Kicking It Up A Notch…Plus a Trip to Governors Island

This summer has been, thus far, one of the coolest on record. According to The New York Times,

“The daily average last month was at or below normal every day but two. The temperature broke 80 on 16 days in New York — one more day than in Fairbanks, Alaska. Depending on Friday’s high, this was the second or third coolest June and July recorded in New York.”

Essentially summer in New York has looked like this: gray and rainy, cool and muggy.

That said, yesterday I endured a very fun long training run in Central Park with the New York Road Runners. The groups did 4 loops of the park adding up to 20 miles, and you could drop out after any of the loops depending upon your training needs. Now, thanks to an imprudent night out with friends on Friday, I showed up late. I managed to join the 10:30 pace training around 1.5 miles into the first loop, and that proved to be a very comfortable pace for me to maintain. I went with them for 16 miles, which for me was about 14.5 miles. I admit I felt like an impostor getting my ice packs strapped to my legs, but I just wasn’t up to doing the last 4-mile loop and I decided that running farther than I ever had before was a pretty decent accomplishment for the day. I took my Utz pretzels and my banana and, feeling perfectly serene as the bags of ice strapped to my thighs melted in rivulets down my legs, wandered in the direction of the subway.

At some point it occurred to me that I was, at that moment, one of those lunatics people are talking about when they shake their heads and say, “only in New York” with a huge sigh of disgust and/or annoyance. I had become the person to whom rational folks give wide berth when walking along the sidewalk. And I can see why: my shirt was thoroughly soaked, and I do mean that there was not a single millimeter of dry cloth on my body. My hair looked gray from being covered with salt from my dried sweat, and I had plastic bags of half-melted ice Saran-wrapped to my rather wobbly legs. And I was walking around eating pretzels like this was completely normal behavior. For runners, it is: for anyone else, call the guys with the straitjackets and the white van.

In short, I had become a Runner of the Living Dead. A shuffling post-long-run zombie, mindlessly gobbling every carb within reach.

In any event, I’m proud to say that I made it 14.5 miles. I am fearful of doing the remaining 11.7 miles in a few months, but I think I can get there from here. I’ll probably sign up for some longer runs just to make getting out there a bit easier. Mentally it’s pretty challenging to cover the same few miles over and over again, so I’ve been trying to get out of the Financial District and the eternal pleasures of Battery Park City a little more often. One place that has proven to be a wonderful haven is Governors Island. (The name is plural, not possessive.)

The New York Times’ Roving Runner recently did a brief article about the Island. It’s as good as he makes it out to be. The views of the Statue of Liberty, Ellis Island, and the big orange Staten Island Ferry boats are all amazing, and I am very grateful to Brian Fidelman (the article’s author) for identifying the bizarro recording that plays over loudspeakers at the far end of the island. The first time you hear it, it’s weird and kind of wonderful. By the fifteenth time you’re hearing it, you begin to understand why the comfy free hammocks within hearing distance of the loudspeakers are the last to fill up. Maybe the recording doesn’t need to be played constantly, you know? I’ve been out on numerous occasions, and sometimes it seems to be going constantly and others it seems to kick in every half hour or so. I find the latter arrangement much preferable.

The entire island is like a really interesting 2.2 mile track. You can also run in the interior, although that’s where a lot of the arts and culture events take place, so it’s more crowded. By crowded, I mean amply spacious by New York standards. This is where I’ve started doing hill work.

I only have two complaints about the island: the ferry schedule doesn’t run often or late enough to accommodate clockwatchers like me during the week, and there are no drinking fountains on the island.

This, to me, is a huge oversight in Brian’s otherwise excellent piece. I asked a guard about a non-functioning fountain near the ferry terminal, and he explained that there’s a problem with the water system on the island and that the water is thus non-potable. If you are looking for hydration during a long run, be advised that you’ll either have to pack it in or buy it from one of the vendors in bottle form. Or, you can always hit the new Water Taxi beach for a post-run beer. Just bring a change of clothes or something, lest people run in terror from the invasion of the Running Zombie.

Happy running!

Race Report: 5/30/09 Brooklyn Half Marathon

Yesterday I ran 13.1 miles through Brooklyn, which gave me a a small taste of what the full marathon is going to feel like. Although I can’t say I’d yet like to go back for seconds, it really was a good run.

Some stats:

Weather conditions: Mid-to-high seventies, mostly sunny, low humidity.

