Category: Personal (Page 14 of 25)

First, an update: I have continued my bicycle commuting healthily since I took it up in May. Schedule and weather willing, I’ve been riding to work twice a week straight into the fall. I’m running out of time, though: once Daylight Saving Time ends this weekend, my route home will be quite dark by 5:15 p.m., which will probalby shelve the bicycle until spring.

Biking in autumn is quite different than jaunts in the heat of summer. For a while, it becomes easier: no heat and harsh sun means less fatigue and sunburn. Jeans are a comfortable (if floppy in the legs) riding outfit. Water bottles go untouched.

Very rapidly, though, the weather turns, and all bets are off. Beautiful days begin at 40-degree temperatures with icy winds, making the riverside route a touch more masochistic than expected. Layering nylon outerwear blocks the breeze but creates sweat. And the shorter days create dark areas and reduced visiblity, making the ride far more treacherous.

Which is not to say I’m enjoying it any less. The views have changed; morning light is more angular, evenings scenic and comforting. The once-crowded greenway has been steadily emptying, providing less to look at but more room to ride. I’ve watched a new park by Chelsea Piers take shape and witnessed the return of the Intrepid. Fellow bikers are either intense riders in full gear or civilians in warmer clothing–I spied a woman in skirt, hose and overcoat the other day, talking on her phone, astride her hybrid Raleigh.

And, of course, I’m burning roughly 500 calories each day during my commute. Part of the genius of the bicycle commute is that I’m getting a workout during time that would otherwise be spent doing nothing. For someone who hates going to the gym, this is a great efficiency.

But it’s the pleasantness, above all, that makes the bike ride worthwhile. Instead of spending time underground, I’m cycling through a beautiful park alongside the Hudson River, watching the sun rise and set, listening to music, moving at my own pace. I’m already looking forward to the springtime.

I went a while there where I really didn’t matter. Weird to say, but true. I was stuck in a job that demanded my silence, and as a result my personal profile faded. Sure, my work mattered to the company’s bottom line, but my craft ceased to be viewable outside my office. A decade of personal brand-building, participating in a vibrant community of my peers, went into partial stasis.
On top of that, I spent the last two years focused on personal things–buying an apartment, having a baby, dealing with a baby–and as a result everything else became secondary. I was too busy to be on the radar, and I slowly fell off it.
The evidence is in the public domain. My website design hasn’t changed in four years. I haven’t done any public speaking since 2006. My poor dog’s photo gallery is atrophied and sad. My wife’s online portfolio is 18 months overdue for an update.
The good news is that era has passed. When I came to Alexander Interactive, I was pleasantly tasked with raising the company profile. I’ve been blogging for Ai on business topics and begun publishing opinion articles for iMedia Connection, and I’ll be a panelist alongside our principals at the Internet Retailer Design ’09 conference in January. We’ve got whitepapers and other projects planned to continue the activity.
So I’m amending the raised-profile plan to include my own. Blogging at Ai, which has been a once-or-twice-a-week endeavor, is going to become a daily habit. The Ideapad will continue its run and a half-finished redesign will go live before year’s end. I’m going to look for additional publications in which to participate, organizations to join, public speaking engagements to forge, teaching opportunities to claim.
I’m refreshed, invigorated and excited. Let’s light this candle.
(Note to self and others: This is the kind of blog post that I often choose not to publish, which means I don’t write it at all, which helps no one, most [least] of all me. So I’m throwing it out there. I’m back in the proverbial game and stepping onto the field.)

So what, pray tell, gets an out-of-shape 35-year-old man to suddenly start riding a bicycle on a 5.5-mile commute to work?

Riverside Park, for one thing. Moving to the Upper West Side last summer put us one short, traffic-free block from the greenway that stretches the length of Manhattan on the Hudson River. Amy and I planned on cycling for fun, but pregnancy and a lack of a bicycle prevented us from doing so. (Also a mild lack of ambition, the same one that led us to play tennis at the park’s great clay courts a total of zero times last summer. Anyway.)

Then I started working at Ai, where I discovered coworkers who commuted to work on bicycle, some every day. The casual dress code and relaxed environment made cycling a realistic option. As I tired of yoga and began looking for another form of exercise, the choice became clear.

After a long saga involving a construction van, a Zipcar, and a 1:30 a.m. visit to a dark vestibule in Hoboken, my ride arrived: a 20-year-old Nishiki Century, a heavy, ergonomically unappealing, sea-foam-green 10-speed complete with squeaky brakes and slipping gears. Amazingly, a visit to the local bike shop gave the bicycle a clean bill of health, and with some air in the tires I was ready to roll.

Since early June I’ve been riding to work twice a week on average. My commute relies on a funny equation that takes into account client meetings, weather, and baby feedings, but I’ve had little trouble finding opportunity to jump on the bike.

