Weekend with the Family

We spent Thanksgiving with the family. Got stuck in traffic, then got stuffed with turkey with many other guests, then got to stay the weekend in suburban New Jersey. But it was more than that. We also spent the holiday with our own nucler family, Nadia, Marie, Belle, Eva and myself. In the rush of academic life, two starting assistant professors running from one plane to another, giving that talk in this city, pursuing those potential collaborations in another, I don’t remember whether we’ve even spent a full week together since coming to New York. I think we actually qualify as a single-parent family, only different single parent at each point in time. Perhaps the record was last spring, when I visited Columbia University on a Thursday, stayed till Friday, when Nadia went a conference in Long Island, leaving the kids to be driven by her dad to meet me for a weekend in Jersey, ending with dropping him off on Sunday at Newark en route to Israel, and with me continuing to La Guardia, to meet Nadia, leave her the car and the kids, and fly over to Cornell. No wonder that when we saw a goose and a flock of ducks the other day, Bellie informed us that this is the mommy and these are the kids, and the daddy went to a conference.

Only now, in the dusk of this weekend, already onboard my next flight, did it occur to me how special was the family experience, and how rewarding it was just to spend time with each other. No kiddie attractions, no fancy restaurants, no adrenaline-rich challenges. Just spending time together, in the calming atmosphere of Auntie Ronda’s house. Maybe I’m getting soft, but maybe we should try it more often.

On a completely different note, I would like to share with you our ZipCar experiences from this weekend. I feel it is my duty as a consumer, not to mention me being so mad at that company I just have to let some steam out online otherwise i migt find myself fixing some of their windshields with a crow bar. So, in case you thought otherwise, we don’t have a car now. I mean we have a car, but it’s in Boston. Instead, we use our feet, bikes, taxi, subway, and for flexible and long distance transportation – ZipCar, “wheels when you want them”, the wonderful car sharing company. It works by online reservations of a specific car from a specific garage on each occasion. They even have names for each vehicle. We have a couple of their sites near the university, and so far it worked great. I just got to the garage, waved my membership card at the windshield-attached reader, and it unlocked my chariot of the day. No parking-strings attached, no oil-check-guilt involved.

That was all true till Thursday, the beginning of our three-day getaway. I must say that when the idea for this trip came up, about a month ago, I uncharacteristically planned ahead, and made the reservation that early in advance. Perhaps the previous two-day rental had something to do with it – that time I had to bike all the way to Queens to get the closest last-minute-available car, and only barely escaped getting killed by the traffic on the way there. Anyway, it was Thanksgiving weekend, and even then I couldn’t get a really nearby car, but I did find something midtown - only 3-4 miles away. I called the garage half an hour before the noon reservation, ‘cause they sometimes need to dig up the triple-parked-double-deck-buried car from the overstuffed automobile warehouse, and then Eva and I set off to get it. We were both happy to use this opportunity for running in the park, with the mid 40’s light rain creating ideal sweat-less conditions. Eva had a misfortunate attempt to drink from one of the ponds along the way, which ended with her overshooting the bank and plunging in, but she didn’t mind the quick dive. Anyway, 65 street-blocks and 8 avenues later, one very muddy dog with her lightly dressed non-canine companion reported to the shabby booth of an outdoor parking lot. Poor guy - I thought of the lot assistant – stuck here in this thankless job on Thanksgiving. “Toyota Matrix, please” I said. “The one named ‘Maroon’. I called at eleven thirty.” The guy raised an eyebrow “Matrix Maroon? It’s gone. Someone took in ten minutes ago. I wasn’t surprised because of your call.” Alarmed, I called the company. They indeed confirmed the reservation, and confirmed that the car wasn’t there (by calling the booth where we were…). They refused however to give me any of the other cars, because they are reserved by other people (and what do you think I am? A bodyless voice calling you?) I had the pleasure of spending the following hour in the small booth, talking to different ZipCar administrators, staying on hold and mostly shivering like a leaf in the wind. You see, the warm feeling of the exercise had worn off quickly, and I was still wearing only shorts and a T shirt. As unlucky as the lot guy was, at least he had a winter jacket and a fleece hat. Anyway. the intermittent conversations with ZipCar weren’t that helpful. It seemed that this other member reserved a different car to the same hour I did, and accidentally took my ‘Maroon’. How was his card able to open the car that was programmed to be mine and mine alone is still a mystery. The lot person has an administrative card, but he claimed not having used it. Mad as I am at ZipCar for letting me freeze for an hour, I don’t actually believe they actually double booked. I think their no-show rate is not that high. The only solution is that the other member reserved another car to noon, but also reserved my Matrix Maroon for 11:30-noon or something like that. I think this is pretty nasty, just for having a slightly bigger car. ZipCar tried to contact Mr. Nasty, to return the vehicle, but naturally he turned off his cellphone – he was halfway to Thanksgiving dinner by now, so why does he need the nagging of ZipCar administraors? Adding insult to injury, at one o’clock the remains of my phone batteries were exhausted, and incommunicado I decided to quit trying. My cold leg muscles were aching, and Eva was even colder than I was, absorbing the crescendo of raindrops outside the booth. While normal dogs are not allowed on public transpotration, being the mentally hadicapped person that I am, I nominated Eva to be my psycological guide dog, and sneaked her into a subway station to get oth of us home.

