A new usual?

I loved my nighttime usual in Riverdale. It was a hilly, well-lit, four-mile loop along Fieldston Road. Long enough to feel legitimate, but short and straightforward enough to manage at the end of a long work day.

Since we moved 10 miles up the Hudson River to the Village of Dobbs Ferry, I've been struggling to find a good night run. Many of the suburban roads are narrow and dark--I even bought a goofy handheld light, which has proven useful and is not too annoying to carry.

I was close on Monday night with the loop below. The run south along Broadway is pretty safe, and the same is true for Warburton. The climb up Pinecrest is a nice challenge, right in the heart of the run. But the section along Broadway from Pinecrest was pitch-black, narrow, and treacherous. 

Tonight's route seems like a promising base for late-night runs. Not too many turns, a nice climb up Ogden and Beacon Hill in the back half, and minimal time on busy roads. (The section north along Broadway was relatively quiet at this hour and there's a nice sidewalk, if needed.)

More than anything, I run to explore. Getting to know this new place has been enjoyable, and even once I establish a usual or two, I know I'll always be modifying from the base and seeking out new nooks and crannies.  

  

Wildcat Road, we meet again

In cycling, climbs have memorable names and mythical significance. Riders dream of suffering their way up the French Cols: Galibier, Tournmalet; or unzipping their jerseys, while stomping up the steeps of Italy: Monte Zoncolan and the fatal sounding Passo del Mortirolo. During my time in California, I faced and conquered some of our own nation's legendary hills, such as Gibraltar Rd. and the road up Mt. Whitney.

Though not nearly as difficult as any of those famous climbs, Wildcat Rd. has haunted my own cycling dreams, sometimes in the voice of Owen Wilson's Eli Cash from The Royal Tennenbaums, but always beckoning me to come back, and give it another go.

 

In 2011, I thought I was a pretty good cyclist. I had done the ride to Bear Mountain, and had dropped many fellow climbers on the park hills in Central and Prospect Park. But I had never encountered anything like Wildcat Rd. Though only a modest 2.5 miles averaging 5%, it's still a steady and challenging climb, with a few moments approaching 10%. And I happened to tackle it on a hot, humid, Scranton afternoon in 2011.

I remember making my way out of town on Main Ave. and coming to the fork between Wildcat Rd. and Rt. 6 (BUS). The choice was obvious.

I rolled up the steady, initial section, dropping down rapidly into the "granny" gear. Even riding a triple chainring on my Specialized Roubaix, I struggled. The road mellowed, finding it's way into pleasant woods, but then kicked again, and I cracked.

I didn't know that "cracked" is a term of art in cycling. But that day, I felt its meaning. I had already unzipped my jersey completely, been in- and out-of-the saddle, gasped, cursed, and finally stopped. I pitched over to the right side of the road, and sat panting and dazed.

 

Riding Wildcat Rd. this weekend was still no cakewalk. After it haunted my dreams for years, I got stronger, trained harder, rode much steeper, and longer climbs. I eventually began dreaming not only of revisiting the Wildcat, but also crushing it. Pacing my way up mellower sections and stomping my way up the steep bits. Looking pro on a Scott Addict with a 53/39. It didn't quite go that way. But I didn't stop and I rode a decent pace. So once again I was humbled by the Wildcat. It's part of the reason I love climbing. Gravity's pull is absolute, in a way that few things are in life. So the pain of 6, 7, 8% reminds us that as much as we dream, we must also be humbled.

Elizaville Mini-Camp Day 1

A light rain kept us out of the lake, but did not stop us from training.

Our Dad is the master of the country roads here, and he led us on a great hour-long loop on quiet roads (northern circle on the Strava map). Alison tried out my wife's road bike and was cruising over the rolling hills.

After the hour, she ran off for a solid brick: 12 miles riding and then immediately 2 miles running. She's training for a sprint distance, so a nearly perfect workout.

I stayed on the bike to help my Dad through a 2 hour ride on his own schedule. The rain really came down, but we stayed upright and focused. When we wrapped up the second hour, I squeezed in a short brick of my own, running just a mile to make the legs feel the transition.

Rain be damned! Solid first day.

My Marathons Map

A Map of Marathons I've Run

I've loved maps since I was a kid. Now, my near addiction to my Garmin devices is a way that my love of maps and sports come together.

In the project pictured above, I've built a map of all the marathon courses I have run. The KML files are not from my own Garmin; I didn't have a Garmin for some of the races; for others, my Garmin died part of the way through. I mostly found the KML files already uploaded to Google maps or on Map My Run.

