A whine on wine

I had a bit of an old-lady tantrum yesterday but I totally stand by it. 

I received an email link to a company that is marketng its wines to younger (though still legal) drinkers.  No doubt the company did its research and realised that some young people (“the millennials” as they seem to be called in marketing circles) feel intimidated by wine and they don’t feel equipped to make a sensible choice about what wine they, or their friends, might enjoy. 

Hey, I’ve been there. I know wine can be intimidating.  But my easy solution would be to ask someone.  Your family, friends, or even the guy at the wine store.  Even if you don’t know what varietal(s) you like or what region you prefer, even the L-plate wine drinker knows if they usually prefer white wine or red wine.  And any wine store worth its mettle should be able to steer you to success from there. 

But what did the wine company in question do?  Rather than value the intelligence of their intended market, they released a range of wines with labels bearing “LOL!!!”, “OMG!!!”, “LMAO!!!” and other such keyboard shortcuts.  Yes, those exclamation points are superfluous but again, they are the company’s idea, not mine.  To utter three little letters of my own: W.T.F (incidentally, this is the name of the company’s Pinot Noir).  I may not be a purist, but I am a linguist, and something about these products is slowly killing me on the inside.

Tapping into young-person’s vocab is a great way to show you have your finger on the social pulse.  And maybe I’m just turning into a crotchety old sag, but aren’t these texty labels tantamount to a giant neon sign above the head of the purchaser, screaming to all and sundry that he/she clearly doesn’t know what he/she is doing?  As I clutch my pearls and inhale my smelling salts, I have to despair: won’t anybody think of the children?!

And okay, fine.  I have to concede that contents aside, these labels are trying to encourage young drinkers to drink wine and on this front, I am totally on board.  I love wine, and I want lots of other legal-drinking-age people to love it too.  But will young drinkers actually learn anything about wine from drinking these ones?  I suspect not.  So I’m led to assume that this is just a dumb marketing stunt designed to move lots of product. And all I can say is, shame on you TXT Cellars.  Besides, the 2011 Consumer Research Study by the Wine Market Council suggests you clearly didn’t need to resort to this.  In the US at least, the survey reports trends that suggest that millennials are more likely than other groups to try wines they’ve never heard of before, they’re more likely to consult wine reviews and more likely to visit wine bars.  Millennials also consume more wine per occasion than we older soaks, and they readily use social media channels to talk about the wines they’re drinking.  They’re a switched-on, sophisticated bunch of consumers, so treat them accordingly.

Sigh.  In times like this, I reflect fondly on one of my favourite wine stores ever.  The owners, staff, teachers and patrons all used to say, “the best wine for you is the wine you like the best”.  So my advice to young drinkers looking to find the best wine for them, is to keep asking questions, keep sampling, and keep an open mind.  And learn how to spot an insult to your intelligence when you see one.

I have to go now.  It's 7pm and "Matlock" is on TV.

And zen what?

We’ve had a couple of really busy weeks at work.  You’d think that the frenzied days would knock me out and make me sleep like the dead, right?  In a just world, I suspect that would be the case.  But as it turns out, my brain has been totally wired and it’s been very hard for me to relax and wind down at the end of a frantic day.

I was discussing this very thing at the hair salon the other day and the guy shampooing my hair suggested that a half-bottle of wine was a solution that always seemed to work for him.  I had to agree he had a point, but both of us conceded that the morning-after effects could be a bit tough to take.  Someone else suggested reading – another worthwhile pursuit, to be sure, and one to which I often resort.  But then we said that sometimes an exciting book can make your mind race about the plot potential, then before you know it you’re no longer wired about your day, but instead you're daydreaming about a whole bunch of other things – and still, sleep does not come.

So during the week I wondered whether I ought to give meditation a try.  I have never done it before, and I’m not even sure what it’s really about, so I thought I’d have a go.  There is a Buddhist Meditation Center in Chelsea, not far from my hair salon, so I had every intention of going along to an introductory seminar there after my haircut on Saturday afternoon.  I didn’t have to book ahead of time either – just turn up, pay a small fee, and listen and learn.

As you've come to expect from me though, I totally decided to chicken out at the last minute.  Instead of my quest for zen, I decided to shop for second-hand books on the other side of town.  While this capitalist diversion certainly cheered me (body and soul), I still feel like I missed out on something. 

I have a small Buddha statue by my jewellery box at home and he is so roly-poly and smiley.  Every time I look at him, I can't help but wonder what really made me wimp out on the weekend.

You know what I've come to realise it is?  I’m a bit fearful about the whole meditation center concept.  In my head it’s about floor cushions, hemp pants and incense. 

Or perhaps it’s the fear that my instructor will be a past-life regressor with a bald head and long, scraggly beard; or worse, a young guy who only believes in mineral deodorant.  Or no deodorant at all. 

Or am I just afraid of being in a room with barefoot people?  All those sweaty feet smells.    Plus I can never remember if I’ve touched up my toenail polish. 

Do they make you chant in Buddhist meditation? I don’t want to chant.  I will repeat a mental chant or mantra to myself, if it helps, but I don’t want to say anything out loud. 

And I definitely don’t want to touch anyone.  There is a strict no-touch policy enforced when it comes to this meditation thing.  I get tense just thinking about it.  Isn't it ironic, don't you think?

Bookworms or bugs?

I don’t think I’ll ever really be able to deal with an e-reader.  I mean, I certainly love the idea of them – the convenience, the portability, and the streamlined look and feel.   I watch people reading them on the trains and they always look so secure; effortlessly holding onto the pole with one hand, and their e-reader in the other.  That sort of balancing act isn’t always so easy with real books. 

E-readers won’t cut it for me because as far as I am concerned, books aren’t just about content.  And my enjoyment of books just doesn’t just come from the words on the page. 

I love the weight of a book in my hands.  It is the bulk of someone’s hard work, imagination and creativity.  I love turning crisp pages, or even well-worn ones (sometimes especially those).  I like the way old books smell.  Old things don’t always smell so good.  I enjoy reading random phrases – or entire paragraphs – that people have underlined.  Or notes they have made in the margins.  I love reading back over the notes I’ve made in margins.  I don’t care that some books make my handbag bulge or force me to cradle the book in my arms, just so I can bring it along with me.  I will often forsake trashy magazines at the hair salon, just so I can squeeze a few more chapters in.  A chapter or two read at night will be just the thing to relax my brain after a long day.  To my mind, the book is always better than the movie.  But I also love it when the book and the movie are nothing alike, but you only know that for sure if you’ve actually read the book first.  Sigh, bliss.