How did we manage to get to NJ eventually? Well, Nadia did have a phone, and she is much more persuasive when talking to service companies. Must be her pitch, if not the volume. When I got home she immediately sent me back to get the replacement car, this time with a jacket and a taxi.

The Queen of Sciences

It was during my PhD when I spent a semester visiting University of Washington. Back then, before I was exposed to the wondeful world of fatherhood, I spent very long hours breathing screen-radiation in the lab, feeding on cafeteria carbs. During one of these 85-cents-a-muffin transactions I took out a dollar and a dime, hoping to collect one more of those precious coins that the pre-ATM laundromat consumed at alarming rates. The ccolege-girl at the register looked at me bewildered as if these two pieces of currency were a midterm in quantum physics. It took me a few minutes of detailed explanations to convince her that no, I don't want to just pay the dollar, and when she finally accepted, if not seen through the arithmetics that every Israeli dropout of a vegetable-stand worker would have rightfully realized in a flash, she seriously explained *my* mistake "You could see I'm not a math major".

Last week I recalled this lesson in American math, after getting exactly the same quote from a decade younger student at a top US college. This time it was the babysitter. She seemed nice and intelligent. Belle had a great time with her for the entire 4 hours, but extrapulating her 15$/hour rate for the entire afternoon was beyond her skills as a teacher trainee.

What is that about numbers that frightens people, that prevents them from doing the most elementary of mental excercises if they involve using ASCII characters below "A"? As a math lover, I never managed to grasp that, yet as an empirical scientist, I must acknowledge that lay people that shout "plus a constant" are as imaginary as i. 'Geek' you must be sneering upon reading these metaphores, and perhaps thats part of it. Math doesn't have good marketing as, well, marketing for example. It doesn't have the broad appeal of business and medicine. It's nothing close to being as cool as art, and even infamous lawyers get more popularity when people think on their own future. No. Math is for certain people only, not to say certain creatures, those nurdy rocket scientists. Something to be avoided whenever possible.

It probably starts at school. That's one of the reasons I was so alarmed at the math curriculum when we got here. After routinely doing additions and subtractions in our public kindergarden in Boston, Marie started her New York schholyear doing patterns. Obvioulsy she was bored. "This is EASY, it's like preschool" she reported to her friends over the phone (over *my* cellphone, but that's a differnet post). While with the hassle of setting up my research agenda here is openning another front is the last thing I need, I decided to play 'concerned daddy' and started talking to other parents. It seems many aren't happy about the math curriculum, not only the usual suspects, my colleagues at the geek deparments, but also lawyers and artists. In fact, one of the appreciated qualifications the new head of school, presumingly contrbuting to her being hired was her math background and agenda. So, after going through the math goals for the year during the parent-teacher conference, I'm actually meeting the school head to see whether things can move the right way. Keep ya posted....

