Dog Days

I took a lot of time off running the last two weeks, due to the soaring temperatures and my resulting sluggishness. I've completed a total of just four runs since July 16 -- the last one was yesterday, when I explored the lovely yet much too short Spring Run Trail as dusk crept over the northeast side of Saratoga.




A couple other times I went night running -- which has been a great source of stress relief for me in past summers and something I've missed doing this summer since my schedule has changed. (No morning runs yet; it's still a possibility, but don't hold your breath for that post...)

A few words on night running: Late in the evening, the pain and sweat of summer day running naturally gives way to the cool wash of dodging sprinklers under dim street lights. I transform into a weightless shadow gliding over the black pavement, surrounded by an invisible chorus of cicadas, and my too-full brain allows itself to be lulled into a calm. In the dark, it's difficult even for the runner herself to distinguish the difference between perspiration and tears, between a grimace due to muscle cramp or a grimace due to heartache. They all blend as one; and the combination is easier to bear than any  sensation independently.

And now back to our regularly scheduled programming...

Despite those couple "therapy" runs (as opposed to actual "training" runs), such a drop-off in what was my steadily building weekly mileage is something that'd normally leave me wracked in guilt, but instead, I've found the time off quite necessary and restful. Much of my extra hours have been spent apartment-hunting in Albany, where I may be relocating at the end of August. Also: working, sleeping, eating chocolate, prepping for Hali and Peter's upcoming nuptials (!!). All important stuff.  

Fortunately, I found time for much-needed play as well, workaholic that I can be. Here's sista Moe and I at Far Rockaway Beach, where she and her Long Island boyfriend met up with me and my Brooklyn friends.

She's tall and blonde, I'm short and dark.
She says potato, I say potahtoh,
but we are, in fact, related to each other.

From left to right: Me, Emily, Allison.

Far Rockaway Beach. It only took about five trains and two hours
to get there from Williamsburg. Totally worth the trip.

Another weekend, I lounged for hours at Victoria Pool, soaking in the sun, drinking lemonade and taking in the atmosphere -- which can best be described as a PG-13-rated playground for adults. 50-ish men with roving eyes and wallets recently fattened (or emptied) at the race track, 40-ish women with deep tans and string bikinis, 20-ish couples or groups of friends in town for the weekend, kicking back before hitting Caroline Street for the evening. That's Saratoga in the summer for ya.

I've also made a point to consume as much ice cream as possible, hopefully without totally wrecking my chances of fitting comfortably into my beautiful bridesmaid's dress next weekend. It's a fun game I like to call "Give me the spoon. It's f-ing hot and I am not moving off of this couch." Ah well. Serious training runs and hot yoga will commence once again, but only after some serious fun is had this coming week, celebrating my dear friend and her soon-to-be-husband.