Always a fan of a bookshop or fair, I was totally hooked when I spent about 90 minutes getting lost in Strand Bookstore in the East Village.  Home to 18 miles of books, the store is jam-packed with new and used, popular, rare and even out-of-print works.  I wandered in with no idea what I was looking for and as I started to browse the shelves, my attention was drawn to the leather-bound classics at the very back of the store.  As I thumbed the creaking spines, so many familiar titles leapt out at me.  Well-known authors, like old friends, stared back at me.  Austen, Dante, Chaucer, and Shakespeare – they were all there.  In the end I settled on a leather-bound but second-hand copy of the American classic, “Uncle Tom’s Cabin”.  Eight chapters in, and I’m convinced the book should have come with its own pack of Kleenex.  And I know how this book ends too, so it’s only going to get worse.  Not a book to read in public, unless you don’t mind public displays of snivelling and random outrage.

Then of course I find out today that people are being cautioned about buying second-hand goods because of bedbugs!  Can you believe it?  That never occurred to me.  I thought the biggest problem you had with second-hand stuff was dust.  Is this bedbug thing just an urban legend?  I think if Strand had infected me, I’d be itching and scratching already but so far, so good. 

And besides, if bedbugs are going to live in second-hand things that I buy, perhaps instead of complaining about it, I should just appreciate their excellent taste?

Just open the window, already!

So this website developer has a neat little tool that tracks where my readers come from, and it surprised me greatly to learn that I have a fairly regular audience in the Maldives, Russia, and even Turkey.  Holla, you guys!

Then of course I worried because some of the stuff I've chosen to write about on here offers a scary insight into how my brain works (or doesn't).  But they keep coming back, so they mustn't mind, right?  Perhaps it's nice to know there's always someone out there weirder than you are.  So today's post is another exhibition of weirdness, dedicated to my friends in the far-flung lands.

There have been some germs going around our office lately and people have been dropping like flies.  And not just for a day or two either.  When they succumb to the latest strain of cold/flu, they are down for the count.  I don't know whether it's a cold brewing, or just because I slept with my windows closed last night and my room got super-stuffy, but my subsconscious went on the rampage last night.  My dream wasn't as disturbing as the one I had the other night, but it still woke me up at 2am.  And I really hate that.

Last night's dream was one of those that chopped and changed all over the place, but it was still in full and living colour, as all my dreams are.  The majority of this dream took place in a bar and I was there with a guy from my previous job, and a girl I used to be best friends with a million years ago.  In my real life, they don't even know each other exists, but in this dream we all knew each other (but I could tell we hadn't seen each other in a while).

I'm not sure what the guy was up to, but after we had left school the girl had become a primary school teacher, so while we were sitting at the table in the bar she was grading the kids' schoolwork.  People in the bar kept coming up to me and asking if I was feeling okay.  I told them I was fine of course, and neither of my friends reacted so I wasn't sure what was going on.

Then one of the guys from the bar gave me back my digital camera and no kidding, there were over 400 photos on there.  I slowly went back through them, and it was all very much like those photo montages at the end of "The Hangover" movies.  In my dream I was looking down at myself, scrolling through the images and cringing at seeing myself in all these compromising and horrible photos, and I couldn't remember any of it happening.  There was me falling off the bar; me having my knee bandaged by the barman (presumably this prompted the earlier concern of the patrons); me dancing with friends I literally haven't seen in twenty years; me leading a conga line; and finally, me fast asleep at the bar as the party rages on around me.

Now I don't need a dream dictionary to interpret the symbolism in this one. But what intrigued me was why my subconscious chose those two people to be in the dream with me.  In life, they're polar opposites and would never have anything in common (other than knowing me).   And even then, I haven't seen either of them in a really long time, and yet there they were in my mind.  Weird.

When I woke up at 2am and finally opened the window, I managed to fall back to sleep and left the bar-dream behind.  My next dream was about playing with my dog back home in Australia.  A good puppy dream.  At last.

Not the stuff of nightmares

When I moved to London, I was so taken with the city that I was a dedicated tourist.  I spent whatever spare change I had on tickets - train ones, theatre ones, concert ones.  When London was all about The Proms at Royal Albert Hall, I went there and I had an amazing time.  So when I moved to New York, I was curious about the OTHER famous concert hall I'd heard so much about - Carnegie Hall.  The fact that it has taken me over a year to get there is immaterial, really.  Because tonight I finally made it.  Not on stage (yet), but propped up nice and tall on a plush red velvet chair in a box seat at Carnegie Hall.  I'll take that.

Right at the outset though, I have to give London props.  From the street, Royal Albert Hall is way more impressive than Carnegie, architecturally-speaking at least.  Royal Albert Hall is this imposing monolith that stands alone on a busy London street, opposite the gorgeous Kensington Gardens.  Carnegie Hall, on the other hand, is one of those buildings that is on top of you before you realise it.  The Hall is in a busy part of New York, surrounded by restaurants and diners and tourist hotspots.  It's the sort of place you need to stand back from in order to appreciate it.  And whoever gets that chance in this city?  On the plus side, Carnegie Hall is beautifully-situated for the geographically-challenged.  I emerged from my subway station tonight and it was just right there.  No lead-up, no fanfare.  And really, I didn't mind that so much.

The entry and hallways of Carnegie Hall are like a throwback to yesteryear.  Chandeliers, framed photos of famous musicians and conductors, red velvet carpet, and uniformed ushers.  I wanted to see if the splendour extended into the bar area, so I headed downstairs to order something bubbly.  With the exception of some slouchy waitstaff, there was nobody there.  My plastic glass of cava was less than satisfactory, made more disappointing that the barstools are set up around the room, but facing the walls.  I'm not sure what kind of pre-show atmosphere the interior designers were aiming for here.  With 15 minutes to spare until showtime, I called into the gift shop to have a look around.  Nothing too remarkable, other than one of my Pilates instructors working at the register.  Small world, no?

Ascending the wide marble steps to the second tier of the Hall, I was quite excited as the usher showed me down a narrow hallway, past all the numbered doors to the box seats.  Tonight I had what was behind door number 54, a front-row seat, from which I began to people-watch from up on high.

Tonight's show had a bit of buzz about it.  A Little Nightmare Music is a collaboration by pianist Richard Hyung-Ki Joo and violinist Aleksey Igudesman (known as Igudesman and Joo).  They made it big on Youtube a while back and people have been raving about them ever since.  I read about them on some random email that found its way to me, but otherwise I'm sorry to say I'd never heard of them.  The guys are classically-trained but they take the beautiful classics that we all know, and they manipulate them.  They change the keys, the time signatures, they even do mash-ups with pop songs or Broadway tunes.  And they're genuinely funny too, so the energy on-stage is really good.

Unbeknownst to me though, tonight's show was an extra special treat because of two surprise guests who turned up to play.  Firstly, the world-famous violinist Joshua Bell performed.  Do you remember him?  There was an email going around this guy playing violin in the subway, and no one stopped to appreciate it.  So the message seemed to be we're all self-centred a-holes who are too busy to stop and notice the simple beauty of music.  Anyway, that was Joshua Bell playing the violin in that email.  And hey, I paused at Carnegie Hall and I really liked him.  Joshua did good, man.  But the second special guest - and the one I almost lost my shit about - was the one and only BILLY JOEL.  I honestly thought they were pulling my leg with that one.  It was the only point in the show that I regretted being so high up (and old, and needing new glasses).  How old is Billy Joel anyway?  I don't even care - he has still got "it".  The man is a legend, and he hammed it up with the guys so well, performing his own hit that he wrote for Ray Charles, "Baby Grand".

