes can be tucked into the corners of said luggage.

SHOES, screams one piece of paper. SNEAKS yells another. DON'T FORGET demands a third. I may have even set an alarm on my phone.

Hey, this is serious people. By Friday, if I forget these puppies, I should bypass the plane and go straight to the mental hospital for surely this is a case for earliest-onset Alzheimer.

Should anyone be interested in tracking my progress/near-death experience you can try out the Runner Tracker as provided by Bank of America. My bib number is 43542. It may not actually activate until I register on Saturday, but try your luck. Now, no judging on my less-than-stellar times. The goal here is survival. Survival and beating Katie Holmes's time (no offense, of course, to Ms. Cruise, but that was pretty brutal and please just put me out of my misery if I'm running for five hours and 30 minutes).

A lovely friend mentioned the coincidence that the marathon date is 10-10-10 and this year I am 10+10+10 so it must be good luck. Let's hope she's right!

xoL

Gettin' low

I had my first New York low point.

Alright, it's not my first.

And certainly won't be my last, but it was a special kind of low that clearly needs sharing.

It was Thursday, 7:30. I had just forfeited my credit card to the most depressing New York Sports Club location (midtown West) - a narrow subterranean place that houses enough post-work tension to actually block natural light. It was September 30th, the last day to squeeze into a deal to join for $20, and with the gym's proximity to my work being inescapably convenient (and I do so want to spend as MUCH time as possible in midtown), I resigned myself to the inevitable.

But I was in a rush. Having fled work for the gym, and now the gym for the subway and what was to be my second attempt at a pre-marathon bikram yoga class, time was not on my side.

But my tum rumbled and the bikram class did not start until 8:15, spitting me out into the dark, all sweaty and starving, at 9:45.

I stopped into a vaguely-leftover-chinese-food-smelling corner deli to grab a Cliff bar (blueberry crisp) -- guaranteed satiation for a yoga class or, should the opportunity arise, a mountain climb.

I bopped and weaved out the deli and down the street to the subway that would take me to another subway that would take me to Williamsburg.

It was 7:40 and empty for a post-work commute. Not being able to wait, I fumbled for the Cliff bar packaging wavering between a rip-down-the-side and the potato-chip-bag opening. Deciding on the latter I pulled the two ends with full force and witnessed the granola-nugget launch out of the packaging and onto the subway platform 30 yards away like a faulty grenade.

And there it sat, all tasty and kind of sticky, on layers of New York history that comprised, at best, human bodily fluids, rat excrement and boat loads of garbage, taunting me. Without slowing down I bent over, picked up the target, placed it in my purse, bypassing the multiple garbage cans, and walked to the end of platform debating my dance with the unhygienic devil.

My belly rumbled as the subway screeched into the station. The doors opened, invited me in, and I took a seat on the wide, blue bench, clutching by bag like a stolen treasure. I made it one stop before I ripped a chunk of my sodden treat and popped it in my mouth, swallowing the morsel whole.

The mood in the train cab changed. The woman next to me shifted down a notch. The kid with the kid-sized backpack stopped talking to his buddy. The garbage-bag-guy at the other end of the car picked his shoulders up a bit seeing as his former roll as Most Desperate member of current society had recently found a new soul.

I didn't take another bite. I tried not to think of the bite I took. I made a list of slightly padded excuses in my head should anyone following this pathetic show ask what the hell I was thinking:

I hadn't eaten all day
It was my last two dollars
It barely touched the ground

All of these things were false. But I digested that bite. I got off the subway at my designated stop. I threw the evidence in the first garbage can. Stopped into Ed's Crazy Corner Deli, picked up a substitute and walked away from the whole situation.

And I'm still breathing. I didn't even puke or anything. I hit a low New York point and I survived. If I can eat a treat off of the subway floor and live through the night to blog about it, I'm sure I can expect great things ahead.

That's how it happens right?

Or maybe I should just pack more treats. Or remind myself that I am not, despite homelessness and near poverty, a bum.