Hardboiled Hunter
Such a Hottie
As I mentioned in this post from May 31, I’ve been working at acclimating to the heat with an eye toward enduring the temperatures during this race in 12 more days. Since the weather has been on the cool side this May in New Jersey, I’ve had to resort to artificial means of producing warm conditions. These means include wearing warm clothes in the house while going about my business, not using air conditioning in the house or car, running and exercising in warm clothing.
Today I went out for a run wearing these layers: a long-sleeved heavy cotton t-shirt under a heavy sweatshirt, sweatpants with compression shorts underneath (and underwear), wool socks (which I always wear while running), and a winter running hat. Yes, I got a few looks from other people who were out walking, running, biking. It was best for me to just avoid eye contact with any of them.
Today was another relatively cool day at 69° and cloudy, but look at that humidity! 80%! (See below.) These were the perfect conditions to bundle up and get my sweat on. However, I was mindful to stay salted and watered. I took two Endurolyte capsules before I started my run. I also brought along my new Amphipod handheld water bottle filled with ice and water.
I set off down the West Morris Greenway from Horseshoe Lake in Roxbury. I ran at a slow steady pace of about 11 minutes per mile and walked when necessary. My overall pace worked out to be 12:14. I didn’t want to be fast, just hot. I set a timer for 30 minutes. When it went off, I turned around and headed back to where I started. I ran 5 miles in total, taking in an hour’s worth of lush green scenery, as shown in this photo.
I kept the layers on for another 30 minutes when I got home to allow my body to slowly cool down. After 30 minutes all that wet cotton-wear got cold and felt like a heavy chilly blanket. This hour of running in the humidity while layered-up gave me exactly what I was aiming for. I need to continue these antics through this week (it’s going to be only 56° tomorrow) and into next week when the temperatures here are predicted to rise up to the low 80s. That, I hope, will prepare me for the race.
Here is New York
Near the end of E. B. White’s essay, “Here is New York,” published in 1949, there are these prophetic paragraphs:
The subtlest change in New York is something people don’t speak much about but is in everyone’s mind. The city, for the first time in its long history, is destructible. A single flight of planes no bigger than a wedge of geese can quickly end this island fantasy, burn the towers, crumble the bridges, turn the underground passages into lethal chambers, cremate the millions. The intimation of mortality is part of New York now: in the sound of jets overhead, in the black headlines of the latest edition.
All dwellers of cities must live with the stubborn fact of annihilation; in New York the fact is somewhat more concentrated because of the concentration of the city itself, and because, of all targets, New York has a certain clear priority. In the mind of whatever perverted dreamer might loose the lightning, New York must hold steady, irresistible charm.
It used to be the Statue of Liberty was the signpost that proclaimed New York and translated it for all the world. Today Liberty shares the role with Death. Along the East River, from the razed slaughterhouses of Turtle Bay, as though in a race with the spectral flight of planes, men are carving out the permanent headquarters of the United Nations – the greatest housing project of them all. In it’s stride, New York takes on one more interior city, to shelter, this time, all governments, and to clear the slum called war. New York is not a capital city – it is not a national capital or a state capital. But it is by way of becoming the capital of the world. The buildings, as conceived by architects, will be cigar boxes set on end. Traffic will flow in a new tunnel under First Avenue. Forty-seventh Street will be widened (and if my guess is any good, trucks will appear late at night to plant tall trees surreptitiously, their roots to mingle with the intestines of the town). Once again the city will absorb, almost without showing any sign of it, a congress of visitors. It has already shown itself capable of stashing away the United Nations – a great many of the delegates have been around town during the past couple of years, and the citizenry has hardly caught a glimpse of their coattails or their black Homburgs.
This race – this race between the destroying planes and the struggling Parliament of Man – it sticks in all our heads. The city at last perfectly illustrates both the universal dilemma and the general solution, this riddle in steel and stone is at once the perfect target and the perfect demonstration of nonviolence, of racial brotherhood, this lofty target scraping the skies and meeting the destroying planes halfway, home of all people an all nations, capital of everything, housing the deliberations by which the planes are to be stayed and their errand forestalled.
