its a mad mission

This past Wednesday I participated in a 5k run through Central Park. It was a corporate run, meaning companies sponsored employees to participate (15,000 people ran). We all had T-shirts from our respective employers. Mine said “Engineered to Run the Distance” on the back. I saw a law firm whose T-shirts said “TALK TO MY LAWYER.” Bank employees had shirts like “After the race, run on over to us,” or something like that. It was the height of wit and pun, I assure you.

Here is we are strategizing pre-run. Actually, I think Ty and I were discussing Kung-Fu Panda.

And here is the ASME team. Notice my signature running scarf. I was channeling the retro pilot look.

As we ticked down the last few minutes before the start, the rain let loose, and continued to do so for the rest of the race. It was a great cooling system. As I got into my stride by mile two, I became contemplative (since this is all you can really do while you run, hence my preference for more strategic sports such as soccer).

What I contemplated was this: running is a luxury. I mean, a few hundred years ago, physical exertion was for the purpose of accomplishing some task. Plowing the fields. Herding the cows. Scrubbing the laundry. It was a necessity. Somewhere along the way, exercise became cursory to survival. Our economy became more brain-based, and that means we’re more likely to be sitting in an upholstered office chair than a saddle.

So as my legs grumbled at me through mile three, I told them the pain was a privilege. They could have had a lifetime of this. 

This is the last season I have yet to experience as a full-time New Yorker. Having lived in S.C. for the past four years, a New York summer sounded like a glacial breeze in comparison to southern heat. I mean, I remembered it being pretty hot when I interviewed up here in August, but the memory had dulled into a balmy bliss.

Until now.

The mercury sits at 93 degrees. Which is fine if you live in an ac’d house, commute in an ac’d car, and work in an ac’d building. I’ve got the last one on the list. I’m hoping to get the first. But the second: well, that is what I battle to embrace. If the sidewalks here were George Foreman grills, the subway stations would be the fat trays where the hot grease ends up. I wish that was hyperbole. From June to September, commuting is a nasty little thing. Our admin lady told me today that she keeps a water bottle in the freezer and alternates it between her armpits on the way to and from work.

Maybe I’ll temporarily quit my job and hole up inside for the summer. I’m hoping to swipe some AC units for the house tonight. My friend Sara C. was going to give me hers (she is noble and feels guilty using it because she is conscious of the environment—I am too, but I gave up driving a car this year, and that’s enough to start). Well, when her dad went to take it out this weekend, it fell out the window and plunged 20 feet into the inaccessible hole they call her “backyard.” Thankfully I have backup options in the wings.

But alas, I will inevitably have to leave the house at some point. Maybe a better option would be to just get a grip. I remember Rob Elkin telling me how much he used to hate sweating before he moved here. Last year, he decided not to care, and hasn’t looked back. I think he’s probably right. So starting now, I intend not to care about sweat and stink either, but only with some grumbling (sorry Bill) and Old Navy trips. I’ve grown out my hair for easier wet ponytails (I briefly considered shaving my head altogether). I’ve secured friends whose relatives have pools just a short bus trip away. And I’ve come to terms with the fact that it would be good for this wuss to build a little character and endurance.

So bring on the summer. But don’t stand too close.