American audiences are good with the standing ovations, but even I got in on the act this time.  Igudesman and Joo are really talented and if you get the chance to see them, you really should.  Just cross your fingers they bring Joshua and Billy along.  Meanwhile I'm going to find out where Mr. Joel plays these days.  He's got to be, right?  He's the Piano Man, for pity's sakes.

Getting Snappy

OK, break out your dream dictionaries because last night's journey into the subconscious was a doozy.  Explain this, if you can.

I was walking through a hotel and it was like a maze of rooms, each one unlocked and inter-connected, so I very rarely had to go into the main corridor.  I could just keep weaving in and out of hotel rooms.

But on the bed in one room, half-covered in a blanket, was a huge crocodile.  It had its mouth ajar and the blanket was covering its eyes.  I poked it with a broom (as you do) but it didn't flinch.  Still, I was fairly convinced it was still alive, so I left it alone and kept going through hotel rooms. 

I began to hear a dog whimpering and as I followed the sound, it bought me back to the crocodile again.  I stood back a fair way and peered into the crocodile's mouth.  Inside, and totally intact, was a little Airedale terrier pup (click the link here to see images, if you don't know the breed I mean).  

The poor little thing was just stuck in there, unable to move because the crocodile refused to move.  It didn't crush him, but it didn't free him either.  So the puppy whimpered a bit and every now and again just closed his eyes, seemingly defeated.  And I couldn't do anything.

So I woke up.

Right - over to you.  Anyone?!

Behind the 8-(butter)ball

I bought a bottle of wine on the walk home from dinner last night.  A Pinot Noir from Oregon.  I have known for a long time that Oregon produces some tasty Pinot, though admittedly this assurance comes only from having tried Willamette Valley ones.  I know I tried a Californian Pinot once too, but the memory of that bottle hasn't stayed with me so as as result, when it comes to Pinot, I've been on Team Oregon ever since. 

On this occasion I decided to stretch out a bit and try a bottle from "Oregon" which, I should have realised, is about as specific as an Aussie wine that comes from "the southeast".  I really should know better, shouldn't I?  And yet the varietal and state were right, and the price-point was reasonable, so I jumped in.  There is seriously something to be said for trusting one's instincts.  The wine did not please me, not even after the second glass (when so many things usually please me).

I mention all this because in the midst of my wine-tasting experiment, I was also doing my knee exercises.  Standing on one leg and bending my knee with a resistance Theraband, a thought occurred to me that bordered on brilliant.  I wondered whether losing 10 pounds would fix my knee.  After all, less weight on my body means less pressure on my knee, ergo less pain.  Right?  I poured another glass of wine to celebrate my genius.

So today was supposed to be the start of a bread-free week.  Only I was distracted at lunch by a tempting piece of Russian coffee cake, so I ended up ordering a vegetable foccaccia, instead of a vegetable frittata.  Stupid coffee cake.  I bought that too.

The only thing saving me from myself at the moment is my Pilates studio, which keeps sending me discounted lesson plans.  My gym has changed hands now and has become one of those sweaty juggernauts full of young, hip athletes and over-the-top instructors teaching high-energy classes that I'm not sure I'd survive.  Banned as I've been from the treadmill (thanks to my physical therapist), I might just have to sit on a stationary bike for a while and suss things out. 

And maybe when I'm out of wine, foccaccia and Russian coffee cake, I can have another go at losing those 10 pounds.  My knee will surely thank me.

Coulda, Woulda, Shoulda

cheerleader minnie mouse
Originally uploaded by Elysia in Wonderland.
Sometimes I think I can be quite a smart person, and then there are other times when I wonder how I've been allowed to get this far in life.

A month ago I ran-walked the NYC Half Marathon and (in retrospect anyway), it was a really great day. Less than a week after that race, I signed up for another one.  Today in Central Park was the More Magazine/Fitness Magazine Women's Half-Marathon.  Where my race actually left the Park and hit the streets, this one stayed within the confines and took two circuits (and a bit) of Central Park springtime fabulousness.  My knee has still been cactus and admittedly I've been doing too much eating, drinking, slothing and not enough training so right across the board I wasn't feeling fit enough for today's 13.1 miles.

But that didn't stop me from getting up early and cheering on my training buddies Flock, Flora and also Reeds (who had flown in all the way from Texas to haul ass in the sunshine).  I was so excited for them as they rounded the bends and ran towards me.  I was sensibly standing at the Central Park Boathouse - in the easy vicinity of both coffee AND toilets.  Mind you, this was a race just for women, so you can imagine the line up for the loos!

And I unleashed my New Yorker a few times too, yelling at stupid tourists who tried to play chicken with the runners and bolt across the running course.  Why can't people just wait a couple of minutes until the runners have gone past?  Ridiculous.  But on behalf of the 8,000+ ladies out there today, I let the tourists have it.  The race volunteers didn't mace me either, which was a relief.  Let's face it, I think I just said what they were feeling anyway.

But do you know that despite all the cheering I was doing, yelling till I was hoarse and clapping until my hands hurt, it didn't occur to me until AFTER the race that I could have actually walked this thing today.  I paid for the race, I had registered for it all, and yet I didn't bother to collect my race materials cause I knew I wasn't up to the run-walking.  But there was nothing stopping me walking it.  Where the NYC Half had prescribed a 3-hour time limit, today's race had a 4-hour time limit so I would have had heaps of time to dawdle along at my own pace. And yet not once did that thought pop into my head.  I mean, honestly.  Coulda, woulda, shoulda.

Reeds was also kind enough to include me in her family dinner (well, late lunch) this afternoon so I almost felt like I'd run the race with her.  We all traded war stories about electrolyte Gu, needing to pee at inappropriate times during the race, and how good it feels to have people cheer for you and give you that little extra push to keep going.  Glory days.

In like a shot?

When I was about 12 years old, a boy told me that I have funny knees.  And of course, I believed him.  I didn't know why my knees were funny, but they had been declared so by an independent third party, so I just took it as gospel and believed it ever since.

So when I started having problems with my knees during the half-marathon training, I went to see a physical therapist.  I wondered whether he would finally affirm - but with medical certainty this time - that my knees were indeed funny.  He didn't.  In fact, he looked at ME funny when I suggested it.  We moved on.

Over the past few weeks, my knee has responded to treatment and then it hasn't.  Since I've been resting my knee from running activity, the swelling in my joints has calmed down somewhat, but it still hasn't gone away.  In fact, there are days when it actually hurts a bit just to stand still.  Apparently I am prone to hyper-extending my knee (where you stand up super straight and then you lock your knees back), so that is complicating things. I have to learn a new way of standing - not so rigid, but with a bit more rapper-slouch.  Can y'all dig it?