Course: Hilly for the first 7 miles through Prospect Park, then a long flat run along Ocean Parkway to Coney Island. [link to course map]

Time: 2:15:52

Average Pace: 10:22

Before I get back to my regularly scheduled snark, I’d like to start by saying that I’m really pleased with my pace. Last year, before I decided to run more seriously and sought physical therapy for my knee problems, I ran the same race (in the opposite direction) in 2:37:24. So I ran this year’s course a whopping 22:28 minutes faster than last year. My goal time this year was 2:10, but I’m happy anyway. It was nice to be solidly in the middle of the pack instead of bringing up the rear. That said, I would like to complete the marathon in 4:30, which would be slightly under a 10-minute mile. This means I need to get faster.

The day was warmer than I would have liked, but honestly this was partly my problem because I was woefully unprepared. I’ve carped previously about how I dislike running in warm weather: it gives me a headache and makes me want to barf, and I would go so far as to say that the scientists who claim that you can adapt to running in the heat are flat-out liars. It occurred to me as I looked around at other racers that maybe I just need better equipment so as not to exacerbate the discomfort inherent to running in the heat. For one thing, I was in capri-length CWX running tights. For another, I was wearing a sports bra that is at least two years old and black. I was wearing one thing that might make it onto the Approved Warm-Weather Running Gear List, but only in the event that no other acceptable substitute is available: a white t-shirt. In short, I was one unfashionable and uncomfortable runner on Saturday.

And if you don’t think there is running fashion, you have clearly never been on the wrong end of it. The fashion is naked. Apparently, even in January, the most appropriate thing to wear while running is as close to nothing as possible. When it’s hot out, I get this. My bosoms do not. They love the support that comes from Spandex. My behind is not a thing of glory. It does not want to be lovingly encased in Spandex, although for that matter it was during the race, to the point of looking like a strained sausage.  I was the only moron not wearing tiny shorts, and the most anyone else covered-up was one of those absurd running skirts. I really think that if one is going to be engaging in athletic activities, one should expect the probability that people are going to be able to see up your skirt. Either wear shorts or just get one of those bikini-esque things that elite athletes run in and quit being coy about displaying camel-toe in public.

Last year I was in the bathroom after having waited 30 minutes for a stall when the starting gun went off. This year I was hoping that the new course arrangement would mean additional bathrooms. It did not. This year I was again hopping from foot to foot outside the Port-a-Potties when the gun went off. I really hope this doesn’t happen at the marathon proper, or I swear I’m going to not drink any liquids for a week before the race. If I’m wearing my no-longer-fashionable-but-too-expensive-to-discard CWX capris, everyone will probably mistake me as someone running the marathon dressed up as dried-up piece of beef jerky.

All in all, though, it was a good race. And my determination to get some good warm-weather running gear means I’ll be able to go shopping and start doing gear reviews! Wohoo!

NYT “Well” Series on Marathoning

Apologies for the lack of posting, the long runs have been taking over my life as I ramp up for the Brooklyn Half Marathon in a week, and I’ve also been sidelined with a little guest posting for another blog. It has nothing to do with running, but if you’re into ogling expensive real estate, you might want to meet my other online persona, Evnyc. Check it out here. The internet is a fantastic tool for those of us who were always kind of jealous of Eve and thought multiple personality disorder was kinda cool, even though it doesn’t actually exist.

Yesterday I had one of the best runs of my life thus far. It was simply gorgeous out, and the prospect of going to work was unbearable. I wanted to run and run and run. So I called out from work and laced up my shoes and did just that, for twelve miles. It was work, don’t get me wrong, especially the last mile or so. But once I had finished, I didn’t feel wrecked. I felt a little sleepy, so I slathered on some sunscreen and went out on the lawn (public; this is New York) with a beach towel and took a nap in the sun. Then I went shopping and rode my bike up the West Side to meet some friends. I felt so good that I was even able to wear heels – after a 12-mile run. That has never happened before. It was awesome.

However, you happen to be my boss and you’re reading this, then I’m going to substitute my experience last week running 11 miles as my excuse for calling out sick. Last Saturday I got up late, ate too large a breakfast, and ended up running when the sun is high in the sky along a poorly chosen path in direct sun. I spent the rest of the afternoon on the couch with a headache, unable to eat anything at all. I downed half a bottle of Pepto Bismol and finally fell asleep, and I woke up the next day with a severe headache. It’s alarming how the symptoms of running too much in bad weather can mimic a hangover, although honestly, being hungover feels better. Regardless, alcohol was not involved in the yucky feelings, I swear.