A New York state of mind

I think a "NY state of mind" is a tourist concept.
New Yorkers themselves are in a constant state of suspicion. While Giuliani & the abortion laws cleaned the streets from the frequent violent crime of the 80's, the asmosphere is still that everyone is a potential crook. Examples:
* You need 2 pieces of ID to get a simple u-haul.
* For the first time since the visa application, we needed to have an accredited (analog to notarized) translation of the girls' birth certificates to get them health insurance. If we stay here "forever" and need to get the tuition benefit, we'll need that every semester - just as a means against fraud.
* When I was asking for directions (yes, I know Manhattan is easy to navigate, but only till you need to find access to a bikepath on a bridge), and was under-dressed (t-shirt) for the neighborhood (damn east siders) locals just went away mumbling "I don't know", which means "I know perfectly well that you are about to mug me".

So, you can take out the water hose, but the other chimps will still beat you up.

The sad thing is that you really do get to be a frequent victom of small con. 4/4 times in a single weekend we got screwed by taxi drivers. It's by a block or two each time - you can't do more than that in a Manhattan distance - but it is every time - just out of habit/convention, rather than for the pennies. Just as an automatic response for us not telling them exactly where to turn to avoid the "one-way"s, where to use Broadway's triangle inequality, and which avenue we're currently at. Maybe its their way of saying I'm paying for their driving service only, and they won't offer their orientation skills for nothing.

We do enjoy the lifestyle of eating out but not much more. We were never the clubbing type, and theatres can wait till we have the time for them. A notable exception is Marvin, my Yankee-fan of a father in law, who got himself into a sports bar routine after failing to convince us we need to get a TV as soon as possible. I assume now he'll spend less time with this 40-years-younger student crowd, after the shameful sweep against the Tigers. (I can't believe I know these things. I guess I'm really becoming an American. Surely this means more than the civics and history questions they ask you at immigration.)

We've only started to go down the list of tourist traps. Central park is a true gem, and whenever I bike through, typically with a kid on my third-wheel-trailer, I appreciate it even more. The museum of natural history is a disapointment though. I still remember my awe at the last and first time I've been there. Now, however, that feeling is the only thing that have changed. 20 years of visualization technology, interactive education, and even molecular evolution have left this dinosaur of a museum unskathed. You still have the same latin names and long explanations to read through, the same obsession with fossil teeth angles, only to an audience who graduated it's Harvard analog, not to mention the Boston Science museum. Marie was quick to summarize: "This place is boring. Where do we have lunch? "

A moving experience

We're about to leave Boston. Yet, between the termination of our lease here and the start date of our housing in New York (that deserves a separate posting or two in and of itself) we had a month's gap to fill. Knowing the ruthless Boston apartment market, and its particular prejudice against the stature-challenged members of our family, both under-aged human and canine, we prepared ourself in advance. Before the summer solstice we had a signed lease for a 2-bedroom August sublet in the posh and picturesque Back Bay.

Gearing up for the move was strictly managed by she-who-must-be-loved-and-cherished-till-death-to-us-part, and therefore went according to plan. By the weekend before the Monday move we had already scheduled a key transfer for Sunday afternoon, movers for the following noon, and cleaners immediately after. We even had a parking permit arranged by some guy who makes a living standing in line at city hall for people who submit requests online – long live free enterprise!

Even packing went well. While Eva, the dog, was terribly distressed at the thought of leaving the place, following us around very closely to make sure she is not left behind, even the kids helped to sort through their enormous piles of toys and clothing, managing to even be more productive than messy. As for me, I really enjoy this physico-logical challenge of stuffing things of different shapes, sizes and weights into standard U-Haul boxes. I find it very rewarding to succeed in respecting the constraints of fragility, room assignment, and social conventions, e.g. against optimizing space in the “bathroom” box by filling the half-empty box of tampons with a disassembled plunger. The only interruption to the my packing party was due to Mrs. Cherish. While we share the zeal for packing the house in the minimal number of boxes we have fundamentally different strategies towards that goal. While I squish, but she throws away. Whether it's a perfectly wearable, only slightly torn T-shirt, an extra-challenge puzzle (2 missing pieces), or a (literally) one-in-a-million abstract drawing (goo on canvas) by our gifted three-year-old – she uses the moving excuse to point it to the garbage can. My desperate pleas (cardboard box 13 really had a gap the shape of a headless Barbie I needed to fill) are waved off. The least I can do is to sort through the unselected ones, and take some books to the library, old computer equipment to the sidewalk upfront (grabbed within an hour), and clothes to the Goodwill Store.

