Andrew, the dogs and I just returned from 8 days in my home state of Michigan. My mother is from Poland and my dad is from Chicago, where they met, married then moved to where I was born and reared: Battle Creek, Michigan, which happens to be the cereal capital of the world (think: Kellogg's Cornflakes). Back in the early 1900's, John Harvey Kellogg spearheaded a major health and diet movement in Battle Creek, which promoted vegetarianism (yay!), exercise, (yay again!), abstinence (eh . . .), and daily multiple enemas (ummm . . .).
Breathing Exercises at the Battle Creek Sanitarium
The city has not carried on most of John Harvey Kellogg's practicing, but we still dominate when it comes to toasted corn floating in cow's milk. Here's something from my book about Michigan: http://www.cerisepress.com/02/04/adoption
I was super excited to get out of Brooklyn and had put together a very basic agenda for my time in Michigan: catch up with childhood friends, cook with my mom, veg out with my sister, hike with Andrew, let the dogs roam leash-free, look at stars and swim in the lake. But I was especially looking forward to accomplishing some major runs with my dad. According to our training schedule, we had both a 15 and a 16-miler to run during our 8 days together.
home.
My dad and I have always been joggers--he started when he was in college, and I started running with him when running became an activity, like something you set time aside to do, as opposed to being a method of fast transportation. We'd been on a lot of jogs together, but never more than a couple miles here and there--at most, four miles at once. Running fifteen miles sounded baffling (still does).
I remember the first "official" run we did together for our marathon training: it was in October, in Boston. I took a train from Brooklyn to visit him while he was attending a medical conference. We were scheduled to run 2, maybe 3 miles. We chatted in the hotel lobby, and drank a couple of glasses of wine, because I figured we'd be running in the morning. But after my 2nd glass of wine, Dad said, "ok! let's go find the exercise room!" And we did. So my first run was a buzzed one on a crappy treadmill on a Friday night in Boston. Warm red wine in your tummy on a treadmill? Not a good feeling.
That was also the weekend that Dad gave me an article from the NY Times about eating meat. It was an excerpt from Jonathan Safran Foer's book, "Eating Animals." Dad said that after reading a paragraph or two of the article, he realized that there was no justification for eating the tortured flesh of an animal, aside from a fleeting pleasure of the tastebuds. I could agree more, and that was when we both decided to go vegetarian. For life. And, for Life.
My very own fancy UK edition, signed and hand-delivered by the author himself!
So, the 15 miles.
I was nervous. I didn't want to do it. I was afraid that I wouldn't be able to do it, and I was tense because I thought I'd have a hard time getting into a rhythm, or that I'd get irritated. My dad doesn't listen to music when he runs. I usually run listening to music--it keeps me going, distracted, or inspired. Unless I'm arguing, I usually don't like to talk during runs. I get cranky when I'm tired. Nonetheless, I ditched the ipod.
Our route was very basic: we'd run out 2 miles from our house on East Sylvan Drive to North Avenue, and then 2 miles back. At the gate to our house we had water and Goo chomps sitting in the mailbox, ready for us at the end of each 4 miles. And if we had to go to the bathroom, we wouldn't have to go in the woods or in a nasty port-o-potty like in Prospect Park--we could just go at home after 4 miles. We'd run each 4-mile trek 3 times, then cut it in half, then run all the way down the hill in our backyard after the 15th mile and jump in the lake.
As so we began: first 2 miles was great. After agreeing on a pace (Dad is long and leggy; I'm not and I'm slower), we jogged past the landmarks I grew up glancing at: The treehouse that Joey Kunitzer built next to his parent's garage (now almost fully decomposed); the curve in the road by the Lindow's old house where I spun my car in a 180 when I first learned to drive in the Michigan snow; the fountain where our late dalmation Chief once jumped in and couldn't get out (I had to climb in and push him out). As we ran, I felt both at home but also like Ebenezer Scrooge, and my dad was Jacob Marley, showing me all the ghosts of my youth. So many neighbors had moved out or died, so many houses were so different--delapidated or torn down, sold or refinished. I felt young and old at the same time. I also felt a lot of cramping.
