Never Done: I got a sports massage
I haven't had a massage in at least 9 years, which is as long as I've lived in New York. I'm not sure when before that I had one, so it might be a full decade since I've gotten a massage. And I've never gotten a sports massage before, which as far as I can tell is like a regular massage, only with intense and specific stretching, and intense and specific massaging of certain muscles areas, i.e., my left leg.
A few months back I read a wonderful book by Haruki Murakami: What I Talk About When I Talk About Running. It's one of those wonderful books that is ostensibly about running but is also about writing. (Sometimes they're books about writing which are really about something else, like alcoholism or tenaciousness.) In one passage of WITAWITAR, Murakami describes the way his muscles have cramped into hard stones, and the weekly 90-minute massages that keep him going. He says they hurt so much that he sweats through his clothes. And he says it's worth it. When I read that, I made a mental note that I was going to get a sports massage. I was going to pay someone to kneed my knotted muscles. I was going to see if it would make a difference when I run, if maybe my left leg would cramp up less.
So I did what any modern amateur athlete would do; I googled "Brooklyn sports massage" and the third hit was for a woman who works 1/2 block away from my apartment in a pilates and spinning studio in which my landlord is a partial owner. I read her online reviews; they were great; I booked a massage with Karen Clifton Mahoney for after work Friday. She's good. She's really good. The first thing I noticed is that she's emotionally mature -- which you would think should be a quality of any massage therapist, but it's not always. She neither projects a great deal of either woowoo sanctity around the massage process nor does she bring the interaction to a chatty place. She's straightforward and confident and talented, with strong hands, knowledge, and probably the highest level of responsive listening I've ever encountered in a massage therapist. I feel like I'm writing her a recommendation, and I suppose I am.
The job of a massage therapist is so strange in that she has to make thing hurt to make things better. Maybe -- to a lesser extent -- like the job of a dentist, which I remember being told has the highest suicide rate of any profession, because of all the time they spend seeing that they inflict pain and bring up fear. How does she know how much pain is too much? Does she have to rely solely on what I say, or does she go more by how my body reacts. And if so, how does she balance that out against what I say if there's a conflict?
I had some other thoughts about self and other while I was on the table. What does it mean to pay someone to rub down your body? Is she as genuinely interested in my knotted muscles as I am? Does she enjoy her job? Am I giving her enough feedback? If I don't feel like talking, is that more of a burden for her than if I want to talk and she doesn't? Why does therapeutic massage feel like more of an indulgence than, say, acupuncture? That's a lot of chatter for my once-a-decade massage, and so I did my best to quiet it, and to go on the working assumption that Karen does like her job, and that I could assume that if she needed anything different (like me to talk more) then she could tell me, and that therapeutic massage feels more indulgent than acupuncture because it feels a hell of a lot better. I also went on the assumption that it is good for us to take care of ourselves, even if it makes us feel uncomfortable to indulge.
Then when I came home and looked again at her website, I found this quote attributed to the Buddha: “To keep the body in good health is a duty; otherwise we shall not be able to keep our mind strong and clear.” And in a flash I realized that, of course, we do have an obligation to take care of ourselves, so that we can be powerful and effective in the world.
Saturday, June 4, 2011
Friday, June 3, 2011
I registered to take the Notary Public test
Never Done: I registered to take the Notary Public test
People are forever looking to get things notarized. And if you're people like I'm people, you probably have to go into some institution that makes you die a little inside -- a corporate bank or a crusty old real estate office that reminds you of Glengarry Glen Ross. So why shouldn't some of us become notaries, so we can notarize stuff for each other at piano bars and shabes potlucks? I mean, do people covered in glitter have less moral character than people in suits? Of course I don't think so. In fact, my judgement might swing the other way (whether fair or not) and claim that people in suits might have less moral character than people covered in glitter. (Glitter of course being actual glitter and also metaphoric glitter -- referring to the fabulousness that has been known to adorn my community of artists and radicals.) Why am I even talking about moral character? Because look at the New York Notary Requirements: How do you test for good moral character? Put a question on the test that asks if we plan to stamp and sell blank documents? That's unlikely, so if it's not a question of testing, how do you measure for it? Is it completely self-selecting, so those of us who think we have good moral character gravitate toward jobs that require it? But doesn't every job require good moral character?
As I was pondering this, I decided to google "good moral character, and I came up with this Wikipedia page that explains that it is actually a defined legal term characterized by the absence of criminal and immoral activities, including Money laundering, Tax evasion, Earning your principal income from gambling, Being a habitual drunkard, and Practicing polygamy.
OK then. I'll start the practice test, and before long, I'll be your Glittery Public. Call me.
People are forever looking to get things notarized. And if you're people like I'm people, you probably have to go into some institution that makes you die a little inside -- a corporate bank or a crusty old real estate office that reminds you of Glengarry Glen Ross. So why shouldn't some of us become notaries, so we can notarize stuff for each other at piano bars and shabes potlucks? I mean, do people covered in glitter have less moral character than people in suits? Of course I don't think so. In fact, my judgement might swing the other way (whether fair or not) and claim that people in suits might have less moral character than people covered in glitter. (Glitter of course being actual glitter and also metaphoric glitter -- referring to the fabulousness that has been known to adorn my community of artists and radicals.) Why am I even talking about moral character? Because look at the New York Notary Requirements: How do you test for good moral character? Put a question on the test that asks if we plan to stamp and sell blank documents? That's unlikely, so if it's not a question of testing, how do you measure for it? Is it completely self-selecting, so those of us who think we have good moral character gravitate toward jobs that require it? But doesn't every job require good moral character?
As I was pondering this, I decided to google "good moral character, and I came up with this Wikipedia page that explains that it is actually a defined legal term characterized by the absence of criminal and immoral activities, including Money laundering, Tax evasion, Earning your principal income from gambling, Being a habitual drunkard, and Practicing polygamy.
