Another Half Marathon
RECS #34: Carbo-loading, a sweeping novel, and the formula for the perfect day.
Dear friends,
It has been a minute. The beginning of March, much like the end of February, was a whirlwind. The last couple weeks saw a pretty significant shift in my weekday routines, and as much as I’ve tried to keep up—with sleep and socializing and exercising and cooking and cleaning—a weariness has crept in. I powered through it all this past weekend in preparation for the NYC Half Marathon, which I ran yesterday. It was my third time attempting this distance, and my first time with a real time goal. I wanted to run it in under two hours. I felt strong and capable. And, I thought the big crowds and historic route would light enough of a fire for me to meet my goals. According to my watch, which I paused for my two minute bathroom break, I finished in two hours and five minutes—just a minute shy of a PR. I felt great for the first half, and then, as we chugged along F.D.R., I lost steam. Fast.
As I made my way through Times Square, my eyes were focused on the pavement directly in front of me, instead of the wide-open streets and lit-up billboards (many of which had been taken over to cheer runners on). Then, with about five hundred meters left, I spotted Conor, flowers in hand. It took a few seconds before his eyes met mine, but when they did, a grin spread across his face. I gave him a high-five and told him, “If I stop running right now, I will not be able to start again.” And then I was off, reenergized just enough to push my pace all the way to the end. It wasn’t the race I’d hoped for, but I’m proud all the same. If you’d told me even a year ago that I’d be attempting a sub-two hour half marathon, I would’ve laughed in your face. It’ll happen one day. I’m sure of it.
Otherwise, between battling exhaustion and running around the city, the last few weeks have been silly and delicious and full of life.
READING: After finishing Danzy Senna’s “Colored Television,” which had the potential to be good and satisfying, but ended up trying to do too much and, ultimately, accomplishing little, I picked up Jhumpa Lahiri’s “The Namesake.” Lahiri, a Barnard alum, is one of those authors who I’ve heard so much about, but have read almost nothing by. “The Namesake,” so far, has solidified her reputation. It follows Gogol, born in Massachusetts to immigrants from Calcutta, as he navigates his relationship to his family, his culture, and, most significantly, his name—after the Russian novelist. The story is meticulous and intimate, while being simultaneously expansive and epic. It has already made me cry twice. The last book to bring me to tears was Barbara Kingsolver’s “Demon Copperhead,” another vast and complicated family saga. I’ve had little time to read otherwise, but this piece about how the left may, or may not, be able to win back young men was as funny as it was insightful. I finally read that New York Mag feature from weeks ago about the generation of grownup-children whose lives are significantly subsidized by their parents. And, this newsletter with restaurant recommendations from New Yorkers was exactly the kind of thing I’m always eager to read (lists, food, a shout out to the Upper West Side. Yes, please.)
EATING: Unfortunately for my bank account, I have eaten out so much in the last few weeks. Kayla and Elena blessed us with their presence a few weeks ago, and we dined at Cowgirl, the kitschy West Village Tex-Mex spot that feels like it has somehow avoided succumbing to the sterilized and sceney atmosphere of so many newer restaurants in the neighborhood. The food is solidly, and refreshingly, average (as is its price!), but their prickly pear frozen margarita is divine. In that same neighborhood, I visited Turks & Frogs twice, and Fairfax once. The former is nestled among brownstones and quiet streets, making it a nice reprieve for a glass of wine and supremely creamy hummus. The latter is in the heart of the crowds, but Fairfax remains one of my favorite restaurants. Their burger is one of my go-tos, but this time, we ordered a collection of snacks. Ricotta dip with crusty bread, a creamy gem salad, and roasted carrots with an unknown spread on top. I think it was a type of hummus, but the menu didn’t say. All were flavorful, fresh, and filling. The makings of a good meal. I wanted to spend most of this past weekend carbo-loading, so Conor and I finally tried this Italian restaurant in the neighborhood called Salumeria Rosi, which was apparently an old haunt of Anthony Bourdain’s. They have a robust meat and cheese counter, but we stuck to pasta: gnocchi for Conor and rigatoni for me. Both were coated in red sauce, but mine had the addition of a selection of their cured meats. It was rich, salty, and acidic. The following evening, I snagged a reservation at Pastis, a Keith McNally joint. We were seated outside, which left me chilly and my hair wind-blown, but I ordered the crispiest glass of white wine and their Cheeseburger à l’Américaine. Not to be dramatic, but I literally cannot think of a better post-race meal.
CONSUMING: Based on this recommendation, I started Bravo’s “The Valley” after my race yesterday. It is so dumb, and it involves the most selfish and stunted group of adults I’ve ever encountered, but I’m eating it up. Conor and I have continued watching “Severance,” balanced by “Love Is Blind.” We’ll be lost without “Severance” when it ends this week, but not quite as much without “Love Is Blind.” I love reality TV, and I’m also so glad to feel no urge to ever participate in it. The other week, I came home from dinner on a Saturday night, and I felt energized enough to watch a movie, so I rented “All the President’s Men.” Smart, thoughtful people who risked a lot in an attempt to hold the most powerful institutions to account, and then succeed. It’s been years and years since I’ve watched it for the first time, but it felt especially comforting now.
SAVORING: Last weekend, I woke up early and met my run club on the 72nd platform going downtown. We were travelling to Brooklyn to do the last eight miles of the half marathon course—over the Brooklyn Bridge, up F.D.R., through 42nd street, and finish in Central Park. After getting a quick coffee with friends, I cleaned up and met Conor for a day in Hoboken. The wind whipped at our face as we bar hopped around, ending at a German bierhaus where we took green shots in honor of St. Patrick’s Day and played a game that made us all laugh to the point that our bellies began to ache. We took the ferry home, and I ordered sushi that was waiting at our doorstep. We caught up on our shows, read a bit, and fell asleep at an admirably reasonable hour. I’m now committed to running the marathon this fall, and I hope I can emulate lots of days like that this summer: with long runs, time outside with friends (usually with beers), and then takeout and television. It’s the formula for the perfect day.
Talk soon (I hope),
Erin