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Running Training

Party Like It’s 1997

I might be biased by the fact that I was a very impressionable twelve years old, but 1997 was a true golden age of music.

The world gave us so many hits that year: Chumbawamba’s Tubthumping, the Verve’s Bittersweet Symphony and Backstreet Boys’ Quit Playing Games (With My Heart), to name a few. We got P. Diddy’s I’ll Be Missing You, Third Eye Blind’s Semi-Charmed Life and Hanson’s MMMBop, and yes, I’ve seen two out of three of those musical acts in concert (and no, one of them wasn’t Sean Combs.)  And let’s not forget that five minute and eleven second long soundtrack version of My Heart Will Go On that graced airwaves, my family’s communal CD player and pre-teen piano music recitals for months on end as we imagined life aboard the Titanic and debated why Leo didn’t try at least one more time to get on that extremely buoyant door.

I believe I’m 11 in this photo, not 12, but 1. you get the picture and 2. what I wouldn’t give to still own that amazing velvet, pink headband.

But while billboard-topping hits including Spice Girl’s Wannabe and R. Kelly’s I Believe I Can Fly Aqua’s Barbie Girl still sometimes find their way onto my upstate dance party play lists, the piece of 1997 poetry that I probably think about most often is that hypothetical commencement speech Wear Sunscreen.

Written as an essay for the Chicago Tribune in 1997 and recorded two years later as a spoken-word radio hit produced by none other than Romeo+Juliet director Baz Luhrmann, it gave listeners unsolicited advice like “do one thing every day that scares you” and “keep your old love letters; throw away your old bank statements.”

It’s chock full of wisdom, but the line that pops into my head on a nearly daily basis is this one: “Live in New York City once, but leave before it makes you hard; live in Northern California once, but leave before it makes you soft.” Last spring, when I was considering applying for a job that would require a cross-country move (to Southern California, but still), I wondered quite a bit whether my more than a decade in NYC had made me, as they say, “hard.”

It’s certainly made me an excellent photographer.

And in some ways, I it has: I have no patience for families walking three-abreast down a city street, I jaywalk like it’s my job and I secretly plot to destroy anyone standing still on the left side of an escalator. I’m not a monster: I’ll always try to help a perplexed tourist reading a subway map upside down. But I also once mashed a baby cockroach with my bare fist while drunkenly making post-bar grilled cheese in my cousin’s Brooklyn apartment, so yeah, you could say I’ve toughened up.

That is, I THOUGHT I’d toughened up. And then the temperature dropped to negative 9 degrees this past week, and I realized just how soft I really am.

Normally, Mongolian-like winter temperatures wouldn’t be a big deal: bundle up, stay indoors and binge watch Sex Education, which is so, so good but (public service announcement) too full of nudity to watch on an airplane or with your dad. But I made the mistake last fall of entering a game of chance I never expected to win — the NYC Half Marathon lottery – and accidentally secured myself a spot in the March 17 event.

WHAT HAVE I DONE

Or in other words, not running in this frigid, cruel February isn’t really an option, at least not if I want to try for my 14th (?) sub-2:00 finish.

So I’ve made myself a deal: when it’s so cold that frostbite is a real possibility, I’m doing the unthinkable and churning out my workout on my robot nemesis, the treadmill. But when it’s 25 degrees and up, I’m layering on the Spandex, channeling my inner Bernese mountain dog, and getting outside for my miles, icicles and all.

“The Bernese mountain dogs of the world have voted and we’re never coming inside again. Please leave our kibbles in the snow.”

And yes, I’m wearing sunscreen while I do it.

How is your arctic training going?

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Unsolicited Shameless Plug for a Modest Friend

I write a blog exclusively about myself. I have two full-sized mirrors in my 150-square-foot bedroom. I started every sentence in this paragraph with the word “I.”

In the words of Jack Donaghy, “The song ‘You’re So Vain’ was, in fact, written – by me.”

If I didn’t know better, I’d think I was a textbook narcissist.

Fortunately, I know that’s not actually the case, as anyone spending a super lame afternoon with me and my self-deprecating self could easily confirm. But in an effort to prove that I’m not as self-absorbed as publicly documenting every step of my four-month marathon training would suggest, I’m going to use this space today to – for once – sing the praises of someone other than myself.

Enter my friend Davy, stage left.

Davy is 45-feet tall and about to destroy Manhattan.

A talented musician with solid comedic timing and a propensity to write rhymes about zoo animals, Davy has just released his second album of children’s songs and/or made Christmas shopping for your pre-school aged cousins a cinch. And when I say pre-school aged cousins, I clearly mean 26-year-old cousins, because I listen to this album on a daily basis.

A lot of the songs are quality, but this one is obviously the best, and not just because I join in for the chorus. (Actually, that’s exactly why.)  Here’s hoping these embedded clips don’t look like a garbled mess.

 

Seriously, go on iTunes and download this thing. It’s the greatest. But don’t just take my word for it.

 

Don’t worry, folks. Tomorrow, we’ll return to our regularly sheduled programming of me writing exclusively about myself. And about the two ShakeShack visits I made in as many days this week, including a pre-noon breakfast burger on the 4th of July. And about my imminent heart palpitations, no doubt.

How was your 4th?