Whirlwind Weeks on NZ's North Island

Hey there, strangers! I write to you from the Bluebridge ferry heading to the South Island of New Zealand after a whirlwind two weeks of exploring the North Island.

Between Auckland and Wellington, I caught my first fish, went tubing through a cave, rode a horse down a mountain, hiked the 12-mile Tongariro Alpine Crossing, rolled down a hill in a big plastic ball and more.

Attempting to kiss my little snapper in the Bay of Islands (had to throw him back).

A rainbow graces our horse trek at Blue Duck Lodge.

Enjoying the amazing, stark landscape of the Tongariro Alpine Crossing in the shadow of "Mount Doom."

I won’t lie — I felt extremely lonely for the first 24 hours of my trip. As I roamed my Auckland hostel (my first hostel ever), it seemed like all the other travelers socialized in close-knit groups, and I didn’t have the guts to try to infiltrate one of them.

And then, somehow, I made a few friends, and we hiked up a volcano on Rangitoto Island (in flip-flops…) and later drank cheap red wine on the rooftop of our hostel. My trip had begun.

Auckland as seen from Rangitoto Island.

When I hopped on my first Stray bus up to the Bay of Islands, I made even more friends — British, Irish, German, French, Belgian, Canadian and American, to name a few. And let’s not forget the guy from Lichtenstein.

A night out in Taupo with girls from the Stray bus.

Since then, loneliness hasn’t been an issue. Rather, I’m surrounded by people all the time. And perhaps, of all the elements I’ve had to adjust to in this new life of mine, this has been the most difficult. I like socializing as much as the next person, but I'm used to having much more quiet time to myself.

Wellington was a welcome reprieve. I hopped off the Stray bus to stay three nights and recharge my batteries in New Zealand’s capitol and, although I didn’t do the most exciting activities there, it was one of my favorite experiences.

I loved Wellington's abundant public art.

Which one's mine?

I was able to wander unhurriedly through Wellington’s streets and along its gorgeous waterfront. I stayed with my Kiwi friend Nick White, and his overwhelming generosity took many forms: a cozy couch, a city tour through a local’s eyes, an incredible home-cooked meal, a heap of clean laundry and more.

Nick braves a sketchy-looking swing on Mt. Victoria.

I, too, went flying over the city.

Clean laundry makes me so incredibly happy.

I even ran 6 miles late one afternoon as puffy, crimson-tinged clouds wafted overhead. I’ve had neither the time nor the inclination to run these last two weeks, and the simple act made me feel like myself again.

It made me feel at home.

Part of Wellington's popular waterfront trail.

The logistics of traveling — getting from A to B, booking activities and accommodation, finding food and keeping track of all my stuff — have been easier than I had imagined. Of course, I say this in a place where everyone speaks English, the currency is very similar to American dollars, the tap water tastes great and the food isn’t any more exotic than what I’m used to.

The toughest part so far was saying goodbye to my family when I left on Feb. 5.

The morning was a whirlwind as I organized my gear, showered and packed. I broke a sweat as I tried to zip my pack, and little did I know that it wouldn’t be the last time that day. Far from it.

My dad and brother arrived at my mom’s house right on time, and I scrambled to get all my stuff together as I ate leftover tuna casserole — my favorite meal that my mom had made the night before.

Once I got everything in my dad’s car, it was time to say goodbye to my mom and Don… and my face crumpled into the ugly cry. I hadn’t felt emotional at all up until that point, but I was suddenly gripped with sadness. I tried to make the hugs and last words quick, then jumped into my dad’s car before I could lose it too badly.

The ride to the airport flew by, and I memorized the Seattle scenery as I held back tears. My dad and brother waited patiently as I checked in for my flight, and we took pictures with my pack, which felt so huge and foreign at the time. We said our goodbyes just outside of security, and I couldn’t help but start crying again as my dad hugged me extra-tight.

Finally, I was on my own.

Sweating profusely.

People say that traveling takes a while to feel real. For some time, it feels like you’re just on vacation, and that soon you’ll return home and back to your normal life. I can’t remember exactly when I realized that this is my normal life.

Maybe it was as I kayaked in the moonlight to the darkness of an uninhabited island, where I could see phosphorescent algae sparkling in the water with each stroke of my paddle.

Maybe it was when, on a Monday night, instead of going to bed early for work the next day, I danced like crazy to techno music in a barn in the the woods of Raglan.

Or maybe it’s right now, as I head to another place I’ve never seen, not knowing what exactly is in store for the next few days… or weeks… or months.

Pretty flowers by a waterfall.

I no longer value having solid plans, and knowing the correct date (or even time) isn’t so important. Internet is expensive, so face-to-screen time has significantly diminished while face-to-face time has made a big comeback.

It’s a different life, but a good one, and one that I finally believe I’m capable of leading. In the months leading up to my departure, I feared that I wouldn’t have what it takes to get by. Now that I’ve hiked up mountains and squeezed through impossibly tight cave formations and learned how to jostle for space in hostel kitchens, there’s not much else I fear.

Happy sunscreen.

And that’s what all this is about, right? To see, to do, to meet, to learn. To realize that the world is so much larger than my little, familiar corner. To know more about others and about myself, and to accept that not knowing many things is OK, too.

Bay of Islands sunset.

This new life is absolutely worth every uncertain, fear-gripped moment I’ve felt over the past few months.

And on I go.

###

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Reflections on Marathon Training: What I Did Right

I began training for the Rock 'n' Roll Las Vegas Marathon on July 25 with a training plan based on Hal Higdon's Novice I program that looked like this (click to make it larger):

I finished the marathon on December 4 after having completed the training plan like this:

I knew all along that my training wouldn't exactly follow my initial plan, and I prepared to be flexible and not freak out about making changes.