Plus I have to do a bunch of silly exercises, some with rubber tension bands and some without.  My hamstrings are not doing what they are supposed to do, so I've got to strengthen those, and my calf muscles are so tight they are not helping at all.  It seems my lower extremities are just a hot mess.

And the physical therapist yesterday suggested I get steroid injections in my knee - and that he could not administer them, but I would need to see an osteopath.  Do I really want to do this?  Is this what having a funny knee has come to?  I am not squeamish about injections but I am not sure that at my age, pumping goop into my joints is a really great idea.  I need to think about it.

I asked my phsyical therapist if I could just persuade him to come to my office and sit with me all day, cradling my knee in his hands so I wouldn't feel pain.  To my surprise, he said no.  Perhaps I should think of a package that provides toilet breaks and health insurance.  And a salary.  I missed out those parts in the earlier job offer.

Push and Pull, Give and Get

So it's been just over two weeks and I still haven't run a single step since the NYC Half-Marathon.  Not one.  Not even running for the bus. Don't look at me like that.  It's enough that I'm looking at me like that.

And when I remind you that I'm technically in training for my next half-marathon on April 15, no doubt you are looking even further down your nose at me.  Believe me - I know!

But today I got back in the saddle by lying flat on my back at Pilates. I had a new instructor tonight and a very softly-spoken one to boot.  And if I thought my knee was bad, my hearing is so much worse.  So I knew I was in for a cracker class.  As my muscles strained, so did my ears - straining to hear the calming, dulcet tones of the sadist that was trying to turn me into a pretzel.  My hamstrings cried, my inner thighs didn't know what the hell was going on, and my hip joint spasmed in a way that told me it was most displeased.

After an hour of pulleys and springs, twists and turns, we were done.  I almost fell off the Reformer machine in relief.  The instructor came over to me and said I had actually done a really good job.  I peered up at him and must have had quite a look on my face, cause he laughed really hard and slapped me on the back.  He said something about my strong inner thighs, and he shuffled off.

I think I need a hearing aid.

Loving New York, one dish at a time

I had a really delicious dinner out last night at Nice Matin, on the Upper West Side; though I had no idea this little French gem was hidden away so close to my beloved Zabar's.  The evening started with bubbles and continued with red wines, punctuated by buttery, garlicky escargots and a delicious roast duck braised in blood orange juice with endives, and a creamy polenta on the side.  We stopped off on the way home for a glass of Pedro Ximenez "Don PX" at tiny Wine and Roses just to round out the rich meal.  Like molten raisins in a glass - this dessert wine was just heavenly.

Only 48 hours ago, I actually told myself I was going to pull back on the eating and drinking particularly since it's all I seem to have been doing since the NYC Half-Marathon two weeks ago.  But as many people know, my Dad (aka Special K) has been staying with me and when one has house guests, one casts one's healthy eating plan aside and throws oneself into playing the 'hostest with the mostest'.  Because when one's family goes away, one gets very sad very quickly.

My healthy eating plan was not the only thing to get cast aside when Special K came to town.  I also neglected to keep up this blog.  So rather than write post after lengthy post I'm going to give you the dot-point recap of our adventure together.  Hold onto your hats, kids - this might get rough:

• Beecher's Cheese Shop - Now I've been raving about this place because of their grilled cheese martini (which nobody wants to try with me).  But the thing about Beecher's is that they are around the corner from my beloved Italian hangout, my hair salon and my Pilates studio, so I have no excuse whatsoever to stay away from the store.  I dragged Dad in there the day before the half-marathon so that I could load up on carbs (their mac & cheese is amazing, by the way).  But while we were there, we also watched the guys actually making cheese in these huge steel vats on-site.  It's impressive stuff, and tasty to boot.
• Union Square - With Special K still on the hunt for an iPad, or tablet or netbook or similar, we headed into Union Square, through the farmer's market, to see what the 24-hour Best Buy store could offer.  Along the way we stopped in at Fish's Eddy and I kicked myself AGAIN for not buying the New York Times Crossword Puzzle book (which they don't sell online but it does exist, I promise).  I pick it up every time I'm in the store and I never buy it.  What's wrong with me, man?
• Our next stop was Williamsburg, for Special K's first visit to Brooklyn.  I don't know this neighbourhood well at all; in fact, I really don't know Brooklyn well at all.  But I had gathered some intelligence from friends beforehand and Special K was happy just to wander Bedford Avenue and remark on the (very obvious) differences between Manhattan and this part of Brooklyn.  Lots of bearded, skinny-jeaned hipsters to be sure, but just as many young families and local artists exhibiting their wares along the sidewalks (footpaths, for those of you playing along at home).  But Special K definitely liked Williamsburg, and certainly we lucked out with the weather that day, and people were making the most of the gorgeous outdoor cafes and all the parks and softball ovals were being used and it was gorgeous.  By this point, and unbeknownst to me at the time, we'd wandered into Greenpoint and called into a great Belgian beer bar called Spritzenhaus for a cleansing ale (though mine was allegedly non-alcoholic, as I was still pre-race at this stage).
• Having hauled ass the 13.1 miles of the NYC Half-Marathon route, I was famished.  Several days after the race, once I'd gained mobility back into my legs, I felt entirely justified dragging Special K to Neely's Barbecue Parlor.  I can't watch the Neely's on The Food Network (well, I won't watch them) but I certainly love a good feed of BBQ - and I know Special K does too - so it seemed a good dinner choice.  And it totally was. My Memphis-style ribs were amazing, and they serve margaritas in Mason jars, for heaven's sakes.  I had two of them.  Hmm in retrospect, that was unwise, but at the time it was an inspired idea.
• Because I was at work during the week, Special K had lunch with me a couple of times.  We went to my local Mexican hangout but I also took him to Macchiato, showed him the Grand Central Market and my new favourite coffee place, complete with hipsters especially imported from Brooklyn (note: disappointing website-in-development, but awesome and fully-developed coffee and mad bagel-toasting skills).
• With the exception of some pizza and pasta from nearby Patsy's and some Thai take-out, home-cooked meals and lots of cold beers featured prominently when Special K came to stay.  My freezer is now chock-full of delicious leftovers that I refuse to label, because frankly I like the surprises.
• Our weekend was not exactly a sunny one, though we took full advantage of the Saturday sunshine to get out on the water and ride the East River Ferry over to Brooklyn.  We revisited Williamsburg a bit, enjoying a couple of coldies with Peacock the bartender at a subterranean (but awesome) bar.  Retracing our earlier steps, we got back to Greenpoint and enjoyed a Polish meal at a totally unpronounceable - but obviously authentic - restaurant.  Obviously the dishes were not as good as my Granny makes, but we ate it to be polite.  After all those calories and carbs, we needed to walk.  So we rode the ferry south to Brooklyn Bridge Park/DUMBO (which stands for Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass) and walked over the Brooklyn Bridge back onto Manhattan.  It was fantastic, even though we had to dodge about 3,000 fellow pedestrians and almost as many cyclists.  We then wandered through the Financial District back to the Wall Street ferry station, and rode the ferry northbound back to my place - resting our aching feed and tired brains.
• I absconded from work this week too and took Special K back to our mutual favourite, Katz's.  This time we didn't need a waiter to take care of us; we ordered our lunch at the counter, just like the locals.  There is just something special about their amazing matzo ball soup, with a half-pastrami sandwich alongside.  I was a very happy little camper.  Ditto Special K, who got through all his pastrami on rye.  Cue that food coma again.
• I took Special K along to a cooking class with me earlier this week, which I really enjoyed.  We learned how to make basic vegetarian Indian meals, including delicious samosa that I am totally committed to trying at home.  The rest of the menu included braised fish in a tamarind-coconut curry; sag paneer (spinach curry with fresh cheese, that we made from scratch); and chana masala (chickpea curry).  All served up with roti (soft, flaky bread - that we also made ourselves).  It was all really tasty and dead-easy.
• But of course why cook for yourself when there are thousands of New York restaurants just aching to do it for you?  And so it was that the following night (Special K's last night with us), we went to a wonderful Indian restaurant called Dhaba, not far from our house.  We ate so much and drank so much, we all slipped into food comas shortly after getting home.

