March 2024
BIOHAZARD FISHING:
It’s a treat to pluck a toadfish from an oil spill. And, there’s nothing more natural than riding your bike from your apartment to an ecological disaster, holding a science-fiction style animal in your hands, and then releasing it back into its putrid stream.
Truthfully, The Newtown Creek is an oasis with all the marks of serenity. While our hot-dog baited hooks sat in oil-slicked water, I watched a crane smash an entire school bus. It’s not the Creek’s fault that ExxonMobil decided to leak 30 million gallons of oil into it, or that New York City’s sewage discharges directly into it. Hundreds of years ago, Greenpointers caught oysters and swam here.
And you can still do that today, as long as you wash your hands afterwards.
FRATELLO, CORRENDO, SABBIA:
Enjoyed the Italian overdub of Rocky on my flight. Goddamn he was talking so fucking fast. “Guarda, guarda, andiamo!” Mental marathon prep.
Travel had me sleeping in broad daylight in a grassy LA botanical garden field rather than seeing the European art museum (I did reserve consciousness for the bonsai).
Morning of the race - Accident on the 134 east. Sat in traffic for 45+ minutes and barely moved an inch. The LA curse. I could have jogged one mile to the exit, climbed through the wreckage, and called a $300 Uber. But over text, Zeke’s city-planning eyes had faith the LA department of transportation could clear the scene quickly. Apparently it was a school bus of runners going to the race (a dubious and disrespectful claim read on the Citizen app). Stepped out for 1 second to assess the situation when an officer emerged quicker than a Hasidic child in a Williamsburg bike lake and yelled “GET IN YOUR CAR”. Didn’t he see my new singlet? Why is the LAPD so cruel, and where did he come from?
SEEING MOVEMENT ON THE HIGHWAY. WERE FUCKING MOVING. ANDIAMO (Rocky style)!!
As I’ve aged into yuppie-dom, the marathon has become a talking point with strangers, and an opportunity to travel to family on the opposite coast. This is my third year pursuing a spring marathon, and the training has been a nearly essential tool for surviving the miserable New York City winter.
I encounter marathoning peers everywhere I go. Sometimes they’re an outsourced, South African software engineer in a stuffy Zoom (who happened to run a marathon the same day as me), and sometimes they’re a Boulder restauranteur who shares sage LA marathon course advice to my dad at Frasca the night before (which he then texted to me). Through running, I maintain ties to coworkers at every past job I’ve hated, and have formed a spiderweb of connections who choose distance in their downtime.
“TRES BIEN....FORZA DONATO SEI TUTTI I RUSCITTI” - Panfilo
3AM, the morning after - accidental car alarm, engine roaring. Dante has returned to his car. The surprise wake-up has me pissed. Later I learned that condensation had formed on the ceiling of his tent and started to rainfall. Meanwhile, I had a blissful post-marathon bivy slumber. My body rested and recovered on the desert floor. Though, I probably could have slept well anywhere on earth that night.
In the morning, we had diner eggs benedict for the third time on the trip, and hiked 49 Palm Oasis. Dante lasted <half the hike and opted to sleep in the parking lot. The alien trees at the end were beautiful and distinct from the buildings that typically surround me in midtown on Monday mornings. The palms had their own private ecosystem, complete with a unique soundtrack. Birds, dripping water, a mini forest in the middle of scatter rock and cacti. Decrepit from the race and reeking of campfire, I stumbled into the scenery feeling like Joaquin Phoenix in Inherent Vice.
In San Diego we invented beach baseball games such as “bamboo-stick bats” and “bounce the ball off the rock wall”, best enjoyed at sunset. Dante and I hiked numerous beach trails with my broken legs, and even played catch on a nudie beach as stray nude men passed to and fro.
“Literally no offense but when did donato become a mountain girl? I’m not being mean I just didn’t know” - Avi, to The Soul Shiner group chat in response to my San Diego pics.
As the trip came to an end I was filled with some tumultuous feelings ~ Dreading the return to the city, missing my girls (Marin and Peppa), and mourning the marathon (which builds for 3 months and then lasts less than 4 hours).
COSTCO INCIDENT:
Marin and Ashley "ordered" groceries - testing Jack and I's ability to shop, think independently while following orders, and provide.
A mistake - Jack and I separately ran around filling the cart with the same items. Racking up nearly $800. We returned home to pissed partners, and bulk sized duplicates (the blow lessened overtime as we all came to appreciate our endless supply).
Lessons:
Strive to achieve economies of scale
Always buy roses at Costco
No hot dog only costs $1.50
Recognize when a request (getting groceries) is designed for you to fail (going without your wife)
$1 spent at Costco is $10 saved
BAGEL REPETITIONS:
On Friday morning (for >1.5 years) Ethan and I ride ~ almost no matter the weather (many others often join). We coordinate these rides in a text chat called "Yearning for Distance". In summer, we wear nothing, but skin tight zoom suits. In winter, we are cloaked in buckets of clothing and pack puffers so we can lounge outdoors post ride. Sometimes, we briefly join the Rapha group ride, but are too anti-social to hold down the "what do you do?" conversations (most cyclists are tech bros and gals). We add them on Strava, and keep it parasocial.
