Thursday Wrap-Up: It’s Called Burnout
“At least I have running.”
That’s what I said in April in the beginning of the pandemic.
I had no job and no relationship to keep myself occupied with and didn’t know what the state of my New York City home was in while I was living in North Carolina, but I had running.* Running outdoors, running without a mask, and running with zero goal as I had a sinking sensation that all future races would be completely off the table for the rest of 2020.
I knew my daily step count was going to completely plummet upon my arrival down south, so I had a conversation with my QLP about what our workout was to be on any given day — we rarely took days off. If I wasn’t running, I was practicing yoga, cycling, or even going for a (sometimes, very) long walk.
As time went on (and on and on in this godforsaken pandemic), I switched up workouts so to not exhaust myself on the same road, performing ladder workouts, a set of 800s, and even a long run off the island and into other neighborhoods, which also isn’t the safest given the amount of fast car traffic. BH and I ran through tropical storms, torrential downpours, and temperatures nearing 100 degrees. And we did it because we could. I started wondering where my depression would be if I were injured.
When I returned to New York, I couldn’t wait to flop my normal out-and-back straightaway to a Central Park loop. I was happy to be home — and my legs, even more so — and I was getting used to the feel of running in a gator, regardless of the length or the heat.
My comrades and I started partaking in our weekend #supportlocal long runs, crossing into outer boroughs for tomato sandwiches and nachos, and living what could only be described as our best Covid-19 running lives.
And my to do list consisting of restaurants to support and friends to run with (and friends to run to) was lengthy. And when I should have taken Sunday off after my long run with Claire, I was stricken with FOMO the following morning when my QuaranTEAM went in search of Black Seed Bagels, and I hadn’t had a New York bagel in, well, who knows how long. So my week was bookended with two double-digit runs, and I tapped out at just over 50 miles, something that shouldn’t be done unless you’re marathon training.
My mileage in North Carolina was ranging between 30 and 40 miles, so a random 50-mile week shouldn’t have been a reason to cause worry — except for the fact that I was absolutely terrified to take the subway and thus walked everywhere, including to the West Village (from the Upper East Side) and from Union Square (to the Upper East Side). So between walking and running, my weeks were more likely to be in the 70- to 80-mile range.
All of the movement made me completely sluggish, and I got to a point where I would head out for a run simply just to get out of my apartment — and it wasn’t pretty. My body was completely sore and shot, and yet I kept going through the motions, not listening to myself to take a break.
Finally, after a long run to Miss Ada — a run that I was so over that I ended up bailing and then getting lost in Crown Heights — that my injury during Los Angeles training reared its ugly head. I had successfully overused my calf in my left leg and it was straining my Achilles’ tendon. And I’ve hardly been running ever since.
My friend Ali pointed me to an article on Epicurious about having burnout in your own kitchen. And for fuck’s sake if that didn’t resonate. Not only was I experiencing burnout in my kitchen (when was the last time I developed my own recipe?), I was also experiencing burnout in my running and elsewhere, like job searching, FaceTime calls with friends, and dating apps. (Do not even get me started on that conversation.)
So here I am, resting as best I can without losing my fucking mind. I looked back at my notes on my LA training schedule and saw that I was completely out for 12 days, and then successfully ran a 16-miler with zero pain. So I know there’s a light at the end of the tunnel — it’s just so hard to see during this shithole time of unbelievable magnitude.
So while I can’t give you a normal wrap-up, behold, I give you a list of shit you should read, and if you’re in New York, where to eat.
What to Read:
My Year of Rest and Relaxation by Otessa Moshfegh. I read this book in North Carolina in, quite literally, one day — and I’m reading it again.
I'm closing my restaurant thanks to Covid-19, but it won't be goodbye by Camilla Marcus
Buying Myself Back When does a model own her own image? by Emily Ratajkowski. Like most long-forms on The Cut, this is largely fucked up, and thus a good read.
How to Battle Kitchen Burnout (And Still Get Dinner on the Table) by Maggie Hoffman
How the U.K. Restarted Its Restaurant Industry: Paying Half the Bill by Eshe Nelson
Where to Eat:
The Long Island Bar. Sunday marked the first time I had been to LI Bar in 2020, and it was everything that I remembered it to be — with the addition of the frozen Cosmopolitan. (For those unaware, LI Bar’s owner, Toby Cecchini, invented the tried and true Cosmo, so grab your shit and get to Brooklyn.)
Lizzie and I made huge plans to visit the outdoor dining setup at LI Bar after a (quite) arduous hike, and the end result was certainly worth it. Fried cheese curds (natch), burger, fries, the aforementioned frozen Cosmos, and several martinis, and we were slumbering like little lambs come 9:00 p.m.
Dirt Candy: Dirt Candy was one of the restaurants on the top of my list to revisit upon my return. And I’m here to tell you that Amanda Cohen is still doing some truly amazing shit, not only delivering bomb-ass food, but also advocating for the industry. The outdoor setup is great and lunchtime is the perfect time to go — get there.
So, it appears that I have more to report on reading-wise than eating-wise, and that’s likely due to the fact that I’m still unemployed. (Hire me, please?)
Regardless, stay strong. Support local. Oh, and fucking vote.
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*I’m well aware I had (and have) more than just running, like my health, my family, and my friends — relax. Sometimes my mood can make me be dramatic.