Which brings me to The New York Times. Upon arriving at work on Monday, I was thrilled to see that they are going to do a series about the New York Marathon.  They’re off to an excellent start, interviewing Kara Goucher and having Liz Robbins follow up with some of the people she interviewed for her book A Race Like No Other. I’m really looking forward to the rest of the series. It’s an all-star sports writing lineup, and written with newbies in mind. I’ll be doing more analyses of the articles in upcoming posts.
In the meantime, I’m about to embark on a holiday weekend that isn’t going to involve any running, just lots and lots of wine. Happy long weekend, readers!

And Now Presenting My Formerly Unknown Twin

On Saturday I ran for nine long miles. Count ‘em, I ran nine miles in 1:28 and change. I know, not exactly the spectacular result I was hoping for after my recent forays into 8-minute-mile territory, but still: it didn’t hurt (my knee, anyway) and in the process, I discovered that I am not alone in my marathon endeavor. Yes, on any given morning there seem to be a couple hundred runners out there at 6:00 AM, but I thought I was the only one training. I mean, a marathon is serious stuff, right? Clearly these recreational runners breezing by me are just out doing a short, fast run for fun.

Turns out that life spices up a bit if you get off your high horse and start talking to people. For one thing, I have a twin! Or a doppelganger, I’m not sure. For the record, I was not aware of this outfit when I started blogging. I picked my blog name because a) I liked the sound and b) everything else I tried was already taken. Enter www.runnyc.com (warning, the site doesn’t seem to be functional yet).

I found out about this when, at the end of Mile 9, reeking to high heaven I’m sure, I stopped at the shack that’s parked along the West Side Highway at Chambers St. This shack looks remarkably like my father’s ice-fishing shacks, only slightly larger – perhaps purchased from Home Despots. It’s been closed since I moved into the neighborhood. Even though I was probably more offensive to the olfactory system than a rotting zombie corpse, I stopped to check it out. It’s the Nike Runner’s Station, and no shit – they give you FREE THINGS.

Like hair ties. And Band Aids, and SUNSCREEN! This is gonna save me a fortune. I can also buy Gu at this place for cheap(ish), which might not be such a bad idea as the mileage creeps up. They have Nike shoes you can try (I like Mizunos and Sauconys, but hey, free is free) and bulletin boards with runner meet-ups and training runs. This is where I got a little shock at the thought that people were actually reading my blog, just not commenting! (Hint, hint, I know you’re there. WordPress includes free stats.) Then I wised up and realized that someone else had thought of the same fab URL and had the good sense to register it first. So now I just hope I don’t get sued or anything, because it was an accident. Honest! It’s like a romance novel or something!

And to conclude, I’m going to tell you a story about hustlin’ in the city, mostly because I can’t figure out a more graceful way to shoehorn this story into my post.

Walking through Grand Central Terminal this evening during rush hour (read: chock-a-block with people as only New York can deliver) I saw a little shadow scurrying toward the train platform. Well, not that little, about the size of a young mouse. I looked a little more closely and realized that it was a very large cockroach running desperately to make his train. Apparently even cockroaches commute. I realized that I was completely unfazed by the presence of the insect when up ahead of me, someone dropped a pocketful of change.

If you’ve ever tried to stop in the middle of a crowd in New York, you probably know that it’s akin to getting steamrolled. Wisely, whomever had dropped the change declined to stop and pick it up, which meant that a coin about the size of the cockroach rolled right by my foot. I’m quick, I’m flexible, and nothing will stop me in my tracks like free money, so I leaned down and scooped it up, and was rewarded with a Susan B. Anthony silver dollar! Wohoo!

When I first moved to the city I would have had the cockroach heebie-jeebies so bad that nothing could have enticed me into scooping up a lost dollar. Now, I’m thinking of switching careers to “free money finder.” Because the day before that I found ten bucks on the ground, sopping wet but still legal. My goal is a hundred bucks by the end of the week, so feel free to throw some change my way! Just don’t include any cockroaches in the mix. Please.

Scorching!