It was really great having Special K here again, and I'm so relieved that he is starting to love New York like I do.  As we travelled around together, we always commented how good it would have been to have Mum with us.  But that is a job for next time.  Besides, I don't think we could have got Mum along to see John Carter and The Hunger Games with us; they are definite Daddy-Daughter dates I think.

No pain, no gain

I'm sitting here at my writing desk not entirely sure I'll be able to stand up again. But I have to type this blog entry now because I seriously suspect muscle stiffness from yesterday's NYC Half Marathon 2012 to swallow me whole soon enough.

I am so pleased to report that I finished the race - and not only that, I finished it in a respectable time of 2:32:11. Sure, there were heaps of people faster than me but there were probably heaps of people slower than me too. But as I ran along, I reminded myself that the race just belonged to me and as long as I stayed ahead of the bus that picked up all the stragglers, I'd be fine. Well I stayed over 25 minutes ahead of that bus, and I was really happy with that. When I look at my overall time, as well as my interval times (at 5km, 10km, 15km and 20km marks), I realise that I actually stuck to my run/walk race plan the whole time and averaged an 11:30 per-mile speed - or even faster, in some parts. My knee started to hurt at the 3-mile mark (right on schedule) but I just ignored it and pushed through. As the coaches predicted, adrenalin played its part.

It's hard to believe that the journey to the finish line began in November when I signed up and committed to raise funds for the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society and get race-ready with the Team in Training crew. When Christmas and New Year came, my dedication lapsed a bit and I struggled to regain my form, injuring my knee a bit and dragging myself off to twice-weekly physical therapy sessions (that have proven so beneficial). And just when I never thought I'd make my $1,600USD fundraising goal, generous friends, family and even a couple of complete strangers dragged my doubting carcass over the line - and then some - so I ended up raising a wonderful total of $1,726USD for charity. The sense of pride I feel today is like nothing else.

But 13.1 miles is a long way, as I discovered first-hand yesterday. Getting to Central Park at 6am on a cool Sunday morning probably wouldn't have happened without the kindness of those two strangers who stopped their cab to pick me up en route, when they saw me in my race bib, trying vainly to flag down a ride. Getting to the Park, I found KP, Flock and Flora from work - and had a lovely chance to share some pre-race jitters and good-luck wishes with them. I lined up in my corral early, way down the back with all the other runners who estimated it would take them 3 hours to finish the race. My fellow inmates were a ragtag bunch - all ages, fitness levels, and apparent half-marathon expertise. I was quite taken with the trio of ladies from Hong Kong who wore matching red shiny suits, full faces of make-up, gold jewellery, and clear plastic ponchos over the top to complete their race-day look. I had to look twice to make sure they weren't spectators who had wandered into the runner enclosure by mistake. Sure enough each one of them was sporting a race bib. Crazy.

Before long we wound our way through Central Park towards the start line. The elite runners had kicked off some 30 minutes before and just as we were rounding the last bend, applause started. The elite runners were already coming past us - and we hadn't even started! It had taken them 30 minutes to run 6 miles in Central Park. Is that freaky? I think it might be freaky. But I was too wired to get intimidated - I just clapped and whooped and cheered with everyone else. You've got to recognise talent when you see it.

And then it was our turn and as I went to cross the start line, I saw my Dad and K waving their giant flags (Australian flag and the Boxing Kangaroo one) and it really did lift my spirits. I was off and racing! Around Central Park I went, swearing at Harlem Hill and The Three Bitches, and cursing my knee all the while. I was run-walking with one of the girls from training for a while, but she fell behind me at Harlem Hill and I didn't see her after that. I wondered if I should have stopped to see if she was okay, but at the time I could only think about moving forward.

As I finished my 6 mile mark we had effectively done a full circuit of Central Park and I was back where I started - and back where Dad & K were waving flags to welcome me back. By this point I needed to pee so bad, and Dad has video footage of me waving and telling K exactly that - plus I think you can hear K recommending I use the porta-potties. Classy footage, that.

Breaking out of the Park I ran down 7th Avenue. It is a beautiful, wide street - and almost spooky when it is free of vehicular traffic. Cheer squads lined the route and whenever I spotted some Team in Training volunteers, they all screamed and cheered for me and I almost cried a little every time. Am I getting soft in my old age, or was I just tired and delirious? We will probably never know. As I ran through Times Square, bands were playing some great music (including "Love Shack", as I passed through) and I applauded them all. I think the anticipation of hearing the next band's song really inspired me to keep going. Every little bit helped.

I turned right onto 42nd Street and heard more bands playing and more volunteers cheering. Even one of my training coaches ran with me for a bit. She must have thought I was weird cause I asked here where the porta-potties were. This is what I was focussed on during my race? I think she was a bit surprised. But I found an empty one down by the West Side Highway when nature finally called. You know when you're young and you blow your nose into a tissue and then you open the tissue to examine the contents? You know it's gross, but you do it anyway? Well that is my only defense for why I looked into the bowl of the porta-pottie yesterday before I used it. Involuntary reflex, or something. But suffice to say I am never - ever - going to do that again. Shudder.

Powering down the West Side Highway and I was a bit disappointed because I thought there would be an uninterrupted view of the Hudson River along there. I hadn't counted on so many warehouses and boat docks and other infrastructure to block my view. But I guess they were also blocking whatever frigid winds might blow off the River and wipe me out, so let's be grateful for now. At the 34th Street mark, and again further down, I saw two groups of people from work and I ran across three lanes of runners to say hello to them. As I ran away, I almost cried again. What is wrong with me? Overcome with emotion at how kind people were to come out so early on a Sunday to cheer me on? That's not like me at all. Or maybe it is.

