Pedestrians beware

I was watching the NYC Half Marathon this morning and rollerblading past Chelsea Piers when I saw a woman walking two huge dogs (by "huge dog" I mean "small horse") in the race. I mean the runners were on the West Side Highway. So was she. Next to the runners. With her two small horses. Anyone who has ever run or ridden by a dog knows that these animals tend to lunge toward fast-moving objects near their heads, so walking dogs in a race is right up there together with not saying no to drugs.

I thought Horse Walker might just be oblivious to the race, so I called out, "You're in the race!" To which she responded, "I'm crossing the street." (Whatever she was doing, there was no crossing apparent.) And then she retorted, "Mind your own business, please." Now, I'm not a nosy person, but when you're doing something that spectacularly idiotic, it becomes everyone's business.

Most pedestrians are pretty careful around cars, but when it comes to bike paths, they inexplicably treat them like sidewalks. Bike paths ARE NOT sidewalks. Think about it this way: if there was no bike path, cyclists and skaters and joggers would be riding / running in the road, alongside cars. So unless you're prepared to walk your dogs -- or push your stroller -- in traffic, stay off the bike path.

Ironman, here I come

I learned how to ride a bike this weekend. I don't mean I learned how to race, or how to clip in with cycling shoes, or how to work the gears on a mountain bike. I mean I learned how to not fall over while making the bike go forward -- what the rest of the world learns at approximately the age of five. I think I was the only adult Chinese person on the planet who didn't know how to ride a bike.

No one actually believes me when I tell them I can't ride a bike because, after all, I spin. A lot. When I take spinning classes with teachers who don't know me, they inevitably come up to me after class to ask which group I ride with. (I do hill climbs particularly nicely, thank you very much, Versus.)

The last time I tried learning how to ride a bike, my friend rented a bike and took me down to the pier by Chelsea Piers. I tried pedaling (and falling over) several times before getting impatient and strapping on my rollerblades -- a far more successful endeavor. The icing on the cake was when a man in a wheelchair -- he'd been observing me fall repeatedly -- offered some tips. You know you're doing a terrific job riding a bike when you need advice from someone who can't walk.

A couple years ago I signed up for the Nautica-New York City Triathlon, hoping that the race (by which I mean the exorbitant race fee) would force me to learn how to ride. I ended up losing the entrance fee. Finally, sidelined by plantar fasciitis, I decided it was now or never.

I looked up Terry Chin, who's been written up multiple times in The New York Times for his riding lessons for adults. Saturday morning, I met up with my class. Aside from the fact that Terry really gets a kick out of making fun of you -- *exactly* what an adult who doesn't know how to ride a bike is looking for -- the two-hour lesson ended with me (and most of the rest of the class) riding out of Riverside Park.

Sunday, I decided to attempt Central Park, which was possibly not the best idea for my second day on a bike, but I figured, why not aim high? After several false starts (and many startled pedestrians), I was up and running (so to speak). Voila:

You may be wondering why exactly I require a helmet to ride at the bone-chilling speed of five miles an hour, but in the words of my colleague, "It's better to look like a fruit than end up a vegetable."

What I do when I'm not running long on Sundays

Since my physical therapist has forbidden me to run for the time being, I've been cross training at the gym -- lots of swimming and spinning and weights and time on the elliptical and ARC trainers -- and this also means no more long runs on Sunday mornings. So instead, I've been pounding the pavement looking for apartments. (Probably "pounding the pavement" isn't the best thing to be doing on plantar fasciitis-aggravated feet, but at least I'm not running.) Unfortunately I can't consider these hours of walking cross training (my heart rate never surpasses 60 percent of its maximum when I walk -- yes, I've measured it -- so I'm not even burning fat calories let alone working out my heart and lungs), but I like to consider it five hours of at least dynamic stretching.

Now, the first thing you notice about the New York City real estate market -- well, the second thing after the exorbitant prices for tiny apartments -- is that listing agents lie. About everything. Like a two-bedroom apartment doesn't actually have two bedrooms. It has one bedroom. And a dining area the tenants have turned into a bedroom for a three year-old. (Or a doll or some other being that doesn't exceed 24 inches in length.) Of course, the game is up the second the potential buyer walks in -- it's not like you can actually keep up the charade that the breakfast nook that holds all of a potted plant is actually a bedroom. So why not just call it like it is?