OK then. I'll start the practice test, and before long, I'll be your Glittery Public. Call me.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
I bought a sundress without trying it on -- and it fits
Never Done: I bought a sundress without trying it on -- and it fits
I have been trying to figure out how to get some clothes that fit, that aren't worn out, that (sorry if this is too much information) aren't so old that they are permeated with BO under the armpits. I know that for most people there's not much to "figure out" here, but for me there is. Because when I go shopping, it doesn't take much for me to decide I don't need -- or want -- something. When I try on clothes, it's easy for me to decide something doesn't look good on me, and once I've gone through the first batch of clothes I brought into a dressing room, I rarely have the wherewithal to go back for more. If something isn't completely perfect, I usually determine it costs too much to buy if it's not completely perfect, and there you have a recipe for being an unsuccessful shopper.
I was heading to a meeting when the subway (F train at 34th street) let me out literally inside a JCPenney store. In order to get outside, I had to walk through. On my way walking through, I saw some sundresses I thought I might like. I didn't have time to try anything on, so I was about to walk on by, when it occurred to me that if I didn't try a dress on, I couldn't reject it. And maybe if I would get it home, in a calmer environment than a Manhattan dressing room, I would find a way to wear it (with all my bra options) that would work for me. I reasoned that I could always return it if it was a disaster, but I had a sneaking suspicion that it would work out.
I chose a cream cotton jersey sundress with flowers on it, size medium, and took it straight to the register. When the young woman rang me up, the dress price was half what it said on the tag. I asked her how long the sale was lasting, and she said -- oh, this is isn't a sale. All our clothes are always less than the tag. So I had been willing to pay $28 for a dress, and here it was, only $14. Did other people know that about JCPenney? What about other stores? Have I been rejecting clothes as too expensive for years, when their prices would have been randomly reduced at the register? Do people who enjoy shopping know all the ins and outs of deals and stores the way I know about, say, gardening or baseball?
These are the questions I asked myself as I tucked my new dress into my bag, and headed out to my meeting. And later, when I got home, I tried on the dress -- and it fit. The part I thought might be weird is weird, but it is workable weird. (It's cut for someone with smaller boobs, so there's a seam across my bust, but it's stretchy so it's basically OK.) I am not sure if I would have rejected this dress in the dressing room, and I am trying not to think about it too much -- just appreciate the fact that it's already 80 degrees at 8:30 AM, and I have a cool dress to wear today.
And maybe I've discovered a new way to shop that will take less time, and actually be productive. We'll see if it works a second time.
I have been trying to figure out how to get some clothes that fit, that aren't worn out, that (sorry if this is too much information) aren't so old that they are permeated with BO under the armpits. I know that for most people there's not much to "figure out" here, but for me there is. Because when I go shopping, it doesn't take much for me to decide I don't need -- or want -- something. When I try on clothes, it's easy for me to decide something doesn't look good on me, and once I've gone through the first batch of clothes I brought into a dressing room, I rarely have the wherewithal to go back for more. If something isn't completely perfect, I usually determine it costs too much to buy if it's not completely perfect, and there you have a recipe for being an unsuccessful shopper.
I was heading to a meeting when the subway (F train at 34th street) let me out literally inside a JCPenney store. In order to get outside, I had to walk through. On my way walking through, I saw some sundresses I thought I might like. I didn't have time to try anything on, so I was about to walk on by, when it occurred to me that if I didn't try a dress on, I couldn't reject it. And maybe if I would get it home, in a calmer environment than a Manhattan dressing room, I would find a way to wear it (with all my bra options) that would work for me. I reasoned that I could always return it if it was a disaster, but I had a sneaking suspicion that it would work out.
I chose a cream cotton jersey sundress with flowers on it, size medium, and took it straight to the register. When the young woman rang me up, the dress price was half what it said on the tag. I asked her how long the sale was lasting, and she said -- oh, this is isn't a sale. All our clothes are always less than the tag. So I had been willing to pay $28 for a dress, and here it was, only $14. Did other people know that about JCPenney? What about other stores? Have I been rejecting clothes as too expensive for years, when their prices would have been randomly reduced at the register? Do people who enjoy shopping know all the ins and outs of deals and stores the way I know about, say, gardening or baseball?
These are the questions I asked myself as I tucked my new dress into my bag, and headed out to my meeting. And later, when I got home, I tried on the dress -- and it fit. The part I thought might be weird is weird, but it is workable weird. (It's cut for someone with smaller boobs, so there's a seam across my bust, but it's stretchy so it's basically OK.) I am not sure if I would have rejected this dress in the dressing room, and I am trying not to think about it too much -- just appreciate the fact that it's already 80 degrees at 8:30 AM, and I have a cool dress to wear today.
And maybe I've discovered a new way to shop that will take less time, and actually be productive. We'll see if it works a second time.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Too much water for me to drink
Never Done: Shadow post
Never Done: I didn't go in the ocean
Every now and then I do something that I can't write about publicly, and so instead I write about something else. Don't worry -- I write about the private thing privately, so it's not lost for posterity.
The public thing ... Josh and I took a little detour between Maryland and Brooklyn to go to the beach for an hour at the Jersey shore. I wanted to get back in the water after my Hudson River fiasco, and I wanted to try out my new rash guard that I hope to wear on Sunday instead of a wetsuit.
The beach was gorgeous, and the water wasn't even very cold. But the waves were crashing hard with a strong undertow, and for the first time in my life, I was afraid to go in the water. Josh went in and played -- and I stood on the shore, with the surf coming in to about my knees, and ... didn't go in.