I was so distracted that I didn't even realise I had passed the 10-mile mark and I was officially on my longest run to date. My legs were starting to really hurt by this point, and I did walk through some of the periods when I technically should have been running. But somewhere in the distance I could hear the crowds at the South Street Seaport and somewhere inside of me I found some extra grunt and I pushed myself. I turned off my Gymboss interval timer, and I just belted it home.

As I approached the finish line, I could see Dad & K on the sidelines, waving the flags and cheering like crazy people. My cheeks hurt from smiling and as I crossed that finish line into the arms of the lady with the medals and the kid with the scrunchy silver cape-blanket, I was the happiest I've been in a long time.

It didn't take long for me to find K and Dad at the finish line - I had been walking for about 10 minutes (as we had been told to do) and there were THOUSANDS of people down at the Seaport, trying to find their families. Getting away from the crowds, we went and had a pie and beer at Tuckshop in the East Village, and then another couple of beers at McSorley's before we had to give up and go home for a looooong sleep.

The sense of personal achievement aside, I still feel really satisfied with my race performance yesterday. I am never going to be a professional runner - or probably even a good runner - but I did something new yesterday and I got to enjoy one of the best cities in the world, in a way that not everyone gets to do. I am so glad that my family and friends were there to see it happen too. I just hope that I can rely on their muscles to carry me places today, because I'm not sure my own are up to the task.

What's Going On?

Sometimes stories or people come into your life and they make you sit back and wonder if you're doing the right thing with your life. Tonight I had this experience. In the one evening, I crossed paths with a story that mad me sad, and a person that made me want to high five everyone I met on the way home.

I remember the first time I heard about "Death of a Salesman". I was going through my big Marilyn Monroe phase and I had been reading about her marriage to Arthur Miller, and the play that had won him the Pulitzer. But it wasn't until years later that I went along to a performance of the play with my friend, Groovy Gem. I recall that the intensity of the performances mesmerised me. As the lights went down on Act 2 I blinked, and tears just poured out. Groovy Gems and I workshopped it a bit afterwards and we were equally depressed, angry, but most of all I think we were just very sad for all the characters.

So you've got to wonder why I might put myself through that emotional drainage again tonight. Well we're a few years on now and I'm a little older and a little wiser, and frankly I thought it was about time I gave the play another shot. Oh please, who am I kidding?! This time around, I'm in New York and the play is in previews on Broadway. Not only that, but it stars Oscar-winner Philip Seymour Hoffman and the spunky new Spiderman himself, Andrew Garfield. My seat was in the fourth row of the theatre, so I was front and centre for all the action. As with my first exposure, this production of "Death of a Salesman" had me riveted from start to finish. Hoffman played Willy Loman with all the desperation, delusion and despair that I remembered. But I think it was Andrew Garfield who surprised me the most. His portrayal of Biff was so strong and raw that I couldn't look away. When father and son have their breakthrough in Act 2, my heart broke for him and I just wanted to get on the stage and hug it out. No tears this time, but when I joined the audience in the standing ovation at the end, I realised I was clammy and worn out. The play had sat so heavily on me tonight that I couldn't decide if I needed a shower or a stiff drink, or both.

I ended up having neither, but I thought about the play the whole walk to the subway. I found myself getting really mad at the characters who had lied to themselves, and each other, throughout the whole story. I was frustrated at them, sad for them, and irritated that even after all this time, Miller's story can still resonate with me. So I was distracted when it came to putting my Metro card in the machine, and when it repeatedly jammed, a tourist offered to scan it for me. Mortifying.

It wasn't until I got on the bus that my mood lightened. But it didn't have anything to do with heading for home; rather it had more to do with the elderly gentleman who moved over on the seat to make room for me. Thanking him quickly for his kindness, he cautioned me that he's not always so kind, and he gave me a mischievous wink. Tapping his hands on the seat in front of us, Old Man leaned over and complimented me on my glasses. He admitted he had fallen in love with me a bit. Oh dear, thinks me. Then the man started making little snare drum sounds, winked at me again and said, "I'm syncopating with you, my lady". Um, okay - so there's a first time for everything. But I've got to hand it to a man who can syncopate. I was slowly emerging from my Miller-induced funk and actually giving this guy my attention when he randomly asked me if I had heard of Marvin Gaye. He seemed pleased when I replied in the affirmative. So he told me that he played percussion on one of Mr. Gaye's biggest hits, and could I guess which one? I took a punt and offered up, "What's Going On"? His face lit up in the biggest smile and he clapped his hands with glee. "Oh baby, you are one smart and beautiful lady" he said. As we travelled the few blocks together, he introduced himself as Jack Ashford, member of the Funk Brothers studio band. Mr. Ashford told me about recording sessions with the greats, including Marvin Gaye and jazz legend Miles Davis. After a career spent travelling across the US and around the world in limousines, Ashford moved to New York and raised "ungrateful children who make me ride the bus". Arthur Miller is never far away from any of us. But sure enough I Googled Mr Ashford when I got home and verified that I was indeed sitting right next to a tambourine maestro tonight. And he syncopated with me. Mercy mercy me!

Winners are grinners

Cheshire Cat
Originally uploaded by Elysia in Wonderland.

So the NYC Half-Marathon is two weeks today. I have been freaking out about that, I don't mind admitting to you. And I get worried sometimes when people try and tell me that I'll finish the 13.1 miles no problems (despite my knee issue). I know they mean to be encouraging and comforting, but I can't help but wonder if they're really just blowing smoke up my ass. I have been trying to stay upbeat but also realistic about my prospects.

And so last weekend it was really important to me that I clocked 8 miles - because that was my longest run to date. Yes I was almost crippled afterwards but psychologically, if not physically, I had to prove to myself that I could do it. And sure, in the following days I paid the price for my idiocy. My physical therapist didn't exactly growl at me like I feared he would, but he did say I needed to be careful and keep my eye on the prize. And to reinforce his point he pushed and prodded my knee extra hard this week (double ice-packing at times). Yeow.

But today I pushed myself even further, because I've realised I rather like being in hell. Today I actually clocked 10 miles but not only that, I incorporated a run-walk up Harlem Hill, the ultimate bitchy hill in Central Park - or at least as far as I am concerned. Let's be serious here - the Hill was not fun, but conquering it was essential to keeping my head in the game.

And before we start mixing the punch and blowing up balloons, I need to be transparent about something. I clocked 10 miles today but I couldn't run-walk that full distance - my knee really DID give up towards the end. But I reckon I would have done race-quality time for at least 9 miles of my run today. For the periods that I walked, I paced it out and didn't go on a casual Sunday stroll either. And in the end, I finished the 10 miles in just under 2 hours, which I thought was a pretty respectable time. And quite a promising one for race day, if I can only sustain it.

