The Journey to Central Park and Back

I lay in bed anxious, stirring around.  The clock was quietly ticking away, each strike of the second hand was more amplified than the last.  "Wake up (tick), wake up (tick), wake up (tick), wake up (tick)," said the clock.

It seemed eager to remind me that when the alarm went off at 11:00 AM, I had to run.  Had it been any other day I would have been fine.  Running is serene.  Running is therapeutic. Running soothes my soul.  But today was different.  

One number was burned into the back of my eyes.  18.  Today I had to run 18 miles.

So I slid out of bed, feet hitting the cold tile, a reminder that time still lay in the middle of February.  I walked over to my cupboard, pulled out the box of cereal with dehydrated strawberries and prepared the meal that I would trust to sustain me through just about three hours of running.

The cereal bowl was a sand timer.  Every diminishing scoop of cereal meant I had to get dressed and go running.  Crunch, crunch, crunch.  Everyone and everything was mocking me today.

I finished the bowl of cereal and put my clothes on.  Tights, check.  Sweat wicking long sleeve shirt check.  Socks, check.  Windproof vest, check.  Hat, check.  Shoes, check.  Fuel belt, check.

I walked over to the kitchen and like a mad scientist mixed the elixir of hope.  I scooped the magical, holy powder into the each of the 3 neon green flasks, added the second ingredient water, and watched the mystical drink flash with a brilliance that could only soothe my anxiety.

I snapped the bottles onto my belt.  Each one a hand grenade to ward off the enemy.  Mr. Cramp.  I put my watch on and walked over to my computer.  I thought hard about whose serene voice I wanted to hear in my ear as my feet pounded the pavement.  I knew who I wanted.  Taylor Swift.

I uploaded her album onto my mp3 player, grabbed my gloves, and walked out the door.

"Joe," whispered a voice, "just stay in."

No.  I wasn't going to.

I walked down the stairs I had once ridden down on a folding chair in my immature days and threw myself out the door into the cold.  I lifted my left leg, pushed with my right and off I went into the cold winter day to Central Park...

Mile by mile passed by.  Taylor said, "Romeo take me somewhere we can be alone..."

I ran and ran, she sang and sang.  I conquered the Queensboro bridge,  I assaulted Central Park, and I managed to get back into Queens without any scars.  What was going on?  Was it my new cadence inspired by the cross training on my bike and Lance Armstrong?  Was it that I brought an extra flask of magical elixir.  Or had mile after mile added strength into my legs that I've never felt before.

All I knew is that I made it.  I made it.  And my crotch hurt.

Run stats:

18.1 miles

3:17:41 - ~10:52/mile

Have a good training day!