Anyway, by 4pm Sunday we were almost fully packed, and I started looking for our dear lessor for keys and final instructions. When she failed to pick up her phone for the entire afternoon, at 7 o'clock I thought of trying email, and indeed, there it was, a message from her, with “Important!!!!” in the subject line, sent earlier that day, which I wquote, names omitted, to the character:

I'm terribly sorry about this but my mother passed away on Friday very unexpectedly. I will not be able to move under the circumstances. At this time I'm staying with my brother to help with arrangements for services. I intend on moving fully as I will be taking over my mother's house. It;s been a very hectic weekend and I've just made this decision. Please forgive me and I will return your money in full (cash or money order) I will try and get in town to meet you Monday evening or Tuesday day (more likely) I can come to your work.

Again, if there is anyway to help you out please let me know. I did briefly go on craigslist and there are a number of places available so I don't think you will have a problem but I do realize I've put you in a bad position. I am unable to find my phone at this time but please call me and I am picking up messages.

I'm so sorry.

(-)

We were shocked. While both of us suffered the loss of a parent in recent years, and we can sympathized with the pain involved, neither of us saw this as an excuse to throw people in the street on a 29-hour notice. The outrage quickly turned into a productive war room. The kids were sent to read themselves a story and close their eyes, while we started trying all options for having a roof the following evening. Whether by phone, TCP/IP, or postal pigeons – we tried everything. Friends, current landlord, hotels,our reluctant lessor's voicemail, and of course, craigslist. Turns out the lady was wrong about the latter. Even compromising on having a 1-bedroom, living far in the subburbs, offering more money and throwing our dog to the mercy of friends and kennel owners didn't helps us. Nothing was available for immediate tenancy.

The following morning brought good news: the current landlords were kind enough to allow us an extra night, till construction workers were due the early on Tuesday. The movers agreed to take essentially all our stuff into storage, and the orphaned lessor was on the line. While she didn't provide explanations, she seemed in an emotional turmoil, and sympathetic to the “very bad situation” she put us in. She agreed to meet me that afternoon, to return our money, and to explain more. I really wanted this meeting, not only to salvage the money which we would now obviously need. I wanted to understand what was going on. What makes a normal person try to bail out of a contract at the last minute? Did she inherit a house contingent on her leaving the sublet? Was she aware of the thousands of dollars of damages she is causing us when she promised to pay them? Was she stupid or crooked? My secret hope was that she is just confused, and that I'll be able to make her reconsider. I guess I'm just a naïve believer in good human nature.

When we met, she was in tears. She sobbed the most when we were talking about the lack of our options. Apologetic as she were, her story took a new slant. Her mother aside, she was now claimed being immediately evicted from the apartment by the landlord, after having fought with him over sanitation problems in the place. When she reached the part about a rat attacking her French Bulldog, it was obvious she was trying to make me change my mind about taking the place. She was clearly prepared, and without any intentions to be swayed. I took the money, being careful not to take a penny more than the rent and deposit that may be perceived as compensation for damages, and hurried to an ATM.

While I picked up the girls to the empty old place, my wife was apartment hunting. Trying anything remotely appropriate by Craigslist, Harvard Housing, and a broker she finally went to a place that “sounds like a real dump, but they'll take the dog”. The place was a dump. Under ground level, with crooked floors and smelly walls it was much more of a dungeon than a place to house kids. Later she referred to her willingness to take the place as the ultimate proof for her love of our canine. But it was the landlord who shot the deal down. He required a background check, which could take days, which we couldn't afford, getting ready to live under a bridge starting the following dawn.