A block or two west of the new City of Man in Turtle Bay there is an old willow tree that presides over an interior garden. It is a battered tree, long suffering and much climbed, held together by strands of wire but beloved of those who know it. In a way it symbolizes the city: life under difficulties, growth against the odds, sap-rise in the midst of concrete, and the steady reaching for the sun. Whenever I look at it nowadays, and feel the cold shadow of the planes, I think: “This must be saved, this particular thing, this very tree.” If it were to go, all would go – this city, this mischievous and marvelous monument which not to look upon would be like death
Dear E. B., just over 50 years later, the “perverted dreamers” with just two planes appeared to be winning the race of which you wrote. The “struggling Parliament of Man,” to many of us, has not lived up to the expectations which you and others held for it at the time its home was being planted in Turtle Bay. The “spectral flight of planes” has taken on corpreal horror for New Yorkers, for those of us who love New York, for Americans, and for civilized people the world over. There does not appear to be a way by which to “clear the slum called war.”
Also, Mr. White, sadly, they cut down the old willow tree in 2009.
Happily, New York still stands.
(My own thoughts shortly after 9/11 can be found in my post “I Love New York”.)
Fat Head
I’m doing the Running with the Devil race again this year. I’ve been concerned about not being ready for the heat of that race. Seeing as the race is held on ski slopes, there isn’t much shade to be found. I’ll have three hours to go up and down the slopes (a 3-mile course) as many times as I can. Last year, the sun was BLAZING. Not that the sun isn’t always blazing, but I felt like an ant under a magnifying lens out there last year.
In order to get acclimated to hotter weather, I decided to wear a heavy sweatshirt, sweatpants, and a warm hat while going about my business in the house without any air conditioning on. That’s not such a big deal right now while the temperatures have been in the 60s and 70s and we’ve had a lot of rainy days.
I felt pretty smart about my fashion decision for the day. That is until my wife saw me. She walked into the kitchen and said, “What’s with the hat? Trying to lose weight in your head?” No respect, I tell ya. No respect.
Discovering Mahlon Dickerson Reservation, Morris County, NJ
This afternoon I explored part of the Mahlon Dickerson Reservation in Jefferson Township, Morris County, New Jersey. Specifically, I ran along the yellow trail, making a slight diversion on the blue Highlands Trail to check out Headley Overlook. I had been intending to run the trails as Mahlon for some weeks since it’s only a 15 minute drive from home. What I discovered there was very runnable trails and pleasant scenery.
Here’s a link to a map of the trails in the area so you can follow along at home.
I parked at the Saffin Pond parking lot and began my journey on the yellow blazed trail heading south on the west side of the pond. I had not gone more than 100 yards when I stepped within a foot of two snakes. One darted off through the weeds and into the water. The other posed for a photo. Later I learned they were northern water snakes. They were sunning themselves on the side of the trail.
The first section of trail appeared to be rails-to-trails, flat, level, covered with gravel. This changed to ATV trails or some kind of old roads for vehicle access after maybe a mile. After the pond near the pumping station downstream along Weldon Brook from Saffin Pond, the trail began to alternate between ATV trails and single track. There’s no name for this pond on the map. Neither could I find one online.
What I like in the above picture of the pond is the swallowtail butterfly that made its way into the shot. It reminds me of the Swan Song Records logo:
(On a side note, here’s a link to a gallery of swallowtail photos I took many moons ago.)
Eventually the trail became primarily single track that meandered through the forest, up and down some hills. There were various rock formations, a few small stream crossings, fallen trees, and the usually stuff you find in a forest. The path zig-zagged uphill as it neared the area of Headley Overlook. This was the Zen section of my run. Keeping my feet moving, sweating, taking in the sounds of the forest birds and my own breath became like meditation. THIS is the aspect of running I love most. I can find it better while trail running more so than road running.
Headley Overlook was close to 5 miles from Saffin Pond. I didn’t hang out long there, just long enough to take a few pictures. From there I followed a gravel covered trail for a short distance to reconnect with the yellow trail to complete the loop back to Saffin Pond. That mile and a half was good running. The complete loop was 6.65 miles. It took me about 90 minutes. I always think about how much faster I can run that distance if I didn’t stop to take pictures. But every minute spent in the woods is worth it, whether running or not. That’s where the Zen is.