I can't remember ever been afraid of the water. When I was a little child, I fell in and sank to the bottom of a neighbor's swimming pool until a teenager plucked me out, and I don't think I was scared at all. I sort of remember a peaceful calm at the bottom -- one in fact that I replicated again and again just for fun. But now that my lungs aren't working right, and now that I had the experience of not being able to take a breath in the water, I seem to have developed a new fear -- (or maybe it's a new awareness of a hidden fear?) Whatever it is, for the first time in my life, I passed up a chance to get in the ocean on a beautiful day. I hope that either this phase doesn't last long, or that there's something really significant to learn from it.
Starting with empathy for others.
Never Done: I didn't go in the ocean
Every now and then I do something that I can't write about publicly, and so instead I write about something else. Don't worry -- I write about the private thing privately, so it's not lost for posterity.
The public thing ... Josh and I took a little detour between Maryland and Brooklyn to go to the beach for an hour at the Jersey shore. I wanted to get back in the water after my Hudson River fiasco, and I wanted to try out my new rash guard that I hope to wear on Sunday instead of a wetsuit.
The beach was gorgeous, and the water wasn't even very cold. But the waves were crashing hard with a strong undertow, and for the first time in my life, I was afraid to go in the water. Josh went in and played -- and I stood on the shore, with the surf coming in to about my knees, and ... didn't go in.
I can't remember ever been afraid of the water. When I was a little child, I fell in and sank to the bottom of a neighbor's swimming pool until a teenager plucked me out, and I don't think I was scared at all. I sort of remember a peaceful calm at the bottom -- one in fact that I replicated again and again just for fun. But now that my lungs aren't working right, and now that I had the experience of not being able to take a breath in the water, I seem to have developed a new fear -- (or maybe it's a new awareness of a hidden fear?) Whatever it is, for the first time in my life, I passed up a chance to get in the ocean on a beautiful day. I hope that either this phase doesn't last long, or that there's something really significant to learn from it.
Starting with empathy for others.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
I watched Friday Night Lights
Never Done: I watched Friday Night Lights
Two people have told me (Justine in person, and Jennifer in a Facebook update) how much they love Friday Night Lights. I didn't even know what it was, but I respect both of them so much that I decided to watch it cold, with no prep -- not even knowing the topic.
So imagine my delight when it turned out to be a sports show. High school football in Texas, to be precise. Which had a number of plot elements that were surprisingly relevant to my own personal life. Speaking of which ... I don't know exactly what I'm going to write about in this blog post, but I feel pretty confident that it will contain spoilers, so if you don't want to know what's in the 2006 pilot, stop reading now.
The show follows a coach, several members of the football team, a cheerleader, their families, and community as they head into a season in which its (for some reason) really important that they make it to the State Championships. We see them on Monday, and then on Tuesday, and then on Wednesday and Thursday, and finally at the big game on Friday. One of the players is a drunk, one of them takes care of his grandmother, one of them is African American and touchy about his deceased father. The star quarterback is dating the head cheerleader, and has also been close to the coach since he was a Pee Wee. We get the sense that this team, and this season are particularly important for the coach, but we (at least I) don't yet understand why. From the cinematography and a little of the plot, we get the clear message that this is going to be about race and class as much as it's going to be about football. Also, there's something up with the relationships between the girls and the boys that makes me think it might go deeper than the usual who's dating who.
However, even considering all it had going for it, I spent the first 30 minutes wondering how this show got made, because at its core, it just seemed like another high school sports show. And then it happened. In the middle of the big game, just when we thought the tension was about whether their second half slump was going to result in a loss, the star quarterback -- the one the Notre Dame scout said is the best high school player he'd ever seen, threw a wobbly pass that got intercepted, and when the opponent ran it down the field, he (the quarterback) was the only guy around to block him, and he went down. Hard. And didn't get back up again.
That happened to me too. I wasn't a star, and I wasn't in a big important game, but I was a completely dedicated high school basketball point guard, and I was good. I wasn't amazing, but I was good. I worked incredibly hard at it, and I was playing Varsity in my sophomore year, and I was taking a jump shot, and something happened and I went down in the most pain I had ever felt. I didn't know it at the time, but I tore my anterior cruciate ligament (ACL) and both meniscus, and also my quadriceps tendon. I was a mess. When I saw in the show that the ambulance was coming for the injured star, and the way that time stopped, I was immediately thrown back to the moment of my injury. I just remember a couple things. I think I screamed fuck and was later made fun of for that, and I remember that nothing really mattered to me except that I was very hurt. I knew a game had to go on, but it wasn't my concern. My concern was that I needed help, and I couldn't move.
My classmate Bruce Maisel took a photo of the moment (which if I were home I would try to find, scan, and post) -- with my left leg splayed out on the floor, and the school nurse Betty Bergendahl tending to me. I've actually found that photo incredibly helpful over the years -- it reminds me of the stillness that I felt in that moment. The stillness that was captured beautifully in Friday Night Lights. One young man's life completely changing; everyone slowing down to care for him, but only long enough to send him elsewhere for care, and then the game must go on.
The other image from the show that brought up a very deep memory was the image of the doctor screwing a halo brace into this young man's head, to stabilize his neck after his spinal cord injury. You know what the halo brace is -- it's the one that sits on the shoulders, and is screwed into the head. My father had one after he had cervical disc surgery. Again, I wish I were home and could scan the photo of him dancing at Claire's wedding with a halo brace screwed into his head. (That's love, Claire.) I wasn't in the room when the halo was put on -- they do that in surgery -- but I was the one who took my dad to the doctor to finally have it removed, and I think it might have been the most vulnerable I had ever seen my father, all because the doctor decided to make a really dumb joke.
The thing is literally screwed into the skull with a cordless Makita drill. I was a carpenter at the time, and used my Makita all the time, so to see something that quotidien being used in such a delicate medical operation was a surprise. But the greater surprise was that after my father had been warned for weeks that one false move, and those screws could enter his skull too far and injure his brain, the doctor "joked" -- as he revved up the drill -- that he couldn't tell which was was forward and which was reverse.