Last weekend gave me a little taste of the summer to come. An unpleasant taste, actually. During the last mile of my run, my head nearly exploded from the heat. I mean this literally, in that it felt as though gysers of blood would start gushing from my ears at any moment during the last mile. I had a headache for the rest of the day, but at least I made it home without actually spewing gore on all the other active types out there.

A friend had the bad luck of running the MORE Half Marathon in Central Park on Sunday, which was actually canceled because it was so hot. According to the New York Road Runners,

“This year, in response to unseasonably warm race-day conditions, race officials made a prudent decision: They canceled the marathon (26.2 miles) and conducted the half-marathon (13.1 miles) as an unscored, noncompetitive event in which slower walkers were encouraged to exit the course after seven miles.”

This friend, whom I shall call SuperWoman because she is one hell of a runner, told me that it was so packed that she could hardly put one foot in front of the other. While I don’t doubt that NYRR made the right call in light of what happened in Chicago in 2007, I’ve run races like that myself and have to say they are really, really challenging, both mentally and physically. If anything, you feel even hotter because you can’t break out of the pack. During one race I ran with Dingo last summer, NYRR had hoses spraying into the air, providing some welcome relief from the 88 degree weather. Apart from those too-brief showers, though, that short race was brutal for both of us. Dingo was looking how I felt last Sunday morning – as though her head was about to explode – and I kept thinking I was going to have to drag her home to Mr. Dingo in pieces and get my ass kicked. Happily, we made it to the finish line, where Stoogepie met us with a huge frosty cocktail shaker of ice-cold Gatorade martinis and all was well, but it was a near thing.

The Lying Weather Forecasters tell me that it’s going to be cooler this weekend, but since they are inherently untrustworthy I will conclude with two heartfelt wishes: please, Universe, don’t let it be hot on November 1st, 2009, defined as anything above 60 degrees; and, if you are going to be training like me in the hot hot summer sun, be careful out there! Do NOT drink too much water. If you feel faint, slow down or stop. Try to run early in the morning or in the evening and preferably in the shade if possible. Don’t push yourself in hot weather. Believe me, no one likes seeing your head explode. It just isn’t pretty.

All Systems Go!

Today was my last appointment with my physical therapist! Sniff. I mean, yay! While I will miss his metaphors, I am very happy to get the PT seal of approval to run again – without pain, this time. I also have permission to do the Brooklyn Half Marathon at the end of May. Since I’m the cautious sort, I’m going to get my real orthotics and go for a run before signing up, just to see how it goes, but I’m psyched!

My secret twin – fraternal; sadly, we look nothing alike, and she is much prettier than I am – told me that this year the course is going to be reversed. For those unfamiliar with the race, this means that instead of starting in Coney Island and running to Prospect Park, we’ll be running the opposite direction. I plan to imagine myself as Jean-Pierre Léaud in Les Quatre Cents Coups (The 400 Blows), running from his unbearable life to the ocean, where metaphysical enlightenment continues to elude him. (Oops. I pulled a Brittney Spears and did it again. I’d make a terrible film reviewer. Sorry.)

Last year when I ran this race, it was quite the cultural experience. Living in Manhattan it isn’t uncommon to see Hasidic Jews around town, but even when you read about enclaves of Jews one tends to forget that they exist right here in New York. Or maybe that’s just my myopia. Anyway, it was quite something to be running up from Coney Island through Ditmas Park and be surrounded by these soberly dressed families who pretty clearly did not approve of Spandex-clad runners thundering through their streets. Actually, Fred Lebow, one of the founders (the founder?) of the New York Marathon was from a conservative Jewish family, and this is part of the reason that the marathon goes through heavily Jewish neighborhoods. Also, I have to imagine that those routes just make sense, but there’s an interesting account of Fred’s sometimes fraught reltationship with the Orthodox Jewish community in a book entitled Anything for a T-Shirt. It’s a pretty good read; I recommend looking for a copy at your local library.

My favorite marathon book, however, is Liz Robbins’ A Race Like No Other. Not only does she have a great writing style, she seems to have a good way with people and a lot of sympathy for the rigors of training. I’d recommend this book to anyone even considering the New York Marathon.

Last year’s Brooklyn Half hurt. My green goodness, did it ever hurt. It was quite a scene trying to get home: I was one of probably twenty or so people clinging to the railings and limping with great difficulty down the stairs into the subway. There was not one single part of me that wasn’t seriously in pain last year. I was shivering so hard on the subway home that I nearly shook the train right off its rails. I spent the rest of the day in the bathtub in very hot water, and then I fell asleep in the midafternoon for a really long time.