Ethan and I will often hang out the Thursday evening before, and then on Friday morning, only 7-8 hours will have really passed. The only update Ethan will have is that he watched Shark Tank on his cell phone before bed (in portrait mode I worry).
We do 3-5 Prospect laps, and then stop for a shuffled bagel at Yee Olde Bagel Shop, my favorite restaurant. Whoever keeps eye on the bikes outside receives a bagel of the other’s choosing. For this reason, I've had it all (pump, rainbow, raison cinnamon, and every cream cheese in between). I even ate here on the morning of my wedding.
Today was no different than any other Friday sesh, save that I returned to Marin and Peppa on the sunshine stoop.
TRAIL NAUSEA, BLUEGRASS:
Mia, Calvin, Charlotte, Sophie, and myself (the amazing runners group chat) did an 11 mile trail race in New Jersey. Mia and I were on 4 hours of sleep, Calvin had 4 beers the night before and couldn't find his trail shoes, and Sophie had eaten tainted TJ chicken wings for dinner (foreshadowing). Charlotte seemed well-rested and prepared. I barely slept all week leading to the race, prioritizing social activities. The race crew was off their game yet cheery.
Throughout the week we countered any doubtful texts from Calvin by sayin he would win the race, despite him not running for months. It was a joke, but he is also fast AF and I knew he could win. And he literally did come in second (and would have easily been first had he not stopped to take a piss in the last mile).
I somehow got 4th place, and I’ve never been competitive in a race event in my life. It turns out I can hold my own in smaller Jersey trail races. Though, it did feel unfair to the New Jersians to ship in our carload of Brooklynites to whoop them on their local trails.
On the drive back, nausea spread through us. I blasted Yellow Magic Orchestra, and we were in stop-and-go traffic from the Holland Tunnel to the Williamsburg Bridge. The nausea reached its peak in Chinatown when Sophie begged to pull over. She hopped out and puked instantly.
We were all experiencing nausea and weren’t sure why (except Charlotte). Maybe it was the handfuls of caffeine gels, maybe we aren't used to prolonged car rides anymore, or maybe it was our bodies rejecting our return to the city. Whatever it was had us down bad.
Early warnings - around mile 7, I felt I might shit myself. I’ve never experienced a stomach issue racing before, but each step felt as though my "water could break" - if I was to use a pregnancy analogy, ya know? I held position 3 until the very last minute of the race, when a strategic fellow, emerged in a dead sprint to steal my podium spot. After the race, number 1 (New Jersey man), number 2 (Calvin), and number 4 (me) all chatted about the race and course. Meanwhile #3 (fucker) went to his car and drove home. Not even a drop of camaraderie.
We thought our nausea had passed, but once back in Brooklyn, Sophie covered her mouth with her hand and asked me to pull over once more. This time, she puked feet away from a taxi, as the driver stood there watching aghast. When she finished the driver said plainly, "that's disgusting."
The post-race evening was an all out rainstorm, and we spent it taking cover under Bluegrass in Red Hook. Running a trail race and watching Bluegrass felt like the perfect way to honor my Colorado heritage while living in Brooklyn.
THE LAND OF THE BAR, THE HOME OF THE BRAVE:
I quit drinking after Megan and Kevin’s wedding. No reason in particular, but 3 years of living in bar land has me ready for a new lease on life. In NYC it’s easier to go out 4+ nights a week than to not, and in many instances it’s necessary. The land of convenience is also grueling, and requires some escape. For starts, the city is mostly visually brutal and smells like piss. The streets are covered in shit while finance / tech bros / LES “art” money-spenders (not us, but the ones who went to Wesleyan) navigate the city with ease. But for any normal task or responsibility, things can be 10X extra hard. Say my car’s safety inspection sticker expires - it means I get a $65 ticket A DAY unless I immediately drive to the 24 hour shop in LIC to drop $800 on new rotors (fully at the discretion of them trying to make a quick buck). Forget the massive amount of time I already spend lugging that car around the sides of McGuinness boulevard after work to avoid tickets. It’s heart attack inducing. After this, all we really have are the bars.
Now that I don’t drink I go to bars to drink beer flavored soda, and take Digi-cam pics 1 inch from Noah’s face. And frankly, this is many inches more fun than drinking. Most friends ultimately want to drink 10 beers until they get hungry, direct the socializing to fast food (be it a taco truck, a diner under the BQE, McDonald’s if ur at Tempkins, or maybe a Garden Market chopped cheese), before calling the night early - so tired and bloated that they can’t smile straight.
I’ll take Noah’s closeup any day.
Nice