What I had forgotten (or never realized) was how HILLY our neighborhood roads are. There was not one single mile that was flat: it was entirely steep uphills (I mean, steep) or downward slopes. These hills kicked my ASS. But my dad had been running up and down those ass-kickers for nearly 30 years. He was used to them. I was not. But we kept running.
Breathing Exercises at the Battle Creek SanitariumThe city has not carried on most of John Harvey Kellogg's practicing, but we still dominate when it comes to toasted corn floating in cow's milk. Here's something from my book about Michigan: http://www.cerisepress.com/02/04/adoption
I was super excited to get out of Brooklyn and had put together a very basic agenda for my time in Michigan: catch up with childhood friends, cook with my mom, veg out with my sister, hike with Andrew, let the dogs roam leash-free, look at stars and swim in the lake. But I was especially looking forward to accomplishing some major runs with my dad. According to our training schedule, we had both a 15 and a 16-miler to run during our 8 days together.
home.My dad and I have always been joggers--he started when he was in college, and I started running with him when running became an activity, like something you set time aside to do, as opposed to being a method of fast transportation. We'd been on a lot of jogs together, but never more than a couple miles here and there--at most, four miles at once. Running fifteen miles sounded baffling (still does).
I remember the first "official" run we did together for our marathon training: it was in October, in Boston. I took a train from Brooklyn to visit him while he was attending a medical conference. We were scheduled to run 2, maybe 3 miles. We chatted in the hotel lobby, and drank a couple of glasses of wine, because I figured we'd be running in the morning. But after my 2nd glass of wine, Dad said, "ok! let's go find the exercise room!" And we did. So my first run was a buzzed one on a crappy treadmill on a Friday night in Boston. Warm red wine in your tummy on a treadmill? Not a good feeling.
That was also the weekend that Dad gave me an article from the NY Times about eating meat. It was an excerpt from Jonathan Safran Foer's book, "Eating Animals." Dad said that after reading a paragraph or two of the article, he realized that there was no justification for eating the tortured flesh of an animal, aside from a fleeting pleasure of the tastebuds. I could agree more, and that was when we both decided to go vegetarian. For life. And, for Life.
My very own fancy UK edition, signed and hand-delivered by the author himself!So, the 15 miles.
I was nervous. I didn't want to do it. I was afraid that I wouldn't be able to do it, and I was tense because I thought I'd have a hard time getting into a rhythm, or that I'd get irritated. My dad doesn't listen to music when he runs. I usually run listening to music--it keeps me going, distracted, or inspired. Unless I'm arguing, I usually don't like to talk during runs. I get cranky when I'm tired. Nonetheless, I ditched the ipod.
Our route was very basic: we'd run out 2 miles from our house on East Sylvan Drive to North Avenue, and then 2 miles back. At the gate to our house we had water and Goo chomps sitting in the mailbox, ready for us at the end of each 4 miles. And if we had to go to the bathroom, we wouldn't have to go in the woods or in a nasty port-o-potty like in Prospect Park--we could just go at home after 4 miles. We'd run each 4-mile trek 3 times, then cut it in half, then run all the way down the hill in our backyard after the 15th mile and jump in the lake.
As so we began: first 2 miles was great. After agreeing on a pace (Dad is long and leggy; I'm not and I'm slower), we jogged past the landmarks I grew up glancing at: The treehouse that Joey Kunitzer built next to his parent's garage (now almost fully decomposed); the curve in the road by the Lindow's old house where I spun my car in a 180 when I first learned to drive in the Michigan snow; the fountain where our late dalmation Chief once jumped in and couldn't get out (I had to climb in and push him out). As we ran, I felt both at home but also like Ebenezer Scrooge, and my dad was Jacob Marley, showing me all the ghosts of my youth. So many neighbors had moved out or died, so many houses were so different--delapidated or torn down, sold or refinished. I felt young and old at the same time. I also felt a lot of cramping.
What I had forgotten (or never realized) was how HILLY our neighborhood roads are. There was not one single mile that was flat: it was entirely steep uphills (I mean, steep) or downward slopes. These hills kicked my ASS. But my dad had been running up and down those ass-kickers for nearly 30 years. He was used to them. I was not. But we kept running.