Here’s hoping that this year that happens again, minues the cripling knee pain! You’ll just have to picture me holding up my glass and toasting yours.

Horseshoes, Lucky Side Up

The fauxthotics worked! Saturday I ran four whole miles without my knee going crazy. I was even able to walk, just fine, for the rest of the day. It was great, just like old times when me and my knees would go for two-hour runs. Except this time it was more like forty minutes and it just felt like two hours.

Afterward I g-chatted a friend who is also training for a marathon. She has trained for these before. “Four miles, huh?” she remarked, unimpressed. “You have some training to do.” Yes, thank you, Marian-my-secret-twin, I do. I’d be looking forward to it if I felt confident that my knee problems were solved, but part of me remains skeptical. My PT is leaving me in two more sessions. What if the fix isn’t permanent? What if I wind up like Simon Pegg in Run Fat Boy Run, limping across the finish line?* And I wouldn’t even have a manufactured-conflict plot-driving injury to make my story more interesting. I don’t want to cross the finish line whining about my knee. I want it to be joyous and triumphant, like the Jesus thundering through the eye of the camel or however that Bible story goes that I vaguely remember from sleeping through church as a child. (Sorry, mom.)

In a word, I demand trumpets. Anyone willing to trumpet my arrival – you are NOT to blare trumpets for the rest of the pack, mind you, this is just for me, assuming you can pick me out of the other suffering marathoners – at the finish line in Central Park, drop me an email with your resume listing your trumpeting skills and let’s talk. Angel wings optional, but since the race is immediately after Halloween I’d bet you could get a wicked discount on a nice feathered set over in the West Village.

WAIT A SECOND HERE. The race is on November 1st! How did I not realize this earlier?! There goes my Halloween!

That’s it, this is an official call for musical and costumed support on race day. I’m counting on YOU to make up for the fact that I’m going to have a sucky time on my favorite holiday just so I can injure myself by running a crazy distance through the streets of the city I love. You heard me: Angel wings are no longer optional for trumpeters. Zombies, witches, and other creatures also welcome. Musical instruments welcome but optional; no experience playing them necessary.

*Spoiler alert. Shoulda mentioned that earlier, but frankly the movie wasn’t that good – it’s no Hot Fuzz for the running set.

PT and yummy mummies.

The big hazard of moving downtown has finally revealed itself. One might think that what with all the layoffs on Wall St. and related businesses, the women pilloried so joyfully in The Nanny Diaries would be a thing of the past. Not so! They are alive and well and living in the Financial District. Well, fine, you’re right: most of them probably aren’t quite in the $20 mil apartment league, but they are presumably married to people who make cartloads of money, because who else can afford all of the following accoutrements?

• luxury apartment, defined as possessing an elevator to take you to your high floor, and multiple bedrooms
• expensive haircuts – the kind that literally take ten years off your face
• expensive pets
• multiple young children
• multiple pairs of Christian Louboutin heels
• a nanny
• unemployment

Yes, I am in the universe of the yummy mummy. And although I am usually opposed to employing trendy derogatory terms for women, my stance is that if Judith Warner uses that term, so can I.

They run. They do yoga. They look like toothpicks. They wear toothpick heels. Their offspring are cute in a frightening way: matching tartan bows and dresses with patent leather shoes, eyes bigger than a Japananime heronie’s, usually shadowed or propelled through grocery stores and over sidewalks by a non-white nanny.

All of this makes me feel like a big gallumphing cow when I go out for a run. Which, given that I’m still under orders not to do anything that hurts, I’m not doing regularly. I was so disappointed that foot-popping was not in order at my last PT visit. Instead I was given exercises to do, which I’m pretty sure I’m doing incorrectly. I just wanted everything to pop into place so I could at least outrun the yummy mummies, but apparently bodies don’t work like that. Well. At least the Louboutins might be achievable someday, and I’d totally breeze by these ladies in the marathon, cause I’m a real runner. Right?

The East River Park is actually pretty nice. Honest.

To spare you the pain of reading another rehash of my tabloid reading on the treadmill, I’m going to take my lovely loyal readers on a tour of the East River Park. (My knee was not much better today, and I am embarrassed about my lapse into self pity yesterday evening, so I feel like I owe ya.)