She went to the last place on the list, a partially-furnished one-bedroom, that “needs to think about the dog”. The place was way too small, the furnished part was the small half, and the landlord didn't want the dog. Yet, he mentioned his sister's place, way in the suburbs, that he should be renting on her behalf, with 2 bedrooms and dogs allowed. Around midnight my wonderful spouse woke me up calling to report having paid the rent and deposit, and having the landlord sign his agreement to sublet.

We evacuated when the first painter showed up, and went to our new home after daycare pickup. The airconditioner turned out not to be working on that 95 degree evening, and we couldn't really use all the apartment, because the landlord's sister's stuff was still there, but we didn't care. He was on his way to pick up the stuff, and besides, we had a place, and we were together. That's an awful lot compared to where we were 24 hours before.

When I came back that evening from an initial grocery shopping, I found the landlord, along with 3 or four family members, sweating to get their stuff out of the place. Nadia looked quite depressed. I though it was just the heat, and tried to cheer us up with having a home again. “He doesn't like Eva” she muttered. The half-asleep dog perked her head at the sound of her name. 'what's there not to like?' I thought, rewarding her alertness with a hug and a head-rub. Yet, the guy wasn't impressed.

“This dog is too big” he said.

“Too big? We told you we have a Golden Retriever, and she is small for her breed!” we tried desperately. “ You specifically signed your agreement to have a dog in!”

“I don't know too much about dogs” he excused himself. “Besides” he added “it's not me, it's the condo regulations. I'll ask my sister, but if she says the dog has to go, it can't stay.”

Naturally, that condo's regulations forbid any pets whatsoever, and we were on our way out again. The landlord agreed that we spend a night or two while we 'decide what we're doing', but it was clear to us that we're not going to live in the end of the world and have Eva somewhere else. This instability was bad enough as it was on our “post traumatized” (teacher's words) children, who were showing their distress by their respective, age-appropriate means of communications, i.e., emotional outbursts and tantrums. The last thing we wanted is to add a separation from Eva to the family crisis.

The following day, inbetween phonecalls to reluctant potential lessors, I refreshed my browser and saw a new ad. It was by an extended-stay apartment building. Way too expensive, but only a little too small, and a only a little too far for us to take. When I read about the option of having pets with additional fee, I knew we have to take it. The lady said she's showing the place at 3. I mounted my bike and got there at 2. We had a home.

We're now happily in this new place, that shows that size does not always count most. The family is united, we no longer live out of two random suitcases, and we are gathering strength towards relocating to the Big Apple – after all, we haven't even once moved for two whole weeks, and we can't afford losing our momentum....

Cracked a rib

I confronted a street gang abusing an old lady, when one of them hit me with a crow bar… or maybe I lost my balance in a national ski-jump competition doing a high-speed triple loop ….naaagh, that’s not it either. The truth is much less heroic. I was in the playground with the girls, and while jumping through the monkey bars I painfully realized they are spaced for the 4 year old, rather than the 34. I’m well used to getting hit and bruised, the professional risks of active parenthood, therefore decided to ignore the sharp pain – it’ll go away in a day or two anyway. I took Marie to her first biking experience the following day as if nothing happened. Well, it didn’t go away, nor was running bent forward to hold the seat and catching the wobbling child every few seconds any good for that agonizing point in my left side.
After a few days of sleeping on the other side, biking without turning the torso to look back (I’m faster than those metal-boxed lazy bums anyway), and occasional screeches when the girls climb over me, Nadia decided to intervene – perhaps the lack of morning-runs-induced endorphins made me too edgy for her. “I think you should see a doctor” she said. That hit a nerve of continued disagreement between us. While I truly believe that doctors belong in emergency rooms, and that HMOs are not for the 6-60 crowd, Nadia’s health philosophy is more like the Chinese medicine’s weekly doctor visits to make sure you stay well. I tried to appease her by googling for rib injuries, showing her that there is nothing to do, yet she was not impressed by my instant medical training, and drew the doomsday weapon: “Maybe I should call your Mom?”
While I’m sure that my mother, a 40-year-experienced physical therapist would have been able to offer the optimal medical advice, and I’m sure that even she wouldn’t have been able to help, the discussion was over – although eMedicine.com’s list of rib-fracture-related risks didn’t include this specific one, I knew that a maternal heart attack should be way up there.
So, I made the appointment, saw the doctor, told her about the old lady and the gang, had my X-ray taken, and got the official, certified MD prescription to a full dosage of “rest and don’t play football”. Since I intend to neither rest nor football, the doctor visit was indeed a waste of time. I think that despite it being rare for the person taking the hit, I’ve actually earned my right to say “I told you so”.

