City Coach | Green Light's Blog

Brooklyn bi report - what an awesome day

I had this dream last night.  It was the start of the Brooklyn Bi, our traditional Citycoach season opener, and I forgot my running shoes.  So I was running around right after the gun went off, trying to find someone else with size 9 feet, and ... well... you know that dream. 

Anxious much?

Today was the race.  I'm not exactly in comeback shape.  OK, I was a steady presence at bike class once a week all winter, and I have been running a few times a week fairly consistently, but sure I wouldn't call that training.  Structure is really hard when juggling work and baby, and running is a bit different when pushing a jogging stroller and/or carrying one's gear home from work.  But 2 mile run, 10 mile bike, 2 mile run -- and the team season opener?  C'mon.  Who can miss that? 

So I raced.  Or rather, participated in the race.  And it really couldn't have  been a nicer day for it.  The team represented, that's for sure, and I happily brought up the rear and did so quite respectably, if I say so myself.  But the whole time, I kept finding my mind asking myself "what part of this is fun?"  and then "no wait, really, what part of this is fun?" 

Racing is not fun.  Racing hurts.  Even when in prime shape -- maybe especially when in prime shape.  But also when not.  I left whatever it was I got out there today and yeah, it hurts then too.  The instinct is there, but the body is not, and I'll indulge myself a minute to be frank about it.  Being on familiar terrain was a mixed blessing.  On one hand, it was nice to be 15 minutes from home on terrain where gearing is second nature and I know exactly how far away the finish line is at all times.  On the other hand, it's tough knowing what splits used to be and seeing them now.  Rationally, I can hit the reset button, but emotionally it can be hard to see those numbers.  Numbers don't lie, especially on what couldn't be a more perfect day.  And even the process of racing -- seeing someone ahead and saying "ok, reel 'em in, reel 'em in," but then watching as they just get farther and farther away, even when I think I'm in turbo mode. 

So racing is not fun.   It's after the race that it's fun.  The accomplishment, that "race day smug" I get to wear around for the rest of the day, knowing what I was doing at ungodly hours of the morning while others, if awake, were only  beginning to plan brunch.  Also the reliving of it -- that sense of "next time" that starts as soon as I cross the line (oh yes, there WILL be a next time).  Best of all the camraderie.  Seeing those proud red and black uniforms, sweeping the age groups all around, shared pride for the PRs and hardware.  That's the fun part.  Today?  Super big time fun. 

And did I mention that when I left the house this morning, I came thisclose to forgetting to put my run shoes in my bag? 

Spring, and a not-so-young girl's heart turns to thoughts of chain tattoo

Isn’t it fun how the warm weather brings out the, er, fair weather athletes? 

Count me amongst them.  Last weekend was a perfect weather for what Leanne calls  bike spa day, and I hauled them all out of the basement and gave them the full treatment.  Also enabling me to remember what kind of preparations, once I found out I was pregnant, I had made for my bikes’ hibernation. The tri bike I’d carefully cleaned, then protected with a very mighty contractor bag/duct tape encasement.  It was quick work to get it ready for a gorgeous Sunday ride.  The commuter?  I think I pretty much threw it down the stairs into the dust fifteen months ago.  Both got the full treatment, but there is really only so much a pedicure can do for the horny toenails of a Flatbush pothole survivor.  I think Pete and Jessica are going to run for the hills when I bring that one into Ride Brooklyn.  But I couldn't wait. 

And today was the first bike commute, brakes loosened to compensate for the untrue wheel.  Like an old friend, as I posted on facebook.  It’s  been more than a year.  I thought I’d be rusty, and frankly, my handling skills aren’t what they were.  But the more things change, the more they stay the same.  By instinct I swerved to avoid potholes and road berms that are, in fact, still there.  The pedestrians still jaywalk mercilessly at Atlantic avenue and across Astor Place.  The smell of Chinese bbq still wafts up the Manhattan side of its namesake bridge; at all hours.  I’m slower, almost slow enough that in the bike vs. subway efficiency equation, subway probably wins.    

But not for long.