The new commute is an absolute delight. My usual route takes me directly into the park, down the greenway from 91st to 22nd Street, and briefly across town on a bike-laned street from 10th to 5th Avenues. In the morning, the ride is quiet, and the morning air off the river is a great way to wake up. The ride home is more visually stimulating–more people, ball games, general activity–and the exercise is both invigorating and calming. With my noise-isolating Shure headphones, I can listen to music with little distraction, even while passing the heliport on 34th Street.

I can make the trip in just under half an hour–almost the same as my morning ride on the subway. The trip home is slower by bike, due to uphill climbs and less train congestion, but the difference is neglible. Unlike the train, I burn around 500 calories round-trip, and I’m getting a little color on my face for a change, too.

Now that I’m riding regularly, I hope to spend some time taking longer trips that increase my stamina and encourage weight loss. If I stick with it for the summer, I’m going to quit my gym and invest the next few months’ fees in a new bike. I may love the subways, but a nice ride to work is a terrific way to live.

I’m not one for shaving. Never have been. In college I would go anywhere from four to six days between shaves, cleaning up only when my face teetered on the brink of “beard” instead of “scruff.”
Problem is, I have kind of a crappy beard. It’s thin across my cheeks and missing in some essential areas around the mouth. So when I entered the work force, I started shaving regularly, since what was “scruff” teetered on the brink of “grubby” in an office setting.
Along the way, I learned how to shave with a blade (Gillette, a Sensor at first) instead of an electric (Braun), complete with the night I spent 45 minutes nursing my first razor gash above my lip right before a date. Years later, my now wife would introduce me to the pleasures of premium shaving cream (Fresh, in a varietal long since discontinued, for which I still seek a suitable replacement).
The wife, though, kind of digs the stubble. And I now work at an office where not shaving is almost a requirement on non-client-facing days. So, miraculously, I’m shaving less again, although I’m in enough meetings that I wind up using the razor four days out of five.
Yet curiosity and hope still get to me. This past week, as I have sat mostly in my apartment and a hospital room with wife and child, I’ve let my face go, to see once more if I could actually grow a proper beard. The answer, from days three to six, from the missus was, “It looks hot.” Which, on day seven, teetered and fell into, “You’re shaving for the bris, aren’t you?” And indeed, I am: again, the growth is, well, pretty awful. Although I could probably grow a righteous antiestablishment moustache or an Ethan Hawke goatee, anything more typically handsome is just not in my follicles.
Thus for the second time in under a year—having also tried this stunt between jobs last fall—I have tried and failed at bearddom. Wednesday morning marks nine days of growth, a new record for me, and a sad return to the tub of Kiehl’s White Eagle in the bathroom cabinet. I’ll look sharp for our guests, but I won’t be completely happy about it.
Nathan, if it’s 2020 or so, and you’re reading this, I hope you don’t remember your bris, and I hope you never got your hopes up about your facial hair. You will be many things in your life, but fully bearded is probably not one of them.

Tuesday night we went about our evening with determined normalcy: futz around the house, play with the dog, order in dinner, clean up a bit, stay up too late watching the ball game. (For the record, the Yankees lost to the Orioles in 11 rain-delayed innings.)
The difference, of course, was in the thoughtfully packed suitcase at the foot of the bed. Oh, and the car seat in the front hall, and the huge belly full of baby situated firmly between my wife and me. Between my wife and everything, really.
Wednesday was quite an Einsteinean relativity test for me: slow-motion until 10:56 a.m., hyperspeed after. Beforehand, we were weighted down by process, delay, impatience, and anticipation. Then, the better part of an hour in scrubs, plied with anesthetics (her) and splattered with placental fluid (me). And after, a brief moment of quiet excitement, then:
Fatherhood.
Followed very rapidly by recovery and transfer and shivering and ice chips and IV drips; several dozen phone calls, spanning the next 11 hours and including friends, relatives, mohels, and the like; many hours of abundant warmth with parents, siblings, niece and nephew; hugs, kisses, tears of joy, the shared revelry among three generations of two harmonious families; and lots and lots of holding, staring, and marveling. And eye contact. With him. Nathan, that is.
We are proud, elated, excited, overwhelmed, exhausted.
Parents.
Amazing.

I’ve got a lot to look forward to at the end of the month, but in the meantime, a little piece of me can die happy. (Fourth item.)
Note to regular readers: if the above item looks familiar, well, that’s because it is.

We moved into our apartment one year ago Sunday. To commemorate the occasion, I made a narrative collage of some of the many lovely details of our century-old home, which we strived to reveal wherever possible.
Our apartment is full of little surprises that make it fun to occupy: patterned glass transom windows, thick solid-wood doors and inlaid wood floors, the huge Magic Eye peephole, restored leaded-glass bathroom windows, and call buttons for the maid/butler in the dining room floor and master bedroom door frame, which make us marvel at how space has changed: once upon a time, our relatively humble 1000 square feet or so housed an owner and his help.
The collage can be viewed here. Enjoy it. We do.