The rage and powerlessness that flashed in my father's eyes were heartbreaking to me, and at the same time, this was the first opportunity I ever had to stand up and protect my father. I took it. I told the jovial young doctor that this was not a moment to joke -- to please remove the screws immediately and with great care. He did, and we left, and my father, though shaken, put the incident behind him. But that moment sealed something between us, and although we never spoke about it over the next 15 years, I know that the fact that I witnessed his vulnerability was a deep part of our bond.
And so I'm hoping that Friday Night Lights might also be about personal vulnerability, as well as racial and economic vulnerability. I have to finish Battlestar Galactica and keep watching Breaking Bad, but I think I'm hooked on yet another show.
Two people have told me (Justine in person, and Jennifer in a Facebook update) how much they love Friday Night Lights. I didn't even know what it was, but I respect both of them so much that I decided to watch it cold, with no prep -- not even knowing the topic.
So imagine my delight when it turned out to be a sports show. High school football in Texas, to be precise. Which had a number of plot elements that were surprisingly relevant to my own personal life. Speaking of which ... I don't know exactly what I'm going to write about in this blog post, but I feel pretty confident that it will contain spoilers, so if you don't want to know what's in the 2006 pilot, stop reading now.
The show follows a coach, several members of the football team, a cheerleader, their families, and community as they head into a season in which its (for some reason) really important that they make it to the State Championships. We see them on Monday, and then on Tuesday, and then on Wednesday and Thursday, and finally at the big game on Friday. One of the players is a drunk, one of them takes care of his grandmother, one of them is African American and touchy about his deceased father. The star quarterback is dating the head cheerleader, and has also been close to the coach since he was a Pee Wee. We get the sense that this team, and this season are particularly important for the coach, but we (at least I) don't yet understand why. From the cinematography and a little of the plot, we get the clear message that this is going to be about race and class as much as it's going to be about football. Also, there's something up with the relationships between the girls and the boys that makes me think it might go deeper than the usual who's dating who.
However, even considering all it had going for it, I spent the first 30 minutes wondering how this show got made, because at its core, it just seemed like another high school sports show. And then it happened. In the middle of the big game, just when we thought the tension was about whether their second half slump was going to result in a loss, the star quarterback -- the one the Notre Dame scout said is the best high school player he'd ever seen, threw a wobbly pass that got intercepted, and when the opponent ran it down the field, he (the quarterback) was the only guy around to block him, and he went down. Hard. And didn't get back up again.
That happened to me too. I wasn't a star, and I wasn't in a big important game, but I was a completely dedicated high school basketball point guard, and I was good. I wasn't amazing, but I was good. I worked incredibly hard at it, and I was playing Varsity in my sophomore year, and I was taking a jump shot, and something happened and I went down in the most pain I had ever felt. I didn't know it at the time, but I tore my anterior cruciate ligament (ACL) and both meniscus, and also my quadriceps tendon. I was a mess. When I saw in the show that the ambulance was coming for the injured star, and the way that time stopped, I was immediately thrown back to the moment of my injury. I just remember a couple things. I think I screamed fuck and was later made fun of for that, and I remember that nothing really mattered to me except that I was very hurt. I knew a game had to go on, but it wasn't my concern. My concern was that I needed help, and I couldn't move.
My classmate Bruce Maisel took a photo of the moment (which if I were home I would try to find, scan, and post) -- with my left leg splayed out on the floor, and the school nurse Betty Bergendahl tending to me. I've actually found that photo incredibly helpful over the years -- it reminds me of the stillness that I felt in that moment. The stillness that was captured beautifully in Friday Night Lights. One young man's life completely changing; everyone slowing down to care for him, but only long enough to send him elsewhere for care, and then the game must go on.
The other image from the show that brought up a very deep memory was the image of the doctor screwing a halo brace into this young man's head, to stabilize his neck after his spinal cord injury. You know what the halo brace is -- it's the one that sits on the shoulders, and is screwed into the head. My father had one after he had cervical disc surgery. Again, I wish I were home and could scan the photo of him dancing at Claire's wedding with a halo brace screwed into his head. (That's love, Claire.) I wasn't in the room when the halo was put on -- they do that in surgery -- but I was the one who took my dad to the doctor to finally have it removed, and I think it might have been the most vulnerable I had ever seen my father, all because the doctor decided to make a really dumb joke.
The thing is literally screwed into the skull with a cordless Makita drill. I was a carpenter at the time, and used my Makita all the time, so to see something that quotidien being used in such a delicate medical operation was a surprise. But the greater surprise was that after my father had been warned for weeks that one false move, and those screws could enter his skull too far and injure his brain, the doctor "joked" -- as he revved up the drill -- that he couldn't tell which was was forward and which was reverse.
The rage and powerlessness that flashed in my father's eyes were heartbreaking to me, and at the same time, this was the first opportunity I ever had to stand up and protect my father. I took it. I told the jovial young doctor that this was not a moment to joke -- to please remove the screws immediately and with great care. He did, and we left, and my father, though shaken, put the incident behind him. But that moment sealed something between us, and although we never spoke about it over the next 15 years, I know that the fact that I witnessed his vulnerability was a deep part of our bond.
And so I'm hoping that Friday Night Lights might also be about personal vulnerability, as well as racial and economic vulnerability. I have to finish Battlestar Galactica and keep watching Breaking Bad, but I think I'm hooked on yet another show.
