18.5

On Saturday Izzy and I had plans to drive up to Bronxville, where one leg of the Bronx River Pathway begins, to do our 18-mile run in preparation for the marathon. The idea with training plans is that you run a few times a week at a few different distances—5 miles one day, then 8, and 12—and then each week you do a “long run.” Depending on what kind of shape you’re in, your first long run might be 5 miles, then you work your way up over the weeks leading up to the race, and your longest run before the race is usually around 20 miles. You’re not supposed to run the full 26.2 miles before the race day. You rely on adrenaline and a certain je ne sais quois—tenacity? Fatigue of fatigue?—to get through those last 6 to 8 final miles when the actual race comes. I will find out about this.

In Bronxville, everyone is friendly and seems rich. We had trouble finding the path, so I asked four different people for directions and each person got us a little closer to where we needed to be. Then we set out on the path, which had a built in dichotomy. There was pretty landscaped “wildlife” on one side, with at one point a dam that looked liked beavers might come peeking out of it, and the busy, loud Bronx River Expressway on the other. We got about three miles into our run when a downpour began. I don’t mind running in the rain, but this was an actual downpour, one I knew was probably causing flooding in my apartment at home, and I didn’t want to ruin my phone. We gave up and rescheduled, a cloud of silent guilt in the air as we ate bad Bronxville Mexican food instead.

So yesterday, in a spirit of stiff resolve, I took my running shoes and clothes with me to work and set out for my long run at about 6:45 in the evening. I couldn’t have chosen a better time to go, both weather-wise and in order to watch the sunset. For the first three miles, it morphed from distinct strata of the usual pinks and oranges, low and bright on the horizon, to its breathtaking, all-consuming, apocalyptic peak. Then the sun dropped behind New Jersey and left only a pale outline of its former glory behind. And the temperature—summer easing into fall, a stinging heat for the last few minutes of direct sun, offset by a cool, liquid breeze in the shade and the wake of the sunset. It is running weather, for sure.

I’m always drawn to waterfronts when I run, which is great for Brooklyn and Manhattan right now because all of the waterfronts seem to be getting developed with bike and walking paths, landscaping, and lights. From Boerum Hill, I went east directly to the water, and north through Brooklyn Bridge Park and Dumbo, to the Manhattan Bridge.

One of my colleagues, Alia, had brought in a pie towards the end of my shift that evening. I’d been drinking a lot of water thus far, eating smartly for a long run, preparing as carefully as I could—honestly, this is the least fun part of longer-distance running, the planning ahead with your diet and drinking plans—and so first I turned the pie down. “What?” Alia said, when I explained. “You’re going to go for an 18 mile run after you’ve been here on your feet all day? Why can’t you just do it tomorrow?” She was right. I ate some of the pie, and it was delicious. Then she left and I sat there wringing my hands for an hour, drinking water, wondering why I’d done that. Now with no plans for the evening, and the obligation of spending another one eating rice and vegetables and no wine or beer or whiskey—fuck it, I wanted to get this run over with.

After crossing the Manhattan Bridge I doubled back below the bridge through Chinatown to the water, where the smells of sour fish guts and seaweed triggered my sensitive, post-pie stomach. When I got to the waterfront, I saw my beacon not too far in the distance: The South Street Seaport Mall. That’s where I would go to the bathroom, and then I’d be fine. It worked out perfectly and gave me my first ever chance to see what the South Street Seaport Mall is like—which, it turns out, is almost exactly like every other mall I’ve been to.

I continued south, following the waterfront, to Battery Park. I stopped here to take in the dregs of the sunset—satiny deep purples, blues, and oranges, with sailboats on the water, the Statue of Liberty just before me, and a trail of airplanes in a landing pattern up in the sky to my left. I stood there trying to capture some of it with my phone camera when a woman tapped me on the shoulder. “You should take a picture of that,” she said, pointing in the other direction: it was a Time Warner blimp. She said she’d often seen it during the day, but never at night. “Oh, that’s interesting,” I said. “Have a wonderful night!”

Battery Park spit me out onto the West Side Highway path, where all the beautiful people run. They show off their chiseled chests and perfectly fitted running shorts and total ease with a 4-minute-mile pace. Running over there is the only time I’m really self-conscious about my body, my skinny arms and bony chest. I wonder what my posture really looks like, what my pace actually is—it’s one of the few times when I take in the full scope of my amateur aspirations. I was having dinner with friends on Saturday and we talked about beautiful dancers, how magically perfect their bodies are. We concluded that if we were professional dancers, dedicating our bodies to our art, we would also look that perfect. But are we capable? I wondered how much sacrifice and commitment a body like some of these West Side Highway runners would require. I probably couldn’t have eaten pie an hour beforehand, and I’d probably need to get a gym membership. Eh, life is too short.

Just before I’d left, I downloaded an app to my phone that would track my time and distance. I stopped at Chelsea Piers to check—the idea was that I’d go nine miles out, then turn around and take the same route home. I looked at my phone in disbelief: it said I’d been running for over an hour and a half, and that I’d only gone 4.5 miles. That couldn’t be right. I know that my pace has slackened lately, but a 20-minute mile would be impossible. I turned off the app, did some speculating on the map function of my phone, and guessed that when I got to 26th street it would be my halfway point.