The West side has a very nice and very popular greenway that reaches all the way from Battery Park City to Inwood, which is the little spit of Manhattan that extends further north than the South Bronx. It’s popular with cyclists and I hear tell that in nice weather it’s practically impossible to bike all the way up there because people bring their grills out and cook on the pathway. The City offers a videos from a cyclist’s view of the greenway, which I think are kind of neat. While theoretically the path is supposed to extend all the way around Manhattan, and indeed the city’s website cheerfully claims that “The Manhattan Waterfront Greenway is a 32-mile route that circumnavigates the island of Manhattan,” allow me to reassure you that this is not, in fact, true. There’s a pretty big chunk near the UN that has no greenway, and large stretches of the East River Park are actually crumbling paths next to fenced-off construction equipment:

Construction equipment, East River Park

Admittedly, that is not so nice. However, there is a beautiful section of the park between the ConEd plant and Peter Cooper Village/Stuytown called Stuyvesant Cove. This section is of the park is a knockout: landscaped and hidden away, it has rarely been crowded during the years I’ve been running there. The views are just fantastic:

Stuyvesant Cove view

Apologies to the random jogger; I have no idea who you are, and I’m sure you had no idea you were going to make it onto some complete stranger’s blog. Let this be a lesson to us all on the danger of leaving the house. Anyway. It’s pretty hard to be mad at the world when you get to wake up and go look at a vista like that. Up ahead a little ways there’s some picnic tables and a planting area that’s a gorgeous place to take a breather in nice weather. Stuyvesant Cove is one of my favorite places in Manhattan, and I’m really going to miss it when I move.  Happily, I can always come back. Currently I like to run up here, and then down to Wall Street, but there’s nothing preventing me from doing the reverse once I move further downtown. That’s comforting.

Once you turn around and head south again, there’s an ongoing landscaping project that I hope will eventually be finished in spite of the current economic climate. The poor ERP never quite seems to get the funding it needs to live up to the expectations that led to its creation. When Robert Moses was planning the FDR, he recognized that the residents on the lower east side needed park space and set about creating it. Unfortunately, during the budget crisis of the 70s the park fell into neglect. The public works that are going on now in the park were planned during the recent asset boom, so my only hope is that they finish, because I happen to think it’s a great park. Needs some work, but still very enjoyable.

One more picture showing the recent work:

View of bridge in the ERP

I really hope that it never becomes as popular as the West side. I like it just as it is, populated but not crowded.

Today I was nearly attacked by a vicious…

…squirrel.

You thought I was going to say “dog,” right? Or maybe “chimpanzee?”

Nope. Meet some New York wildlife.

Attack squirrel, Lower East Side

You’ve heard of Lola and Pale Male. That is an example of press-friendly upper crust wildlife, not Lower East Side wildlife.  This little furry creature was about to take my face off, I swear.

To get to the East River Park you have to cross over the FDR highway visible in the background. As I was chugging up the ramp, this little guy was clinging to the ugly suicide-thwarting fence. And despite the fact that I am many times larger than this critter, he didn’t blink as I came headlong toward him. Until he was practically over my shoulder, that is, at which he decided to move so that I would see him.

Readers, in a completely rookie moment I actually screamed out loud and nearly jumped over the railing. Thank goodness for that hideous fence, huh?

I wasn’t always this much of a wuss. Back in the Midwest squirrels are brave, sometimes even brave enough to take up living in your attic or eat out of the garbage can two feet away from you, but not so brave as this little guy. This guy didn’t even blink. He just hopped down from the fence and gave me some New York Squirrel attitude.

“I’m gonna eat your face you don’t stop staring,” he told me. I slowly backed up, got out my camera, and shot the above photo. Then I put my camera back in my pocket and backed slowly away. The last laugh was mine, though, since two seconds later this big dog of indeterminate breed came bounding along and the squirrel shot up the fence to safety. Needless to say that dog was my hero.

(In the Midwest, cheeky squirrels often get a pellet gunshot in the head. See what happens when you ban guns? Just kidding. I’d rather have vicious squirrels than lots of guns around.)

Other than that, it was a lovely day for a five-mile run, nice and cold. It was supposed to be 8, but my knee was killing me. Tomorrow is supposed to be a snow day. Please let it snow like there’s no tomorrow. Maybe Mr. Squirrel-tude will go hibernate and I can get to the park without almost accidentally throwing myself onto the FDR next time.