It’s common knowledge the British are plodding and apathetic. Their food is tedious, their weather grey, their culture insipid. Dull-eyed smokers cluster on street corners and commuters trudge from tube to office, their faces stamped with lassitude. In November a bitter wind whips around London and heavy mist curls in from the Thames. It’s an uninviting landscape. I’m here for work, ready to ward off pelting rain and curmudgeons. But I’m surprised when London doesn’t live up to its reputation.

Sure, the city is damp and overcast, the public transport over crowded. But if you take a moment to notice the people, you realize they’re actually nice. Everyone smiles at you, is ready to offer directions or recommendations. Is willing to give up their seat. An eighty-year-old man compliments my woolen hat, a sparkle of life in his wrinkled face. He blows kisses to his perfectly poised wife in the opposite seat. They are like high school sweet hearts.

Every cab driver greets you with “hello luv”, store clerks hand you change with a cheery “have a nice one”. I can still hear the lovely lilt of the English accent in my head. Maybe I see London differently because it almost feels like home. The color and texture of the British pound, the myriad candies and our common love for Will and Harry. The chatter and noise of London seems more relaxed than New York. T

he cherry-red cabs and the fanciful facades of buildings lend it a whimsical air. A slight touch of unreality. The same way the Sydney Harbor Bridge juts unfeasibly from the bay.

Then you talk to the locals and they tell you to stay away from the blacks (they’re not joking), cab receipts warn you about rape and kidnapping, about nefarious men in alleyways and unmarked cars. Zebra crossings shout LOOK LEFT in neon yellow paint – as if every pedestrian is in danger of being run down by blind motorists. Maybe all the caution and safety measures allow Londoners the freedom to be nicer, or maybe that’s just politeness, an automatic reaction. Maybe they’re no different from their American counterparts – self absorbed and determined. But I’m a tourist in London and I don’t have time to dig that deep. So, I’ll delight in the polite exterior and the pleasantries and leave them a tip while I’m doing it.

Barcelona is like Paris, but rough around the edges, the cousin that sleeps off a hangover and forgets to shave. Paris is perfectly dressed and coiffed, Barcelona rummages on the floor for a crumpled tank and shorts. Paris sips tea and crosses it’s legs, Barcelona drinks shots off a college grads midriff and slouches in the corner. Barcelona smokes pot and dances on table tops.

And despite all that Barcelona is beautiful. It’s beautiful in a way I’ve never seen. The colors, the explosion of taste and color, the hum of bustling tourists, soaring monuments, the psychedelic twist of Guadi. It’s invigorating, being surrounded by this energy. I dive right into the experience, using my inadequate Spanish with shop keepers and waiters in halting bursts. I want to keep buying things so I can talk to people. Quisiera un cafe, por favor. Donde esta el bano? Cuanto cuesto?

A group of grizzled men have encamped at my outdoor cafe and they’re playing a spanish guitar track on an eighties era boombox. They’re keeping time with staccato clapping, their faces creased with concentration and delight. They are so happy to spend their saturday morning making music, letting the hours slip away in a spiral of song and conversation. Barcelona is full of moments like this. Moments where time has no meaning, there is no where to be, nothing to do. I can stop in a cafe or stand at the window of a bar and sip my espresso, chat with a group of people beside me or watch the constant stream of tourists along La Rambla.

Barcelona is too magnificent to describe in a single passage. It’s too rich, too diverse, too overwhelming. Each moment is a story all on it’s own. Una copa de vino, mariscos en la ventana. The sizzle of frying fish, the glistening octopus coiled around it’s plate, live music in an open square, breakdancing on cobble stones, the whisper inside churches, flickering candles, the heat of the late afternoon sun, the tolling of the bell, the flare of sunset.

I cram in so many tourist sites – La Pedrera, Flamenco, Mountjuic, El Catedral, La Boqueria, Park Gruell, Palau de la Musica Catalana – they form a chaotic kaleidoscope in my head. I eat plates of food so delicious I’m certain I will never have a dish so exquisite – until I try the next one. I sip wine with every meal – including breakfast. I drink four liters of water a day, which is seared out of me by
the summer sun. I wander along streets littered with flute players, spanish guitarists and sitar players. I stumble across quiet courtyards with burbling fountains – an oasis of calm inside a carnival celebration.

When it’s time to leave, I’m surprised the five days is over. I’m exhausted but intoxicated by this city. I feel pummeled and enfolded, like I’m having a brief and torrid affair.  But Barcelona is more than that. Barcelona is the perfect city. A city I promise myself I’ll live in, a city I’ll love deeply and fully. Just not today.

The most exhilarating video I’ve ever seen.

I consider myself athletic. I have a natural talent for sports and activity. I can ski a black diamond run, hit a squash ball with force and run thirteen miles in a row.

Then there’s surfing.

I enrolled in a four week surfing course in Tamarindo, Costa Rica. I learnt about wave patterns, braved the rolling deck and rehearsed my stance in the sand. I got in the water every day for a month and left the country with a collection of bruises and scrapes – and a minor concussion. I didn’t actually surf.

For the next two years my sister would throw me into the chilly Bass Straight and watch as I floundered my way through the water. I finished these sessions sore and defeated.

Then came the family vacation at Newport Beach. For a week we scoffed down breakfast, donned wetsuits and carried our boards to the beach. Dad and I would battle the white water, while my sister would duck dive her way out. I envied her effortless sea-lion profile. I was swallowing  seawater and scrapping along the bottom of the ocean. Wrestling the surf board was like riding a raging bull covered in butter.