Mira and Phil, Before 15 MilesThere's not to much I can say about what the 15-mile run felt like, because once I found a pace and stride for attacking the hills, it wasn't that bad. Also, I talked. The entire time. I had so much to say and talk about with my dad (he even noted that I talked about 80 percent of the time during our conversation) that the time and miles just flew by. It was fun! The sun was setting, there was a cool breeze brushing up against our legs and arms and necks. The scenery was surreal: sunset on a lake, wind racing through wheat fields, butterflies and scarlet cardinals.
We talked about a lot of things: my writing habits, possible new hires at his office, running shoes vs. bare feet. We argued a little bit: how to best train my boisterous hound; reasons why my sister and I argue so much . . . as the sky got dark and just as we were finishing our last lap (up a very steep hill, of course), my husband Andrew rode up on my mom's bike and escorted us to the gate of our home. The three of us ran down to the lake, like we'd planned, but quickly ran back up. Too many mosquitoes. We went inside.
Ten minutes later, I was strewn on the floor of our living room, moaning and groaning. I was in pain! Dad showed no signs of having just endured 15 miles of hilly hell and I was quite impressed. He is FIT! I could barely walk, let alone eat and he was as chipper as a spring chicken. After picking at a pasta dinner and sipping a beer (Andrew said I looked "crazed"), I took a cold shower and went to bed.
After 15 miles, this was all I could do: not a damn thing.
We talked about a lot of things: my writing habits, possible new hires at his office, running shoes vs. bare feet. We argued a little bit: how to best train my boisterous hound; reasons why my sister and I argue so much . . . as the sky got dark and just as we were finishing our last lap (up a very steep hill, of course), my husband Andrew rode up on my mom's bike and escorted us to the gate of our home. The three of us ran down to the lake, like we'd planned, but quickly ran back up. Too many mosquitoes. We went inside.
Ten minutes later, I was strewn on the floor of our living room, moaning and groaning. I was in pain! Dad showed no signs of having just endured 15 miles of hilly hell and I was quite impressed. He is FIT! I could barely walk, let alone eat and he was as chipper as a spring chicken. After picking at a pasta dinner and sipping a beer (Andrew said I looked "crazed"), I took a cold shower and went to bed.
After 15 miles, this was all I could do: not a damn thing.The next day, my mom, dad, sister, Andrew and the four dogs (Saba, Yolanda, Maybe and Huckleberry) and I drove north for a camping trip in the Manistee National Forest. It was right along Lake Michigan, which looks like the ocean but doesn't smell or taste like it. Once all the different personalities settled into a peaceful dynamic, we thoroughly enjoyed ourselves. It made me so happy to see my dogs outside, exploring the woods and smelling countless smells that were NOT man-made. One of my wishes was granted, too: to have the dogs fall asleep outside, and wake up outside. They never get to do that in Brooklyn. We peed in an outhouse, which was stinky but a great butt for our jokes, so to speak. We swam, ran in sand, hiked trails, grilled veggies in a fire pit. We gave stink-eyes to the campers who brought electric generators and mobile homes. We laughed, we argued, we read, we relaxed, we bonded. It was good for my heart to be with my family and to be outdoors.
Dad and I ran 6 miles during our camping trip, too. It was a perfect path: no cars on a paved street lined with forests and thin streams, blue sky, white clouds, ten different shades of green, moderate temperature fresh air. And no hills. It was bliss. I read in Runner's World magazine that when one runs out of breath, it is best to slow down. I like this tip. I have a tendency to run too fast too soon. Once I slow down and catch my breath, my pace eventually quickens and finds the right speed, where I'm not dry heaving, but still am moving steadily (but not toooooo slow). After three shower-free days camping in the Manistee National Forrest, ambivalently drove back to Battle Creek for a couple more days of vacation.
The day before we left Michigan for Brooklyn, Dad and Andrew and I hit the pavement again for a 16-mile run. Unlike the previous 15-mile jog, this one was torture. It was hot and humid. I was tired of the hills, I didn't want to talk, I was tired and couldn't figure out if I had to go to the bathroom or not. There were flies and mosquitoes, and again, the hills were relentless. After 8 miles, I was ready to stop. After 12 miles, Dad had to stop to go take my sister to the airport. Andrew and I kept running. At mile 13, I felt like shit and could barely focus on my breath. It was hot. The hills were evil. I was hyperventilating. But we had to keep going. I stopped a few times--each stop was at the top of a hill, and by the time we were heading home after mile 15, my feet were literally dragging. All I could do was keep going, one beat at a time. Hours later, we made it: 16 miles. That last stretch was wild: I could barely think or focus or listen to my breath. The only way I got there was by putting one floppy, worn out foot in front of the other.