When I turned around, it immediately started to rain, giving me the idea for a short inspirational collection of stop-to-smell-the-roses anecdotes. I spent much of the first part of my run enjoying the sunset, but I found when I turned around to see the clouds behind me, they were equally awesome: puffy, pink, and Sistine Chapel-like. Similarly, running on a perfect early Fall evening against a sunset blaze and a crisp breeze gave me much to appreciate, but now that I'd be running in a drizzle, perhaps I'd find new pleasures: few other people outside, for example, or the slick, jet black paths offering bleary reflections, or the skateboarder who appeared to be surfing through a long puddle.

I knew earlier that rain might be possible. Not from the weather report, which has been so frustratingly useless lately, but because I'm getting good at sniffing it out. It was this moody weather that made for such a dramatic sunset, and a saline thickness in the air was as good an indicator as I'd ever get. The rain ended up being just a steady sprinkle. I carried on.

As on Saturday, I needed to do something about my phone so that it didn’t get water-damaged. When I got back down to the Battery Park area, I stopped in a deli to buy a Gatorade, some Skittles, and asked for a plastic bag. It was a stroke of genius, I thought. I put my phone inside the bag with the skittles, bunched it up in one hand, took a few sips of delicious Gatorade and carried it in the other. I trudged on, continuing to retrace my steps.

On the return trip, I decided to forgo the East River Path, stretches of which are under construction, so I turned up South Street at the Staten Island Ferry Terminal and found that I could run underneath the FDR and not get wet. I also decided I’d take the Brooklyn Bridge home, so when I got to Madien Lane—the street names down there! Old Slip! Gouverneur Lane!—I hooked left.

If you ever want to visit the Brooklyn Bridge and not be besieged by tourists, I can’t recommend a rainy Sunday night enough. There were no fog-horn-wielding bicyclists, no families blocking the bridge for photo-ops, no flanks of slow walkers that are impossible to pass politely. I practically had the entire bridge to myself, and the nighttime view is just as dazzling as the daytime one.

I started thinking about what I was going to do when I finished, what all I was entitled to, like how many drinks and how much dessert. When I set out, I considered returning to the bar to pick up my things and have a few drinks, but now that I was nearing the turnoff, it was tempting to just head home and put on my Crocs. At the bar, I could have a beer float for dessert—a rich porter or stout topped with a couple scoops of cinnamon-vanilla ice cream. And first I’d have two or three light beers—there was a crisp Celtic ale on tap that I already knew would be perfectly refreshing alongside a glass of ice water and a bag of chips. But at home, I could order dinner, or quickly shower and then head to the pub to eat. Maybe I’d get a burger, or a pasta dish, or something topped with fried eggs. My Crocs won it out, and when I came off the Brooklyn Bridge, I turned towards home.

I was also beginning to fret over my distance. What if my calculations were all wrong and I was only doing a 12-mile run? I’m not used to plotting out runs for time or distance, usually I just go and do what I feel like with a specific destination or route in mind, without a watch or phone or even an iPod. I would be so pissed at myself if this run didn’t end up being at least 16 miles. But as I closed in on the final stretch of about a mile, new pains asserted themselves. My feet felt like slightly thawed, frozen steaks—making a flap-thud with each step—and my knees and shins and lower back were starting to tighten and burn. These unprecedented aches had to have something to do with this unprecedented distance.

Three blocks from home, I approached a pair who were pushing bicycles and clogging up an already narrow sidewalk. Neither they nor I were making any effort to accommodate the approaching party, so I rudely just barreled—well, flapped-thudded—through them. I steadily finished the remaining two and a half blocks home. When I got to my corner, I slapped the fence that marks my building’s property, and started walking. A dizziness took over. I swerved like a drunk person on the sidewalk for a half block and my lower back tightened up. I walked around my block to cool down, hoping my back would loosen up, and ate the Skittles, which I’d forgotten about. They were warm and sticky. I inhaled them.

At my doorstep, I stretched for ten minutes, went inside to put on my delicious Crocs, then sat down at my computer to figure out how far I’d run. Eighteen point five miles. Thank God. But finding myself in a seated position, I knew I wouldn’t be going anywhere. A beer float didn’t even sound good anymore. I had four glasses of water. I lifted myself from my desk chair and lumbered my way to the shower. I let the hot water beat down on my back for a good five minutes. Feeling achy and light-headed, the sweet draw of my bed, I knew the only thing to do was to eat something sensible and give in to sleep.

Sweet Potato and Cabbage Fried Rice 

1 tablespoon neutral, high smoke-point oil
1 teaspoon toasted sesame oil 1/4 onion, cut into strips
1/2 sweet potato, diced small
1 cup shredded cabbage
1-1/2 cups day-old, cooked white or brown rice
1 tablespoon soy sauce, plus extra if necessary
1 teaspoon chili paste, such as Sambal Oelek
Pinch sugar
Pinch salt
Lime wedge
Fresh herbs to garnish: cilantro, basil, mint, or a combination
Srirracha

Heat the oils in a skillet over medium-high heat. Add the onion, sweet potato, and cabbage. Cook, partially covered, until the potato is tender—about 6 to 8 minutes. Add a splash of water if the pan looks dry and reduce the heat if the onion starts to burn. Stir in the rice, breaking it up with a spatula and cook for 2 or 3 minutes, until glistening and heated through. Whisk together the soy sauce, chili paste, sugar, and salt. Clear a space on the skillet and pour the mixture directly onto the pan, rather than over the rice (when the soy sauce hits the pan, it caramelizes slightly, making for a deeper flavor). Stir the rice into the sauce with the spatula for a few minutes, then transfer to a plate. Serve with a lime wedge, srirracha, herbs, and additional soy if needed.