Monday, May 30, 2011
I got lost in a suburban woods
Never Done: I got lost in a suburban woods
When I come to Potomac to visit Josh's mom, I always try to take advantage of the fact that we're in the suburbs -- go to REI, swim in the huge and empty-laned Montgomery Aquatics Club, or, like I'm going to do on this trip, getting a no-hassle, no-wait appointment at the Apple Store genius bar. (My computer has been crashing -- randomly going blue and then rebooting without actually rebooting. It's scaring me.) Also on this trip, fresh off my difficult swim, I decided to take refuge in something I know I can do: run in the woods.
This is my favorite kind of running. I love that the dirt paths are softened by pine needles, and that they are tripped up with rocks and roots. I love the attention it takes to place ones feet while keeping up a steady pace. I love the smells in the woods, and the hundreds of greens and browns, and I love making mental notes of the the path, so I can safely loop back to the start.
Except when I can't.
I wanted to go for a 50-minute run, which is 7-minutes longer than I've done so far, but is what my group is up to, and I decided to go in the Cabin John Park Trail, along the Cabin John creek. I was still having an extremely tough time breathing (even when not exercising) but I brought my inhaler, and figured I could stop and walk whenever I needed to. I chose a path that started out flat along the creek, and set out at a slow steady pace for about 10 minutes before it started to climb. It was lovely. It wasn't wild forest, but it was a world away from the brick McMansions and strip malls. I ran quite well, although my lungs made me walk up most of the steep inclines. After 25 minutes, I had descended to the creek again, and I could hear a road, but I didn't know if it was the right road. I still had time to turn around and follow the blue-marked trail back, but I had a feeling there was going to be a different way to go -- a flatter, creek-side way that would keep me running instead of walking up the hills.
So I decided to explore a little. I have a great sense of direction, and I still had 30 minutes before I was supposed to call Josh and his family to make a plan for dinner. I arrived quickly to a park entrance, with a posted sign with trail info on it, but it lacked the one thing I most needed: YOU ARE HERE. I chose the path that followed the creek, and eventually crossed paths with a man and his dog. I asked him how far I was from my car, and told him how I had come, and he let me know that there was in fact a faster way back -- if I would follow the creek the other direction, I was just an easy mile and half from my entrance.
So I turned around, and kept running, hugging the creek like the man said, and thought about how we trust people we don't know, even when (especially when?) we're out of our element.
Anyhow, I followed his advice, and after about 10 minutes, the creek looked like it looked where I had come in, and I could hear the road ahead. I was feeling good. And then.
Just about where I thought I should head out to the road, I couldn't find a way out of the woods. The path kept going, up a sharp incline, and further south than I thought I should go. But it was the only path I could see, so I followed. And came out to a giant field under miles of power lines. The path I was on ended, and huge brambles prevented me from following the creek. It was the time I said I would call in to make a plan to go to a dinner (at a cafe in a strip mall) but (did I not mention this earlier?) I had left my cell phone in the car, so I could carry water instead. This was the moment when I realized I was lost in a suburban woods.
I decided to follow the power lines to see if there was another clue. I went the way I thought was wrong geographically, but right instinctively -- now really pushing my stamina, because it was coming to the 45 minute mark of running. Way up ahead, I saw some trucks parked under the power lines, and realized that might mean there was a road nearby, so I kept heading in that direction, when suddenly I heard 70s rock music blaring from what seemed like the middle of the woods. I followed a path that led in that direction, and before long I could see glimpses of cars in what I thought was a field, and I pictured a Memorial Day party, full of drunk guys my age pretending they were still in high school. I pictured myself emerging, sweaty, out of the woods and asking for directions, when I came up out of the woods and it was a sports recreation facility and a giant parking lot and a lot of nice suburban parents watching their nice suburban kids play baseball.
I told one of the nice suburban mothers that I was late and had gotten lost, and she told me where I was. It turned out my sense of direction had been flawless, even if my ability to use it had been useless -- I was 1/2 mile away from my car, along two major suburban roads. I wanted her to offer to give me a lift, but she looked at me and said, You look like you want to run. I said, Actually, I've been running for an hour, and she smiled and turned away and got into her SUV.
There was a time when I lived in England when I was traveling around with the Green Road Show, and they were all caravanning from one peace and music festival to the next, and leaving me alone to hitchhike. I've written about it before; my hitchhikes often ended badly, and somehow I was still not able to just come out and ask my friends for the help I needed, and somehow they were all willing to drive away waving -- see you at Glastonbury! Granted, this was a different situation (they were my community; she had never laid eyes on me) but how hard would it have been for this woman to give me a lift 2 minutes down the road, when she knew I was late and tired, instead of leaving me to sort it out on my own? Apparently too hard, and so she drove off, waving, and I set off out to the road.
It all worked out. I called in about 25 minutes late, and nobody minded. They told me which chain restaurant in which strip mall we were going to. I got over there 10 minutes before they arrived, and did my warm-down stretches in the parking lot. All the while thinking about what the barriers are to my really asking for help when I need it.
When I come to Potomac to visit Josh's mom, I always try to take advantage of the fact that we're in the suburbs -- go to REI, swim in the huge and empty-laned Montgomery Aquatics Club, or, like I'm going to do on this trip, getting a no-hassle, no-wait appointment at the Apple Store genius bar. (My computer has been crashing -- randomly going blue and then rebooting without actually rebooting. It's scaring me.) Also on this trip, fresh off my difficult swim, I decided to take refuge in something I know I can do: run in the woods.
This is my favorite kind of running. I love that the dirt paths are softened by pine needles, and that they are tripped up with rocks and roots. I love the attention it takes to place ones feet while keeping up a steady pace. I love the smells in the woods, and the hundreds of greens and browns, and I love making mental notes of the the path, so I can safely loop back to the start.
Except when I can't.