Boys or girls?

After the previous, marathon-length posting, we all deserve something lighter and the kids are, as always, the ultimate inspiration.

A couple of days ago Marie was enthusiastically telling unenthusiastic little Belle about her school projects, literally forcing her to pay attention. “Why are you making her listen? She clearly wants to go do other things.” I tried to rescue the abused sister ” Why don’t you tell me all about your day at school – you know I love to hear your stories”. “But Daddy,” came the automatic prefix for another original excuse “she needs to learn to listen, because when she’ll be a mommy, she’ll have to listen to her children.” That one took me by surprise “Honey, I think she still has some time till she becomes a mommy”. Yet, I figured parenthood readiness would be a wonderful changing of topic: “what do you think? How old do you need to be to have children? Are you old enough?”
“Daddy!” she laughs. All right, I admit that is too far fetched for my down-to-earth parenting consultant. I try an open question “So when will you have children? That is, if you’ll want to have children at all” I hear myself add, preventing her formative-years psyche from being brainwashed into a traditional family structure – I guess the Boston politically correct spirit is really getting to me.
The issue of having kids intrigues her. But she needs to really grow up before having kids. Specifically, she declares she’ll first finish hi school and college (she verifies the order…). I must say I appreciate this, living in a country where high schools are commonly operating a daycare for the children of their students. After college, she’ll marry someone. While considering out loud the same-sex option she reaches another conclusion “Definitely a guy. I love guys.”
I was really proud at my girl for declaring her heterosexuality amid the social pressure. But she continued: “After four, maybe five weeks I’ll have a child. First, a girl. Then a boy.” While I can live with this timing, I couldn’t help wondering about the planned genders of my grandchildren: “What if they are both boys, or both girls?” She tried combinatorics: “I’ll have three, then. Either two girls and one boy, or the opposite.” I didn’t let go though “and if they are all boys, or all girls?” The 6-year old gave me that look, reserved for people from the previous century, who don’t really understand anything about reproduction, and signed the discussion with a knock out “No. I’ll go to my doctor and he’ll make sure I have a boy and a girl.”

Doing Boston

There is a lot to be said about Boston. It’s a cradle of settlement and independence for the US, it is the capital of science for the world, yet to “do Boston” means one thing – running the Boston Marathon.

I’ve been thinking about this ever since I knew I was coming here. Two years ago, I even trained for it, and while my travels conflicted with actualy participating, I did discover what I think makes this race so hard. No, it’s not the distance – that’s the same everywhere. People complain about the hilly terrain? Gimme a break.
After having done the Jerusalem half marathon, this course is damn right flat. The thing that’s hardest about Boston is the schedule. While the weather here in April is not so bad, and yesterday was close to ideal for running a couple of dozens of miles, the hundreds that need to be traveled during training are slated mostly for December to March, a.k.a., the Boston Winter.

Two years ago, it was record-breaking cold. While till then my Mediterranean habits made me perceive running as something always done in shorts an T-shirts, I was brutally forced to change that perception. Being somewhat of a Spartan, I skipped getting high quality gear for winter sports, thereby discovering for instance, that after a while, sweat actually freezes in the gloves, making them a source of cold sores, rather than a protection against them. I also discovered that you have to step on the white, snowy patches, because the alternative that looks like a paved trail is actually ice.