Apartments that actually have two bedrooms are, in fact, called "true" two bedrooms. The implication being that this listing agent is actually telling the truth? So it's okay to lie? Does it also work if you lie to the mortgage broker about your salary? And your credit history? What fun that would be.

Then there's the "just minutes from the subway" line (most of New York City being slavishly dependent on the subways) that agents love to trot out when describing apartments. A fair number of these listing agents need to seriously reassess. Take it from this marathoner that a mile from the subway is not a walkable distance twice a day, five days a week for the average commuter and that walk certainly does not fall into the generally accepted definition of "minutes." Can I say it took me "minutes" to run the New York City marathon? I mean, just 244 of them.

And lastly, I'd like to sound the wake up call to the condo developers who remain convinced their target demographic consists of hobbits. This is not so. I should not have to suck in my stomach when mounting the stairs. Nor should I ever find myself standing in a bedroom the size of my gym locker. And those tiny little sinks you find in bathrooms in Chinese restaurants? Not luxury condo material. Really, folks.

Time to learn how to bike

I've had plantar fasciitis in both feet ever since I ran 13 miles on faux trail (concrete sprinkled with fairy dust) back in March. Now, I really feel quite special because plantar typically affects only one foot.

I tried stretching -- much to my 60 year-old male doctor's amusement, I'm less flexible than him -- and icing my feet (to reduce the inflammation) and massaging them (to break up the scar tissue that had formed in my heels). I like using the Trigger Point roller / balls to massage my feet, but you can also save yourself money by using tennis balls or soda cans (or beer cans if that's more your speed) which allow you to ice and massage at the same time. Also, try filling a Dixie cup with water and freezing it for a larger chunk of ice than what you'd pop out of your ice tray.

My feet got a little worse (apparently when the doctor said "take it easy," he didn't really mean "run 20 miles a week") then a little better, but never healed up completely. So I went to a sports medicine doctor -- Blue Cross had better not have been lying when they said I didn't need a referral because my primary care physician has not yet discovered multiple lines, voicemail or call waiting and can only be contacted by carrier pigeon -- who told me part of the problem was that my glutes were weak and my calves were overcompensating. Funny, because whenever local gentlemen issue unsolicited commentary on that part of my anatomy, "weak" is generally not a conclusion at which they arrive. Ah well.

Sports Doc forbade me from running, recommended physical therapy (I start next Monday, bright and early) and suggested I buy splints to sleep in. They arrived today:

Seriously. I thought she was talking about those wonky socks you see advertised in places like Runner's World or Outside. If I'd known she was actually talking about these sexy puppies, I would have saved the money and planned to take my ski boots to bed.

Wick this

After running in a torrential downpour one evening last week, I exited Central Park with a friend. Scott looked down at his feet and announced they were soaked. I swore up and down that mine were completely dry except for a little dampness at the toes (where, incidentally, I had holes in my running shoes). So I thought it was a little odd when I got to the dressing room at the gym only to find that my socks were, indeed, soaked ... until the next morning when I got up only to find that my sneakers were drenched -- tops, bottoms, insoles, everything. And that, my friends, is why the Powers That Be make moisture-wicking fabrics. I give you the Balega socks:

I'm not sure whose brilliant idea it was to go to South Africa for technical socks (where they're made), but they work wonders. My Balegas provide a lot of cushioning, in winter they keep my feet warm -- including the time I ran a 10-miler in 11-degree weather and ended up with frostbite on my derriere -- and in summer I don't get hot. I bought mine at the New York Running Company.

Flying

Race shots are notoriously bad, usually catching you looking somewhere between unflattering and deathly and you force yourself to pretend your friends aren't looking you up on Brightroom even though you know they probably are. But sometimes, the camera gets you at the perfect moment: when both your feet are off the ground and you're "flying." (National Marathon, DC, March 2008).

Running and talking

I did once have an entire conversation about ultramarathons with a couple runners around mile 10 of a marathon (for the record, they were ultrarunners tapering with the marathon), but for the most part, I'm of the if-you're-talking-while-you're running-you're-not-training-hard-enough school of running. Granted, it's nice to be able to break up a 20 miler with a few words every so often with a fellow runner, but non-stop convo?

For one thing, talking on the run is the mobile equivalent of people blasting the volume on their iPods. For another, talkers inevitably run side-by-side, making it difficult to pass them. (Which means that people like me are forced to shove them out of the way. Which may or may not have happened in the last 100 meters of the Philadelphia Distance Run as three girls chatted their way to the finish.)

Just because your legs are running, doesn't mean your mouth has to.