I wanted to go for a 50-minute run, which is 7-minutes longer than I've done so far, but is what my group is up to, and I decided to go in the Cabin John Park Trail, along the Cabin John creek. I was still having an extremely tough time breathing (even when not exercising) but I brought my inhaler, and figured I could stop and walk whenever I needed to. I chose a path that started out flat along the creek, and set out at a slow steady pace for about 10 minutes before it started to climb. It was lovely. It wasn't wild forest, but it was a world away from the brick McMansions and strip malls. I ran quite well, although my lungs made me walk up most of the steep inclines. After 25 minutes, I had descended to the creek again, and I could hear a road, but I didn't know if it was the right road. I still had time to turn around and follow the blue-marked trail back, but I had a feeling there was going to be a different way to go -- a flatter, creek-side way that would keep me running instead of walking up the hills.
So I decided to explore a little. I have a great sense of direction, and I still had 30 minutes before I was supposed to call Josh and his family to make a plan for dinner. I arrived quickly to a park entrance, with a posted sign with trail info on it, but it lacked the one thing I most needed: YOU ARE HERE. I chose the path that followed the creek, and eventually crossed paths with a man and his dog. I asked him how far I was from my car, and told him how I had come, and he let me know that there was in fact a faster way back -- if I would follow the creek the other direction, I was just an easy mile and half from my entrance.
So I turned around, and kept running, hugging the creek like the man said, and thought about how we trust people we don't know, even when (especially when?) we're out of our element.
Anyhow, I followed his advice, and after about 10 minutes, the creek looked like it looked where I had come in, and I could hear the road ahead. I was feeling good. And then.
Just about where I thought I should head out to the road, I couldn't find a way out of the woods. The path kept going, up a sharp incline, and further south than I thought I should go. But it was the only path I could see, so I followed. And came out to a giant field under miles of power lines. The path I was on ended, and huge brambles prevented me from following the creek. It was the time I said I would call in to make a plan to go to a dinner (at a cafe in a strip mall) but (did I not mention this earlier?) I had left my cell phone in the car, so I could carry water instead. This was the moment when I realized I was lost in a suburban woods.
I decided to follow the power lines to see if there was another clue. I went the way I thought was wrong geographically, but right instinctively -- now really pushing my stamina, because it was coming to the 45 minute mark of running. Way up ahead, I saw some trucks parked under the power lines, and realized that might mean there was a road nearby, so I kept heading in that direction, when suddenly I heard 70s rock music blaring from what seemed like the middle of the woods. I followed a path that led in that direction, and before long I could see glimpses of cars in what I thought was a field, and I pictured a Memorial Day party, full of drunk guys my age pretending they were still in high school. I pictured myself emerging, sweaty, out of the woods and asking for directions, when I came up out of the woods and it was a sports recreation facility and a giant parking lot and a lot of nice suburban parents watching their nice suburban kids play baseball.
I told one of the nice suburban mothers that I was late and had gotten lost, and she told me where I was. It turned out my sense of direction had been flawless, even if my ability to use it had been useless -- I was 1/2 mile away from my car, along two major suburban roads. I wanted her to offer to give me a lift, but she looked at me and said, You look like you want to run. I said, Actually, I've been running for an hour, and she smiled and turned away and got into her SUV.
There was a time when I lived in England when I was traveling around with the Green Road Show, and they were all caravanning from one peace and music festival to the next, and leaving me alone to hitchhike. I've written about it before; my hitchhikes often ended badly, and somehow I was still not able to just come out and ask my friends for the help I needed, and somehow they were all willing to drive away waving -- see you at Glastonbury! Granted, this was a different situation (they were my community; she had never laid eyes on me) but how hard would it have been for this woman to give me a lift 2 minutes down the road, when she knew I was late and tired, instead of leaving me to sort it out on my own? Apparently too hard, and so she drove off, waving, and I set off out to the road.
It all worked out. I called in about 25 minutes late, and nobody minded. They told me which chain restaurant in which strip mall we were going to. I got over there 10 minutes before they arrived, and did my warm-down stretches in the parking lot. All the while thinking about what the barriers are to my really asking for help when I need it.
Sunday, May 29, 2011
I swam in the Hudson River
Never Done: I swam in the Hudson River
I wanted to get in the Hudson River well before the triathlon so I could get a feel for what it is like to swim in the river before I do the triathlon in August. I knew of course that it would be a lot colder now than then, but I wanted to feel the chop, and the pull of the tide, and most of all -- what it is like to swim in a wetsuit -- so I signed up for three open water swims this summer -- the Great Hudson River Swim in the Hudson, a The Pancake spring triathlon in Raritan Bay, and the Brooklyn Bridge Swim in the East River.
The Great Hudson River Swim is a "beginner-friendly" (as per the NYC Swim website) 1.6 miles in the Hudson, from Christopher Street Pier 45 to Battery Park City. I was was worried about it being cold, and worried about what it would be like to swim in a wetsuit, and quite nervous about the start, when I'd been told people would jump in and swim on top of me -- but I was pretty confident about the swim itself. I've swim long distances before, I love the open water, I am in great shape right now -- and doing especially well in the pool.
Still, as I approached the sign-in area at 6 AM, I had knots in my stomach. I wasn't sure why I was nervous, because this wasn't a race for me; it was an experiment. My nerves calmed down as I signed in (first person to get my number: 208) penned in Sharpie onto the backs of my hands. They calmed down more as I waited an hour and a half for the swim to start, put on my wetsuit, and joked and talked with other swimmers.
Finally it was time to jump off the Pier, into the Hudson. Everyone says that the hardest part is the beginning, when other people are jumping in on top of you, so I made a deal with the person in front of me and behind me -- told them I wouldn't jump on them, and they shouldn't jump on me. It loosened things up a little bit, and made me feel better to have that level of human connection about the scariest part.