No, winter is not kind towards runners. Many people simply run indoors to get away from the elements. Besides taking the fun out of running, it makes sense. However, treadmills have the habit of shutting off just when I’m getting into my usual running pace. It is likely that my running style is faulty, creating too much impact on the machine. It is also likely that this could be handled by reprogramming the safety thresholds of the treadmill. It is unlikely, however, that any gym around here will be willing to do that and face the liability issues.

Last year, I found a wonderful way to deal with winter excercising. It’s called swimming. Yet, that doesn’t really get you to the marathon, right?

This year I had no excuses. I had gotten used to the cold, winter was very mild, and I spend much of it traveling to warmer spots on the globe. I had no choice either – there is a more than reasonable chance that this will be our last year in the Boston area. So I practiced. Sort of. I mean, I built up my distances, and got to the 20-mile range, but the frequency of my runs and total mileage were way short of the typical training regime. I knew from the start that with the constraints of family, work and job hunting my commitment was limited and I accepted the compromise. The fact that I was not sure I’ll run at all prevented me from committing to charity groups, and also implied that I don’t have a chance of qualifying: that would have required shaving 40 minutes off my time 7 years ago, or (repeating that time and) transforming into either a 55-year-old man or a 35-year-old woman, neither of which being a sacrifice I would be willing to endure.

I was therefore going to join the race as a “bandit” – without an official number. I found conflicting reports on the bandit status that apparently changes from time to time. Some see bandits as slackers who didn’t make the effort of qualifying, some as damn right criminals against the great tradition of the Boston Marathon (snobs? Around Harvard? Ya must be kidding). I even read a posting accusing John Kerry for banditing in the late 70’s, which I found to be a pretty lame excuse for why someone shouldn’t be elected. Other sources claimed bandits are eligible for drinks and medical care. Just in case, I packed myself Powerbars, gels and half a gallon of Gatorade in a camel-back. You see, marathons at the popular-athlete level, are more about metabolics than about strength or speed. Contrast to shorter distances, you simply cannot just have eaten two hours before starting, as my dad would always advise. It won’t last. While you run, your body will consume all the spare energy sources that you have, so you have to just continue to feed it, not to mention salination and hydration required to compensate for all the sweat you shed.

So, the morning of the race I was as ready as I’ll ever be. That is, at least till the morning coffee. We ran out of milk and I put some chocolate milk in it. The chocolate milk was two weeks old. The first time it sent me to the bathroom I thought it was the coffee's laxative effect. By the fifth time I knew I was in trouble. A bad stomach, endurance sport and just being me are each a strong risk factor for dehydration by itself, not to mention their combined effect. Physically, the challenge was therefore between the conscious effort to shove in water, sugars and salts versus the urgent impulse to get rid of every bit of liquid in my digestive system. Every guidebook would tell you the golden (yellow?) rule of hydration: drink till you leak. I didn’t leak. Not from the right place that is. At least I had enough liquids for those toilet visits.

Throwing up eventually was a great relief. First, my stomach actually felt calmer. Second, I didn’t have to worry about it anymore. All along, I thought it would have been terribly rude of me towards those wonderful spectators, cheering and singing, to empty liters of Gatorade on their front lawn. Also, I’m quite sure that any right-minded medic would have immediately pulled me off course. Lastly, it was already mile 20, a.k.a. Heartbreak Hill. No more ascents from this point onwards. The suburbean roads gave way to more familiar streets of Brookline and Boston, and the crowd became even denser and more enthusiastic than before. Yes, it’s only 6 miles to the finish.

But wait, did I just say 6 miles? That’s not that short a distance. In kilometers it’s even worse. That’s the entire length of the subway line, a half-hour commute in rush hour, and it’s gonna take me much more than that on foot…

Festivities asides, it is Philippides’ last run we’re commemorating here, and indeed at this point the medical stations began to fill up. Athletes who have made it all the way here, have ran for three hours and more, were now lying there, wrapped in a silvery blanket, agonized by both physical pain, as well as the fact they will not make it to the finish line today. Perhaps because they twisted an ankle in a tired, not careful enough step. Perhaps they started too fast, getting worn out just a few miles too early. Perhaps they just had a bad breakfast like I did. Yes, it could have just as easily been me out there on the sidelines.