"I won't be able to stop moving or talk," I said to Andrew as we approached the gate. He likes to high-five, kiss and congratulate after big runs. I usually can't talk and just want to keep moving. Which I did. Straight down to the lake and right into the water. Surprisingly, the 16-mile run was much more difficult that the run that was just one mile less, but I wasn't in pain or sore after it was finished. But I did acquire seven blisters.
The next day, Andrew and I packed up our dogs and suitcases, exchanged big hugs and kisses with my parents, and hit the pavement in our rental car. We had to head back to Brooklyn--there were bills to be paid and money to be made. Neither one of us wanted to leave (nor did the dogs). I felt like we weren't going home, but were leaving home to return to our jobs in the big city. Judging by the aching in my heart, I realize that I'm homesick now, I miss my home, my family, Michigan's green secrets, its peacefulness. No matter where I go or live, I'll always be a country girl at heart.
After we left home, Dad finished off the last of his 16-mile run. His knee is back to normal--somewhat miraculously healed--and he is kicking some serious ass. I hope to get an update from him via email so I can post it on the jog blog within the next day or two.
On tomorrow's menu: an easy 5-mile jog.
Dad and I ran 6 miles during our camping trip, too. It was a perfect path: no cars on a paved street lined with forests and thin streams, blue sky, white clouds, ten different shades of green, moderate temperature fresh air. And no hills. It was bliss. I read in Runner's World magazine that when one runs out of breath, it is best to slow down. I like this tip. I have a tendency to run too fast too soon. Once I slow down and catch my breath, my pace eventually quickens and finds the right speed, where I'm not dry heaving, but still am moving steadily (but not toooooo slow). After three shower-free days camping in the Manistee National Forrest, ambivalently drove back to Battle Creek for a couple more days of vacation.
The day before we left Michigan for Brooklyn, Dad and Andrew and I hit the pavement again for a 16-mile run. Unlike the previous 15-mile jog, this one was torture. It was hot and humid. I was tired of the hills, I didn't want to talk, I was tired and couldn't figure out if I had to go to the bathroom or not. There were flies and mosquitoes, and again, the hills were relentless. After 8 miles, I was ready to stop. After 12 miles, Dad had to stop to go take my sister to the airport. Andrew and I kept running. At mile 13, I felt like shit and could barely focus on my breath. It was hot. The hills were evil. I was hyperventilating. But we had to keep going. I stopped a few times--each stop was at the top of a hill, and by the time we were heading home after mile 15, my feet were literally dragging. All I could do was keep going, one beat at a time. Hours later, we made it: 16 miles. That last stretch was wild: I could barely think or focus or listen to my breath. The only way I got there was by putting one floppy, worn out foot in front of the other.
"I won't be able to stop moving or talk," I said to Andrew as we approached the gate. He likes to high-five, kiss and congratulate after big runs. I usually can't talk and just want to keep moving. Which I did. Straight down to the lake and right into the water. Surprisingly, the 16-mile run was much more difficult that the run that was just one mile less, but I wasn't in pain or sore after it was finished. But I did acquire seven blisters.
The next day, Andrew and I packed up our dogs and suitcases, exchanged big hugs and kisses with my parents, and hit the pavement in our rental car. We had to head back to Brooklyn--there were bills to be paid and money to be made. Neither one of us wanted to leave (nor did the dogs). I felt like we weren't going home, but were leaving home to return to our jobs in the big city. Judging by the aching in my heart, I realize that I'm homesick now, I miss my home, my family, Michigan's green secrets, its peacefulness. No matter where I go or live, I'll always be a country girl at heart.
After we left home, Dad finished off the last of his 16-mile run. His knee is back to normal--somewhat miraculously healed--and he is kicking some serious ass. I hope to get an update from him via email so I can post it on the jog blog within the next day or two.
On tomorrow's menu: an easy 5-mile jog.
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