Stretching afterwards was an unpleasant experience (for me, and anyone watching me I presume). I think my hamstrings were crying from Pilates yesterday. Incidentally, whose dumb idea was it for me to book into a bunch of intermediate Pilates classes before the half-marathon? Ouch all over. Idiot.

It's now been about 45 minutes since I finished my run (and the delicious Central Park Boathouse coffee reward afterwards). I feel pretty good at the moment - my knee, legs and feet aren't even as sore as they were last week. All good things. I shall reach for the ice packs very soon though.

And let's get real here, I don't exactly feel like going outside and running ANOTHER 10 miles, but at least my brain is more confident that it can push my body for 13.1 mile race in fourteen days time. Race Day will be here before I know it. Dun-dun-DUUUUUUUN.

Cracking It

@ The Movies: Rocky Balboa
Originally uploaded by ★WaiWai★.

I'm actually getting kinda sick of myself at the moment, I have to say. It seems my whole life is consumed by my sore knee and how it has been holding me back in training.

Yesterday was no exception. I got to Central Park on time, proud as punch to be using my fancy new fuel belt. Having iced and stretched my knee the night before, I was not feeling any pain as we started the first of two 4-mile circuits. I kept up a good, steady pace - staying out in front of the run/walker pack, for the most part. And then, just like clockwork, my knee injury demanded to be noticed. As I rounded into the last 1/2 mile, ignoring it was not an option and as I completed my first circuit, I had to stop.

I have been mad at myself ever since I started feeling this injury, but yesterday took the cake. I was mad, then I was sad. I am not a runner, so I am realistic about my performance in this race - I have always said that I just want to finish. And yet after yesterday's setback, I sincerely doubted my ability to do even that.

Last night I continued to feel sorry for myself, and then I took a long hard look around my apartment and realised that a one-woman pity party is pretty pathetic. So I gave myself a stern talking to. I pledged to go back to Central Park first thing Sunday morning, stare down those 8 miles and never again let my knee be the boss.

A little after 9.30am, I set off on the first of two 4-mile circuits; a wonderful reprise of Saturday's run. But the weather was so much better today - even the sun knew better than to let me down today.

Right on schedule, my knee started to twinge at the 3.5-mile mark and those second thoughts crept in. But I shut them up by squeezing Vanilla Gu into my mouth. Then I spent the next 1/2 mile trying to wash it off my hands and my tshirt, where I had slopped it. I mean, seriously - I was a mess, but at least it was a distraction.

I was almost 1/3 of the way into my second circuit before I realised how well I was doing. My walking breaks were a welcome relief from the running, and sure, my knee was hurting every time I started up again - but I would not let myself stop.

The hills on the western side of the Park (aka The Three Bitches) lived up to their nickname today, but I willed myself forwards. As I made my final turn into Bethesda Terrace, I could almost smell the coffee of the Central Park Boathouse.

And so after shuffling 8 miles around Central Park, the Boathouse was exactly where I headed. A strong, hot latte was the perfect reward for my longest run to date. And my knee will just have to live with that.

Riding the shame spiral

Sad Gargoyle Face - Ornate
Originally uploaded by Digital Wallpapers.

I was on a high after my 6-mile run yesterday and even as I iced my knee last night, I remember thinking how good I felt. I even wondered whether maybe my knee was finally ready to play ball and help me get across the half-marathon finish line.

Well don't I feel the fool now?

This morning I got up early(ish) and got myself organised - filling up my new fuel belt with water, some chocolate Gu, and even a sachet of Gatorade electrolytes I wanted to try.

I got all the way into Central Park and as I walked to the start of my running track, I felt a stitch in my side. Already? I hadn't even done anything!

I don't know what that was all about because I wasn't sore, and I'd eaten my breakfast, and I'd had a lot of water. And yet there was still that sore twinge down my side.

I tried to ignore it but the minute I started running, there was that niggling pain in the back of my knee. I wondered whether maybe my legs were just cold and after a while, the muscles would start to warm up and the pain would go away.

So I did what McGyver would do, and I battled through the hurt and charged on ahead, taking on the 1.7-mile Lower Loop of Central Park.

Sadly, my knee was having none of it. The stitch had gone away, but my left knee was still sore. I got a bit more than once around the loop and I had to stop.

Admittedly on the walk back to the bus stop I was sulking to myself. I just want to run and do well. The fuel belt works great, but the electrolyte drink tastes like sea water and I am not a fan. Maybe it only tastes good when you've been running for ages and feel like you're dying? I hope that one day soon, I get to find that out for myself.

GK Huff-and-Puff

Central Park - Bethesda Terrace and Angel of the Waters Fountain -
Originally uploaded by 14k.gold.

When the email came through during the week from our NYC half-marathon coaches, I read that the plan for Saturday was to run 11 miles, across the Manhattan and Brooklyn Bridges. I knew my knee would never make it (and I doubted whether my stamina would anyway), so I resolved to take myself back to Central Park and pound the pavement on my own there instead.

And so it was that I set off early-ish to reprise the Gridiron Classic 4-mile run I did a few weeks ago. The sun was shining, the taxis were honking, the ambulances were wailing - it was a perfect New York morning.

I got all the way to Central Park with my Gu electrolyte chews in my pocket, my Gymboss interval timer on my wrist, and my drink bottle filled to the brim with cool water. And who should I see walking through Central Park, but Morgan Freeman! All the signs pointed to this being a good run for me.

As I braced myself to get started, I realised that the battery in my run timer was flat. ARGH. How was I going to survive the full 6 miles without knowing when to run/walk at the proper intervals? I might die. But then I got over myself and decided I would just count. I figured that if I counted in time with my steps, I would get into some sort of rhythm (or trance) and I might actually do okay. And with that resolution, off I went.

Right on cue at the 4-mile mark, my knee pain started to announce its presence but I didn't let it throw me off. I kept on counting and ran-walked like I was supposed to. There were parts of the run today where I really thought "Woohoo, I can do this!" and then there were parts where I desperately wanted to stop. And just when I felt like that, a thought crossed my mind: Hey, I could do another 1.7 mile loop here! Madness, I tell you - madness!

In the end, sanity prevailed and I stopped myself at 6 miles. I was pleasantly surprised that, as I stretched, I was feeling normal - I could think clearly, I could see clearly, and I didn't feel like falling down and staying there.

I did forget to eat any of my electrolyte chews, but I will go back out tomorrow and make a conscious effort to try them. I even put a new battery in my interval timer so I won't have to rely on my brain next time. Most excellent.

Oh and I have a new fuel belt to wear tomorrow - one of these space-age (but very professional) looking contraptions with 4 little water bottles and a tiny pouch in the back for nutrition supplies.

So here's to another 6 miles tomorrow - hands free this time!

I am the 90 percent

We had our second home-cooked lunch fundraiser at work today and we raised $404 for our NYC half-marathon efforts. It felt wonderful to feed everyone some delicious food and take home $101 to bank for the cause.

