My Actual 3:51:05* New York City Marathon Playlist
A friend of mine emailed me a page from The New Yorker yesterday. The black-and-white cartoon showed two PacMan-like faces staring at one another. The face on the left's speech bubble said "Marathon, Marathon, Marathon, Marathon, Marathon." On the right, it simply said, "Zzzzzzz."
That pretty much sums up the days following any marathon, let alone a PR. It was my best marathon ever. I ran the first 13.1 miles in 1:57:02, the second in 1:54:04 to finish in 3:51:05 (an average speed of 8:50 per mile). I was the 9239th male finisher, and ...
The 3:51:05 New York City Marathon Playlist
With over 40,000 runners making individual Odysseys across 26.1 rust and wind-swept miles, the New York City Marathon is nothing if not cinematic. Add some stakes (like shattering an eight-year-old personal best) and a throbbing soundtrack, and the race is truly epic.
I've run to the music of this city for years. The rush of West Side traffic, lapping of Hudson and waves and rustle of Central Park trees was welcome refuge from headphones and headaches alike, a place where my thoughts could stretch out and get lost. This year, though, as ...
Run This Town
If I could run the marathon right this second, I would.
Sunday marks my tenth New York City Marathon in a row (and my eleventh overall). For the last four years, I've run with Abbi. I love running with her (though I'm not sure she'd always say the same about me). Our pace is governed by the collective; if she's wiped, I slow down and vice versa (and trust me, it's gone both ways).
This year, though, I'm running solo. I'm racing myself. My goal is to beat my 2002 personal best of 3:56:24. That means running 9:00 miles. Not ...
Rockaway Beach Or Bust
I've lived in New York City for nearly fifteen years, but have only recently begun to gain some sense of its true cultural and geographical diversity.
Once again, I spent Sunday morning running the city. Last week, my goal was Hell's Kitchen to Coney Island. This week, it was Rockaway Beach or bust. Our friends, Rene and Marlyn had invited Chris, Meg, Abbi and I to join them for an afternoon of sun, and sand and salsa. The goal, then, was to jog some eighteen miles through Manhattan and Queens to their apartment where Chris, Meg and ...
Coney Island Or Bust
As the crow flies, Coney Island is a mere fourteen miles from Midtown Manhattan. Unfortunately, I am neither a crow, nor do I fly.
Last Monday morning, NY1's Pat Kiernan forecasted Sunday as a "perfect beach day." Which is when I hatched my plan to run to Coney Island, meet Abbi there, and spend the afternoon lounging in the sun and exploring Brighton Beach.
I spent all weekend preparing, which is to say, I didn't do anything at all but sit around carbo-loading and drinking lots of water. I was in bed by nine last night, and up this ...
The 2009 Brickyard 400 (Or, Speedway Nights: The Ballad Of Jimmie Johnson)
First rule of Nascar is you don't talk about Nascar.
It's not that facts, statistics, cultural judgments, stereotypes or general biographical data aren't valuable. They are.
Of course (like you), I knew nothing of Nascar until last year's Brickyard 400. This (now seasonal) confab was born of a conversation at my bachelor party and the desire to a) in Indianapolis (a city, sorry dad, with few other event-oriented justifications for visitation) and b) spend more time with dudes.
Before last year, I couldn't fathom why someone would sit ...
All Stars
I'm pretty sure it's the oldest thing I own: a tattered, No. 80, nine-inch, horsehide-covered, cork and rubber-centered regulation baseball with with seven faded words written in capital letters: 1981 Pinto North All-Star Ben Wagner.
I hit the first RBI in that all-star game, a triple. It was a scorching-hot July Fourth at Ridgeland Common in Oak Park, Illinois. There was red, white and blue bunting and everything. Of course, it was tee ball, so that triple didn't add up to much of a baseball career, and doesn't mean much now. But it ...
Do Or Do Not (It Wasn’t A Tri)
Ah, the coveted sixty-fourth percentile.
Let me be frank: I was neither properly prepared, nor properly trained for Sunday morning's race. Heck, I wasn't even properly rested. I'll chalk some of it to the length of the event (a 2.1M run, 10M ride, and 2.1M run don't quite constitute The New York City Marathon type preparation), and some to hubris.
Whatever the case, I was out 'til nearly midnight the night before during which time -- yes -- I had at least one (possibly three) Brooklyn Lagers; all the better (I reasoned) to complete ...
Sweet Carolina (Or, Living In The Fish-Eyed Lens)
I've heard about this sort of thing, but rarely really witnessed it first-hand.
I'm at a bar called Brother Jimmy's on 31st & Lex. Apparently, Murray Hill is the new post-collegiate neighborhood because everyone looks straight out of Central Casting.
"Jimmy, get me a dozen Zeta Psis and a coupla' Tri Delts, stat!"
I haven't seen so many copiously made-up, sweatshirt-wearing teenagers preening, posing, smoking cigarettes and hair-flipping, like, ever! (Well, since college.)
Anyway, we're watching UNC/Duke basketball. Apparently, ...
2009 Miami Marathon (Or, Pull The Sunlight Through Me)
The last time I was on Miami's Brickell Avenue Bridge, it was midnight.
Hurricane Katrina was lashing the city with crushing wind and stinging rain. Nonetheless, my Video Music Award colleagues and I thought it a lark to stand defiantly mid-span, leaning into the gale drunk like teenagers.
Some five years later, I was mid-span again. This time, though, a different sort of storm raged: a twenty-fifth mile, endorphin-fueled battle between running and stopping, accelerating and collapsing, laughing and weeping.
My road back to ...