Then dad suggested we get a lesson. We hired an ex-military, poetry-quoting Hawaiian, overflowing with esoteric comments on surfing.

“You need to feel your way onto the board.”

“A box without hinges, key or a lid, yet inside a golden treasure is hid.”

“Be cool, be focused, be smooth.”

“What is the square root of nine, times itself, minus nine?”

For a moment I felt like I was listening to Kunu from Forgetting Sarah Marshall.

Then we got in the water. Hawaii was pushing us into the waves and shouting commands.

“Paddle! Stand up! Stay low!”

It seemed hopeless at first, but after a few wobbly attempts, I stayed on the board – and surfed. I rode all the way to the beach, white water frothing behind me. I bottomed out before I got off, savoring the achievement for every possible second.

I paddled back out.

“Do it again. But this time don’t take so long to get up.”

After an hour I was surfing consistently. I’d pop up, ride the wave and slip back into the water, ready to paddle back. I was surfing! It started to seem so simple. Why had I struggled with this for so long?

We were all so pumped from the day’s accomplishments we arranged for a lesson the next day. I was ready to crush the surf, bend the waves to my will. Instead, I thrashed and failed, fell off my board and gouged a chunk of flesh from my shin. It didn’t matter what Hawaii said, I’d lost the ability to surf. I was a danger to myself and others. While my sister and dad mastered their boards, I stumbled back to the beach, defeated.

Hawaii spotted me on the sand, surfed a graceful arc, his stance natural and low to the board. He jogged out of the water and hunkered down beside me. He had returned to his enigmatic self. “Every surf is different,” he said. “You find yourself and you find the surf.”

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
~ Robert Frost

Thirteen point three miles. Twenty kilometers. It seems longer than any thirty plus person should run (don’t get me started on marathons) – but I completed two in five weeks. I forced myself through a season of training, wracking up weekly miles, running through rainstorms, heat waves and snow. I suffered from blisters, aching knees and chafing. So why do I do it to myself? That’s a difficult question to answer.

It’s easy to cancel a 6am run when it’s raining out, to quit an eight mile run at the six mile point, to justify sitting on the couch one extra day. I have to get used to the sensation of pain as it creeps into muscles and joints, invades my hip bones and tugs at my scapula. At the ten-mile mark I am always hurting. It doesn’t matter how much preparation I do – lunges, leg stretches, weights – the ligaments in my knees start to moan and my calluses are raging firebrands.

The last three miles of a half marathon are the hardest. I have to break down those miles into smaller parts and trick my body into that last agonizing effort. It would be so easy to walk that last leg. I tick off landmarks – that distant tree, the bend in the course, the water station I pass at mile eleven. I tell myself the pain isn’t that bad, it’s manageable for the short distance – only three miles! – I have left.

I hit the twelve-mile mark and it’s time to pick up my pace. I’m forcing speed from a body with no speed left. My lungs start to struggle, sweat is pouring off me. It’s only a mile I tell myself. Seven minutes if I’m going strong, eight if I’m not. Less than two songs. I work hard to convince myself I can manage any level of agony as long as the Black Eyed Peas are jamming in my ear buds. The finish line is just around that bend.

Running until you hurt is a conflicting experience. The desire to finish the race, run that last mile, push the pace a few seconds. I will myself to keep moving and when I cross the finish line, the agony is replaced by euphoria. The exhilaration is so intense it’s like jumping off a cliff into clear water.

Which brings me to the New York City Half Marathon. I trained like I was entering my first professional race (I wasn’t) and ticked off every run with a sense of satisfaction. I ran through the winter, in Berlin, on vacation, on hotel treadmills while traveling for work. I ran through five inches of fresh powder in the middle of a snowstorm wearing shorts. I was so cold when I returned my legs were purple. I cancelled my social plans three days before the race and stopped drinking alcohol. I was ready for this race.

Then it all started to unravel.

I showed up to the starting line – in the one thousands! – with twanging insides and a headache. I ignored my maladies and crushed the first eight miles with a seven-minute-mile pace. I was clear to finish in an hour and thirty minutes, beating even my own lofty one-hour thirty-five goal.

Then the nausea kicked in. My head started to pound in concert with my labored heart. I was slicked in cold sweat. Running for much of the remaining five miles wasn’t an option. I walked. I finished at an hour and forty-six minutes – only four minutes worse than my best time – but the disappointment was huge. Without a friend waiting for me at the finish line I might never have crossed it.

I spent the next four weeks running as little as possible. I could loop Prospect Park – a mere three miles – and call it a day. I was going to run this half just to get it out of the way.

I joined the starting line with friends, loped through the first ten miles and waved to the spectators along the route. I reached the eleven-mile mark with energy to spare. I cranked up my speed and averaged a seven-fifteen pace through to the final five hundred meters. Then I sprinted. The crowds lining the last fifty feet were a yelling, waving blur as I shot towards the finish line. I crossed that line at an hour and fifty-one minutes. A long way off my original goal, but I finished smiling. Sure I was in pain, my injured knee was a swollen angry yell and my lungs were squeezed tight, but I wasn’t debilitated. I finished with a respectable time and I could walk off the course without doubling over. My friends were waiting for a congratulatory high five and photo on the Fitness Half red carpet.

The race restored my passion for running. I remembered the exhilaration and forgot the torment. I remembered what if felt like to set a goal and complete it. I remembered that running isn’t always about managing agony. It’s about determination and perseverance. It’s about conquering laziness and resistance. It’s about every moment, every breath and every step I take when my body is in motion. Running isn’t a choice, it’s a vital part of my life.

I remembered, running makes me happy.