A Two-Hour Tour of NYC

NYC, on a scale of 1 to 10, you're a 13.1.

Yes, I ran the NYC half marathon today – a Central Park loop, then all the way south to Water Street -- not having logged so much as a single mile since the first week in January.

I was curious whether cross-training – which I have been doing – and muscle memory would be enough to carry me through the equivalent of two 10ks plus another half mile, and it was.

(Was it my best idea? Probably not. But as part of being kinder to myself I try not to do exercise that feels like punishment, so that means not running outside in extreme cold – thanks to my Reynaud's, my fingers and toes freeze no matter how good the insulation. Running on a treadmill also feels like torture, so I do not do it. Yes, one could argue running 13.1 miles sans proper training also is torture, but I started out figuring I'd just do a 10k and then see what happened. After all, I'd already paid the crazy huge non-refundable race entry fee.)

My time, for the record: 2:05:18, or 9:34 minute miles. To be honest, it was less of a challenge to my cardiovascular system than it was to my knees/legs. Crazy, but true.

Song that got me through mile 8: "Call Me Maybe." If you have the musical tastes of a 16-year-old (I do, sometimes, when I exercise), listen to this and laugh. It is ridiculous, and yet...

***

I survived the beauty spin, by the way... not something I want to do on a regular basis (not least of which is that I don't like exercising in the evening). But I've been there, done that and have the (small) t-shirt (and the Sisley lipstick, courtesy of a beauty PR) to prove it. Ridiculous.

I am Sweaty McSweaterson in a normal workout, to the point where I sometimes feel I am performing some kind of public service – officially being the most drenched person so that no one else has to be embarrassed. Spinning turns the room into a sweatbox, so my hair look like a crazy person's (not for me, that NYC de-rigueur perfect bun on top of my head that does not move) and my clothes look like I've thrown them in the washing machine and put them on without drying them.

Beauty girls do not sweat; they glow. I eyed them and glowered.

Actually, not really – maybe it's sign of age, but I felt self conscious for about 20 seconds before shrugging it off. I'm not a "beauty girl," and thank goodness for that.