You might recall that our first fundraiser was on Australia Day. That time around I learned just how much cooked rice you get when you empty a 5lb bag into every saucepan in your apartment. Shudder.

This time, I got my Martha Stewart on and made pulled pork in wholemeal wraps with a zingy coleslaw. I actually cheated and used packet coleslaw mix, but the dressing was all mine and I was pleased with the result. It's always a gamble trying out a new recipe but I thought it went down well (it must have - I didn't have any left). The other main course on the menu was a hearty and delicious tofu & eggplant Thai green curry which proved really popular. Then the workplace was divided between our two dessert camps - it was either sticky date pudding with butterscotch sauce & whipped cream, or individual tiramisu. I mean, seriously! Could you go wrong with today's lunch?

After pocketing today's takings, plus some allegedly late donations from a couple of generous work colleagues, I've now met 90% of my fundraising goal. Can you believe it?

My knee is also feeling better, thanks to regular physio manipulations and Pilates at-home DVDs. And P.S, if you haven't ever done a Ana Caban Pilates DVD, you really should - she is excellent. The intermediate mat routine has some tricky bits in it, but close the curtains so the neighbours can't see, and nobody needs to know but you.

Oh but it gets better - I have even geeked out and I'm faithfully doing my knee stretches twice a day. What a nerd, right?

A little over a month to go until D-Day. Let's see how long this positivity can last.

People Call Me Forrest Gump

STOP PRESS - FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE:

Knee injury does little to stop rookie athlete completing her first race!

I tried to get back into training this week but I've been a little sidelined by a nagging knee injury. I have started seeing a physical therapist who is great, and he has put me on an exercise regime to turn the "al dente" muscles behind my knee into the "well-cooked spaghetti" they are supposed to be. Ice packs have also helped - not only to soothe my swollen knee - but also to make me feel like an elite athlete.

Something else that helped me feel like a pro was the 4-mile Gridiron Classic held in Central Park today. I had signed up weeks ago, before my knee was playing up, so this past week has been about psyching myself up to the physical challenge. This was set to be my first race ever, so I wanted to make a good impression, but I also didn't want to kill my knee and set myself back even further, fitness-wise.

I took my physical therapist's advice and waited to see how I would feel this morning. Oddly enough when the alarm went off at 7.15am, I was ready to get up and face the day. My knee was a bit cold and tender, but not as bad as it has been. So I went through the motions of getting myself ready for race day, including a healthy breakfast feast. For good measure, I put on make-up. It felt weird to be doing that, but I thought some effort ought to be made. I left the jewelry at home.

It wasn't that I was running late, but I didn't want to take any chances with public transport this morning. The cab broke the land-speed record and got me to Central Park in record time. Leaving my bag at the designated area, I found my Team in Training crew. My mentor happened to be there (I wasn't expecting to see her), but she gave me a quick pep talk and the same reminder that I had had from the therapist about not pushing myself too hard this time around.

The crowd was a real mixed bag today - young kids, all the way up to old people. And being Super Bowl Sunday, lots of runners wore their team colours (good to see a heap of NY Giants garb). Not having any football attire of my own, I opted for a gym outfit and a Nike top in a lovely purple-pink colour that matched my race bib. Of course.

Before long we were off and racing. I was wearing my interval timer Gymboss device, so I could time myself to run for 2 minutes and walk for 1 minute. I wanted to see whether pacing myself like that would give me enough energy in my tanks to finish the race and not feel dead afterwards. I also had my own water bottle, so I wouldn't have to stop at the fluid stations along the course.

My race ended up being ruled by beeps. When my timer beeped I ran, when it beeped again I walked, and when it beeped a third time I started running again. And so it was for the full four miles. Supporters were lining the race route and clanging cowbells or just applauding - cheering us all on and reminding us that we were doing great. I saw one guy a couple of times, who was telling us that we were all amazing, and running so much better than everyone who was still in bed. Was that even a compliment?

In the end I finished the 4 miles in 45 minutes 57 seconds, which works out to 11.5 minutes per mile. I know that's not great and it's certainly not fast, but it was good for me and it's a place to start.

I've got a little over a month to whip my knee - and the rest of me - into shape for the NYC half-marathon. But having experienced a race day now, I know what I can expect and in a perverse way I'm actually looking forward to it.

Coffee, with a beer chaser

I think night times are shorter in Boston or something, because I swear that Saturday morning came around faster than normal. But at least the rain had abated and the sun was shining, so we had that going for us. Plus we were still on holidays, and you know how I feel about that.

Emerging from the hotel and out into society, me and J-Train headed to Fanueil Hall and wound our way around the food stalls and trinket stands in Quincy Market. At this point in the day I was only being sustained by one in-room coffee pod and let me tell you that was nowhere near sufficient. Decaffeinated as we were, we both ordered a Starbucks coffee and immediately regretted it. Sometimes they are drinkable, sometimes they are just not - and you never know until that first, fateful sip. Sad faces all round.

Getting past our coffee craving, I suggested to J-Train that we be a bit rebellious and take the train out to Stony Brook, to tour the Samuel Adams Brewery. I mean, why not - right? And so after a bit of train route wrangling, we were on our way.

The Samuel Adams Brewery is located in the quiet but suburban area of Stony Brook, an easy 15 minute train ride from central Boston. When we came out of the station, I had a momentary panic that we wouldn’t be able to find the brewery. But it turned out we were blessed on two fronts – on the one hand, we had a crowd of young beer-drinkers to follow; and secondly, the street signs clearly marked where we needed to go.

Arriving a little before 1pm, we managed to squeeze ourselves into the free tour at 1.40pm. While we waited we just sat outside in the fresh air and watched a steady stream of people come and go. When we finally got inside, the one-hour tour went surprisingly quickly. Our tour guide (Meghan) was an enthusiastic Samuel Adams employee – and probably customer too. She knew her stuff and did a good job of imparting her knowledge about how Samuel Adams combines barley, hops, yeast and water to produce the best beers in Boston. I felt a bit sorry for Meghan really because all of us knew that part of our tour included a free tasting, and people were obviously pumped for it. As we moved around the brewery, we learned about the mixing machines and hoses and donating leftover slop to nearby dairies for cattle feed. Poor Meghan was only able to capture the attention of about half our group – the rest were way too distracted by the promise of freebies. And when we finally got into the tasting room, Meghan really had no hope at all. And yet she was a real trooper cause she didn’t give up. Meghan ended up shouting her instructions about the tasting notes for each of the three beers we tried. Whenever she could, she did make some snide remarks about the yahoos in the room (none of whom were listening, because they were too busy chugging their tastings and having belching competitions).

We opted out of the free trolley service to nearby Doyle's cafe/pub, where we could have picked up a free “perfect pint” glass (created especially for the brewery by Boston-based scientists). We were eager to get back to the city because we had free tickets to a Motorcycle Expo (with bikers, their chicks and all the trimmings).

Yep, you heard me. More to come.