I was in the second wave of swimmers, so I got to see other people jump in and gather together to wait for the start. When my turn came, it felt otherworldly. I was on the edge of the dock, I was told to jump in, I hesitated for maybe 1 second and the man running the show told me to hurry, and so I jumped -- over my own natural tendency to take a little more time -- but I jumped. My goggles stayed on, and the water was chilly but not unbearably cold. (I had a sleeveless wetsuit, and that was just fine.) We waited a good 10 minutes in the water before our heat took off, and during that time I talked with the other swimmers, and waved to Josh who was supporting me from the pier, and thought cockily to myself, Well the hardest part is over. Nobody jumped on top of me, and this water is not too cold.
Finally we heard the countdown and the horn, and we were off -- and it immediately got hard. I set out nice and slow, and within a minute someone was swimming on top of me. I just pulled aside to let them pass, and started again -- and again, someone started to flail on top of me. It felt strange -- there was plenty of room for us to spread out, so I wasn't sure why they were on me, unless they couldn't see or they were panicking or they were assholes. (Probably it was at least one of those reasons.)
Meanwhile, I already hated the wetsuit. It was tight around my neck, and I was having a tough time breathing. Not from exertion -- I had barely exerted yet -- but I think from the compression of the wetsuit combined with my already-compromised lungs combined with the water temperature combined with my reaction to other people swimming on top of me. I couldn't take a significant breath, and I just wanted to rip the wetsuit off from around my neck and chest. I slowed down and let everyone pass, and just tested out what it was like to swim without anyone around. The strokes felt fine, but I could not breathe right. I didn't feel panicked at all -- I just knew that without breath, I wouldn't be able to swim a mile and a half. With a sinking feeling (metaphorically, not literally) I swam over to one of the rescue kayaks and told the guy in it that I shouldn't do this. I felt really disappointed, and also realistic.
He pointed me to the big rescue motor boat, and asked if I needed help getting there. I didn't -- I could swim over there just fine. (I mean, as fine as you are when you can't get a breath and you want to rip off your wetsuit, but really actually fine.) On my way over, it occurred to me that I could take off my wetsuit and get back in the water -- that this didn't actually mean the swim was over for me. So when I got up on the boat, I took off my suit, and asked the rescue captain if that was fine. He wasn't actually a race official, so didn't really care one way or the other. So I did it -- I jumped back into the Hudson without a wetsuit, and set back out on the course. Again, the water temp was fine on my limbs, and it felt great to be in my element without the wetsuit on, but I still couldn't get a breath. (In the end, all day and night passed without my being able to take a significant breath, so the fact that I couldn't get it in 62 degree water isn't a surprise.)
I went through the same process of disappointment and reality all over again, swam back to the rescue boat, and climbed back up. My Great Hudson River Swim was over. Lung fail.
But it turned out it wasn't over. Because I stayed on that boat -- with the two captains and the three other swimmers who got picked up -- for another 45 minutes. I tried to talk with the other swimmers, but they were pretty sulky. One of them had a cut hand, one of them was "off his game" and the other one wouldn't even talk. A sorry bunch, feeling sorry for themselves, while meanwhile, I felt surprisingly emotionally OK. I watched the swimmers in the water, and the rescue kayak culture -- trying to learn as much as I could from my unexpected vantage point. I felt a lot of appreciation for the boating support team. I watched the slow swimmers and noticed how good they were at taking their time, and also that they actually had support kayaks boating next to them. Had I understood that I would have had that level of close support, I would have stayed in the water, and while that increased my disappointment that I had gotten out, it also felt like it was still the point of doing the swim in the first place -- to experiment and to to learn.
In other words, I decided to practice Humility: Seek wisdom from others, and not to sink into humiliation.
Until later, once I was on land again, and I started to feel my confidence tank. If you've been around me over the past months, you've heard me sound pretty cocky about the swim -- saying again and again that the swimming part of the triathlon is no problem. I'm a great swimmer. My weak sports will be biking and running. Well damn, if I can't breathe in a wetsuit, it doesn't matter how good a swimmer I am.
I told Josh about all of this on the way home, and we discussed the etymological roots of the words humility and humiliation because I wanted to know how closely related the two things are. We weren't actually sure about the derivation, but Josh gave me a wonderful definition of what he felt I'd been through: Humiliation is being dragged kicking and screaming into a state of humility.
Later in day, he went out while I was napping, and came home with a beautiful spray freesias, and a redefinition of my entire race day. He said there were 6 waves of races: 5 waves of swimmers, and one boating wave. And then he said that I placed first in the boating wave, because I practiced so much equanimity and patience and humility.
Now I just have to keep practicing all three, as I strategize my way forward. Can I swim without a wetsuit? If I do that, do I just swim in my tri shorts and top? What about wearing a neoprine vest? Or maybe a one-piece trisuit? And maybe more importantly than all that, what is really going on with my lungs? Why does it feel like the rest of my body is getting stronger and stronger, while I can't get a full breath? I think it's time to practice diligence, and take my compromised lungs to the doctor. Onward.
I wanted to get in the Hudson River well before the triathlon so I could get a feel for what it is like to swim in the river before I do the triathlon in August. I knew of course that it would be a lot colder now than then, but I wanted to feel the chop, and the pull of the tide, and most of all -- what it is like to swim in a wetsuit -- so I signed up for three open water swims this summer -- the Great Hudson River Swim in the Hudson, a The Pancake spring triathlon in Raritan Bay, and the Brooklyn Bridge Swim in the East River.
The Great Hudson River Swim is a "beginner-friendly" (as per the NYC Swim website) 1.6 miles in the Hudson, from Christopher Street Pier 45 to Battery Park City. I was was worried about it being cold, and worried about what it would be like to swim in a wetsuit, and quite nervous about the start, when I'd been told people would jump in and swim on top of me -- but I was pretty confident about the swim itself. I've swim long distances before, I love the open water, I am in great shape right now -- and doing especially well in the pool.