You can build your own map, too. Just use Google Maps "My Maps" feature, create a map, and then import KML (or similar) files from your own Garmin/GPS device, or from elsewhere on the web (as I did).

Stay tuned for more of my maps! Be in touch if you have questions about creating your own.

Triathlon Mini-Camp

South Twin Lake

Distance runners by trade, my sister and I are training for the Presidential Lakes Triathlon, which will take place this August. We've both been hitting the pool, but now it's time for some open water swimming practice. So we're up in Elizaville, NY this weekend holding a mini camp. Do you dare to tri this summer?

Family day @ Fahnestock Winter Park

Three skiers stand perched atop a short, steep hill. Afternoon light filters through the bare trees. We stand at a halt, taken aback by the run ahead. The slope lays in shadow and opens on to a pleasant, lefthand bend, bright with sunlight.

I know that this moment could make or break our afternoon. I have been teaching my Dad and sister, Alison, how to cross country ski. Downhill skiers for years, they were quick studies; they impressed me by kicking and gliding through the flat terrain near the lodge, with very little instruction or delay.

Dad, suiting up

Now we have conquered a long, steady climb and have crossed road 301 to slightly more advanced terrain. I know they can handle it, but I also feel responsible for what I have gotten them into.

I lead the way, trying to look as cool and collected as possible. My Dad follows, cutting into the slope with a confident snow plow--"Remember your training," he's been known to say--and his training pays off well, as he glides down with ease. My sister follows, cannily side-stepping down the first few feet, and then smoothly gliding down herself, to join us in the sun.

My sister and me

Nothing gives me more happiness than sharing activities that I love with people whom I love. From coaching my high school athletes, to training and racing with my wife, it fills me up to share adventures with my friends. In fact, togetherness and teamwork often define the adventure.

If I ski down the tracks of my memory, I see: my Dad teaching me how to downhill ski and inspiring a lifelong passion; I also see my sister: the courageous little tyke smiling and hanging on to my ski pole, as I tow her to the lift line. 

Seeing them conquer that hill, feeling the camaraderie of a risk taken and a challenge conquered, felt like a moment of wholeness. Everything was right with the world, standing in the winter light, smiling at one another and shuffling our feet a little.

Happy apres ski; happier apres chili

The other highlight of the day was skiing atop a frozen Canopus Lake. Although I had been to Fahnestock Winter Park a few times before, the lake was never frozen. There was something so peaceful about skiing through all that open space; it gave a totally new perspective on the wooded hillsides that comprise the park. The three of us skied together, sometimes a pair forming, sometimes three abreast.

Canopus Lake: Cathedral of light

I was so happy to share this day with my Dad and my sister. Thanks to them for coming along and being such great sports. I declare the day a success because the two "beginners:" a) did not get injured (the coach's oath is like the Hippocratic: first and foremost, do no harm), b) genuinely had fun, and c) started making plans about how to get on skinny skis again soon. I hope they'll invite me along so we can all make tracks together.

XC Skiing Riverdale Park post "Blizzard" of 2015

Though Winter Storm Juno was not as serious as expected, she still dumped enough snow for school cancellation and fresh cover for skiing. Though Van Cortlandt Park is a great place to ski, I was eager to explore some new territory. Plus, my car was snowed in, and the thought of walking all the way down the hill--let alone back up it--seemed daunting.

So I took an afternoon ramble through sunny Riverdale to hit the park that runs along Palisade Avenue. While I got more funny looks than usual striding the sidewalks in my spandex and with skis over my shoulder, it was more than worth it. It was only a 15 minute walk before I could click into my bindings and hear the distinctive sound of ski on snow.

Gazing and gliding

I saw fellow skiers for the first time in the Bronx. We made small talk about how pleasant the day was. Mostly, I took in the calm afternoon light while looking over the Hudson River at the snowy Palisades in NJ. I'd like to ski over there someday too, but for now, just gazing was enough.


After two good sessions this weekend, I was proud to clock my fastest average so far this season. While it wasn't my longest ski, it was my most challenging in terms of elevation gain. I attribute the increased speed somewhat to more fitness for the sport, but mostly to faster conditions. The snow was crunchy and firm, making for quick runs along level ground, and some nice downhill sections.

Though not as extensive as Van Cortlandt Park, this was still a worthwhile place to ski. The view really is peaceful and occasionally a Metro-North or Amtrak train rolls through below, its whistle lending the whole park a 19th-century feel.