But it wasn’t. I managed to keep on moving, much slower than I had anticipated, but still running. I managed keep drinking small sips, despite the stomachache, and to chase away that occasional blur on the margins of my field of vision. I even managed to get some high-fives whenever I needed some emotional support. Yet, milestones were excruciatingly slow in passing by.

And then, all of a sudden one guy shouted “only five more blocks to go”. Blocks – not miles, not kilometers, not thousands of Smoots. Yeah, I think I can do blocks. And yes, there it was. First, you feel it in the air. Then you hear it in the roars of the crowds, in the echoes of the loudspeaker. Even your sense of direction that was in trailer mode for four hours wakes up to announce Copley Square. And finally you make that left turn to see the finish line. It’s an amazing feeling. The greatest sports experience I ever had. It was well worth the pain, the time, the effort, everything. The only way to describe the euphoria would be to urge whoever reads this to just go ahead and do that.

Just do the Boston.

PS
This post would not be complete without extensive kudos.

To my dog, the most faithful, most enthusiastic running mate ever, along with apologies for not taking her along for the really long ones. Sorry, love, I know you hate to be left home, but it's for your own good. You just can’t handle these distances.

Thanks to my friend who came from Montreal to do the Boston, and provided the final push for me to do this. He also got me the camel back, and well as some useful advice. Not being a slacker like me, he actually had proper training and qualified, so I salute him for that as well.

To my wife, for her enormous help during training, and for the ride to where I thought the starting line was.

To the lady who picked me up in her car and hitched me to where the starting line really was.

Thanks to the organizers, volunteers, medics, police officers and many others for making this great event happen.

Thanks to the fellow runners, for sharing this wonderful experience, for suffering with me for twenty six long miles, and for smiling with me all the way. To the guy with a the foam blond wig who made everyone cheer whenever he passed, to the Boston Police girl I met again and again, to the wheelchair athlete struggling across highway '95 and to the two guys watching over him. To more than 20,000 other crazy, endorphin-addicted soles. You're all champs.

Specific thanks to those who started with long outfits, shedding them along the way - the sight of those roadsides full of sweatshirts really reminded me of home...

Finally, the greatest thanks of all, to the hundreds of thousands of people out there on the streets of Hopkinton, Ashland, Framingham, Natick, Wellesley, Newton, Brookline and Boston for spending the day with me and the other runners.

The most fun crowd were definitely the hundreds of Wellesley College girls with the “kiss me to get you going” signs. You are awesome. So sorry I had to run…

As far as stuff given out, my best experience was around mile nine, when I started feeling that all-too-familiar itch down there. It wasn’t that bad, but the sheer thought of what would become of it in the next 25 kilometers was alarming. Just then I spotteed a guy offering what looked like mini-popsicles. Getting closer, the stuff on those sticks seemd more like some Power Gel. I was probably not off by much in terms of taste, but picking it up I realized it was just what I needed. Vaseline! What a relief! ...and to the spectator who started laughing uncontrollably seeing me put that on while running – yes, lady, a stick with some Vaseline can do wonders to a man’s private parts! Thank you Mr. Mile-9 Vaseline! You saved my XXX

But it’s the entire city to thank for this amazing atmosphere. For cheering and encouraging every one from the winners to the walkers, for playing music with everything from trumpets to ghettoblasters, wearing everything from close to nothing to a Sister Teresa costume, offering everything from wet towels to gellybeans. I’ve never seen anything like this. While long-distance running is usually a hobby you pursue with yourself, you’re never alone in Boston. There is always a bunch of students dancing to “Eye of the Tiger”, always some guy lying to you about how good you’re looking and how long you still have to go, and always a little kid with shiny eyes holding her hand out for a “five”. Thanks little kid. You gave me the greatest most wonderful nightmare I could have ever imagined.

Thank you Boston!