Still, as I approached the sign-in area at 6 AM, I had knots in my stomach. I wasn't sure why I was nervous, because this wasn't a race for me; it was an experiment. My nerves calmed down as I signed in (first person to get my number: 208) penned in Sharpie onto the backs of my hands. They calmed down more as I waited an hour and a half for the swim to start, put on my wetsuit, and joked and talked with other swimmers.
Finally it was time to jump off the Pier, into the Hudson. Everyone says that the hardest part is the beginning, when other people are jumping in on top of you, so I made a deal with the person in front of me and behind me -- told them I wouldn't jump on them, and they shouldn't jump on me. It loosened things up a little bit, and made me feel better to have that level of human connection about the scariest part.
I was in the second wave of swimmers, so I got to see other people jump in and gather together to wait for the start. When my turn came, it felt otherworldly. I was on the edge of the dock, I was told to jump in, I hesitated for maybe 1 second and the man running the show told me to hurry, and so I jumped -- over my own natural tendency to take a little more time -- but I jumped. My goggles stayed on, and the water was chilly but not unbearably cold. (I had a sleeveless wetsuit, and that was just fine.) We waited a good 10 minutes in the water before our heat took off, and during that time I talked with the other swimmers, and waved to Josh who was supporting me from the pier, and thought cockily to myself, Well the hardest part is over. Nobody jumped on top of me, and this water is not too cold.
Finally we heard the countdown and the horn, and we were off -- and it immediately got hard. I set out nice and slow, and within a minute someone was swimming on top of me. I just pulled aside to let them pass, and started again -- and again, someone started to flail on top of me. It felt strange -- there was plenty of room for us to spread out, so I wasn't sure why they were on me, unless they couldn't see or they were panicking or they were assholes. (Probably it was at least one of those reasons.)
Meanwhile, I already hated the wetsuit. It was tight around my neck, and I was having a tough time breathing. Not from exertion -- I had barely exerted yet -- but I think from the compression of the wetsuit combined with my already-compromised lungs combined with the water temperature combined with my reaction to other people swimming on top of me. I couldn't take a significant breath, and I just wanted to rip the wetsuit off from around my neck and chest. I slowed down and let everyone pass, and just tested out what it was like to swim without anyone around. The strokes felt fine, but I could not breathe right. I didn't feel panicked at all -- I just knew that without breath, I wouldn't be able to swim a mile and a half. With a sinking feeling (metaphorically, not literally) I swam over to one of the rescue kayaks and told the guy in it that I shouldn't do this. I felt really disappointed, and also realistic.
He pointed me to the big rescue motor boat, and asked if I needed help getting there. I didn't -- I could swim over there just fine. (I mean, as fine as you are when you can't get a breath and you want to rip off your wetsuit, but really actually fine.) On my way over, it occurred to me that I could take off my wetsuit and get back in the water -- that this didn't actually mean the swim was over for me. So when I got up on the boat, I took off my suit, and asked the rescue captain if that was fine. He wasn't actually a race official, so didn't really care one way or the other. So I did it -- I jumped back into the Hudson without a wetsuit, and set back out on the course. Again, the water temp was fine on my limbs, and it felt great to be in my element without the wetsuit on, but I still couldn't get a breath. (In the end, all day and night passed without my being able to take a significant breath, so the fact that I couldn't get it in 62 degree water isn't a surprise.)
I went through the same process of disappointment and reality all over again, swam back to the rescue boat, and climbed back up. My Great Hudson River Swim was over. Lung fail.
But it turned out it wasn't over. Because I stayed on that boat -- with the two captains and the three other swimmers who got picked up -- for another 45 minutes. I tried to talk with the other swimmers, but they were pretty sulky. One of them had a cut hand, one of them was "off his game" and the other one wouldn't even talk. A sorry bunch, feeling sorry for themselves, while meanwhile, I felt surprisingly emotionally OK. I watched the swimmers in the water, and the rescue kayak culture -- trying to learn as much as I could from my unexpected vantage point. I felt a lot of appreciation for the boating support team. I watched the slow swimmers and noticed how good they were at taking their time, and also that they actually had support kayaks boating next to them. Had I understood that I would have had that level of close support, I would have stayed in the water, and while that increased my disappointment that I had gotten out, it also felt like it was still the point of doing the swim in the first place -- to experiment and to to learn.
In other words, I decided to practice Humility: Seek wisdom from others, and not to sink into humiliation.
Until later, once I was on land again, and I started to feel my confidence tank. If you've been around me over the past months, you've heard me sound pretty cocky about the swim -- saying again and again that the swimming part of the triathlon is no problem. I'm a great swimmer. My weak sports will be biking and running. Well damn, if I can't breathe in a wetsuit, it doesn't matter how good a swimmer I am.
I told Josh about all of this on the way home, and we discussed the etymological roots of the words humility and humiliation because I wanted to know how closely related the two things are. We weren't actually sure about the derivation, but Josh gave me a wonderful definition of what he felt I'd been through: Humiliation is being dragged kicking and screaming into a state of humility.
Later in day, he went out while I was napping, and came home with a beautiful spray freesias, and a redefinition of my entire race day. He said there were 6 waves of races: 5 waves of swimmers, and one boating wave. And then he said that I placed first in the boating wave, because I practiced so much equanimity and patience and humility.
Now I just have to keep practicing all three, as I strategize my way forward. Can I swim without a wetsuit? If I do that, do I just swim in my tri shorts and top? What about wearing a neoprine vest? Or maybe a one-piece trisuit? And maybe more importantly than all that, what is really going on with my lungs? Why does it feel like the rest of my body is getting stronger and stronger, while I can't get a full breath? I think it's time to practice diligence, and take my compromised lungs to the doctor. Onward.
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