I skipped a few runs. I moved things around. I added a triathlon and a 5K race. I got sick. I bailed out on all cross-training after the tri. Speed intervals, tempo runs and hill repeats were practically non-existent.

But even though my training wasn't perfect, I never walked during the marathon, I finished strong and I hit my 4:15 goal time. I'd say I did a few things right.


I MADE TRAINING MY #1 PRIORITY.

It wasn't always easy...

For 19 weeks, I lived and breathed marathon training. I worked full-time right up until the Wednesday before the marathon and got home around 6 p.m. every weekday. I was usually out running or at the gym by 6:30, and oftentimes I'd run and then go to the gym to lift weights. I'd get home around 8 or 9, depending on how far I had to run, then shower (sometimes...), have dinner and blog about my workout on Dev on Running. Then I went to sleep.

Those were my nights, every night.

I had the advantage of being single and generally fine with only seeing my friends a few times a week — on my rest days and on weekends. If I didn't want to miss out on an event, I would just switch around my workouts and take a rest day on that day. I also spent time with friends new and old by doing many of my long runs with buddies, which was really great.

I spent lots of good money on the marathon registration fee, flights and hotel — I wasn't about to half-ass my training! The commitment really paid off in the end.


I DID ALL MY LONG RUNS.

Right after my 20-miler — 3:15 of running.

I ran 12 miles in the pouring rain, 14 miles while extremely hungover (the run went great; the aftermath... not so much) and 18 miles immediately following four days of being completely flattened by an illness.

A few of my long runs went awry, but most were fantastic. The most important part was that I did them all!

It's not fun to wake up early on the weekend knowing you have two or three hours of running ahead of you, especially if you're training in Seattle's cold, gray autumn months. But long runs are so important because they help your body get used to the stress of racking up double-digit mileage, and they're essential rehearsals for figuring out how you'll drink, fuel and pace yourself in the actual race.


I RESTED WHEN I NEEDED TO.

Hammocks save lives.

I tried to stick to my training plan, but I didn't beat myself up if I felt really exhausted and needed to take an unplanned rest day.

I listened to my body and learned to recognize the difference between when I actually felt worn out and when I just had a crappy day at work and needed to suck it up. Sometimes I genuinely needed an evening in my hammock; other times, a speedy 10-mile run made me feel good as new.

This is why I abandoned pretty much all cross-training after my triathlon. Long runs took a lot out of me — I needed the whole rest of the day to recover — and the other weekend day, I wanted to relax and have some non-training fun! Super-serious marathoners may look down on this, but the extra rest days really kept me from burning out.


I FOCUSED ON WHAT WAS IMPORTANT TO MY RACE.

The Las Vegas marathon course was almost entirely flat, and I cut out all my planned hill repeats because of this (and because wet leaves + running up and down hills = death).

As for tempo runs and speed work... I just got lazy. I did some speed intervals during treadmill runs to keep from getting too bored, but I didn't make a concerted effort to become a faster runner during this training cycle. I was more concerned with hitting my planned mileage each week and remaining injury-free.

If (when...) I run another marathon, I'll shoot for a sub-4:00 finish and definitely focus more on hill endurance and becoming speedier.


I KEPT UP WITH MY TRAINING WHILE TRAVELING.

Priorities!

I did most of my training in Seattle, but I also ran while on vacation in Vancouver, B.C., and in New York City. I even racked up 14 miles while I was in California for my granddad's memorial service.

This goes back to the most important thing I did right: I made marathon training my #1 priority.*

I packed my running shoes first. I brought everything I needed, including my fuel belt, Clif Shots and Nuun. I always ran first thing in the morning to get it out of the way. Trust me, it can be done!

*When I went to California, spending time with my family was my #1 priority. Running never interfered with family time, and it really helped me work out the stress and sadness I felt over my granddad's passing.


I ATE RIGHT (MOST OF THE TIME) AND CUT OUT DRINKING FOR A MONTH.

My first drink in Vegas after the marathon. Has a margarita ever tasted so good? I think not.

I ate A LOT during training, but I stuck with proteins, fruits and vegetables rather than carbs. Sure, I ate tons of bagels in New York City, but things like bread and pasta generally make me feel bloated and lethargic — exactly how I don't want to feel while running.

My go-to foods were apples, bananas (at least two a day), Larabars, almond and peanut butter, yams, asparagus, zucchini, salads, soups, chicken, fish and candy (I blame Halloween for that one). And then after long runs, I ate whatever the heck I wanted, like an entire box of Stovetop Stuffing after my 20-miler. Yum.

The point, again, is to listen to your body and do what works for you. Carb-loading isn't necessarily vital to marathon training, although some people swear by it. I found that generally avoiding bread, pasta, etc. and dairy (even though cheese is my lover) made for happy, cramp-free runs.

As for alcohol, I quit drinking for a month prior to the marathon. I'm not a huge bar/club/party person anyway, so it wasn't difficult. However, that very month was also when I was in the midst of quitting my job, and I often got super-stressed and frustrated at work. I would've loved to have several glasses of wine on many occasions... but I just ran instead. I also got lots of quality sleep and didn't have to plan my long runs around hangovers, so it was a total win.


I FULLY BELIEVED I WOULD KICK ASS.

I didn't come up with this, but I wish I did.

Every marathon training guru will tell you that the focus of your first marathon should just be about finishing, not hitting a certain time.

I chose to believe in myself more than that.

Call me crazy, but based on my typical long run pace (9:40-ish) I identified a reasonable goal (a 4:15 finish), then trained for it and hit it. I think self-confidence had just as much to do with it as training.

Regardless of my finish time, I wanted to run a race that I would feel proud of, and I knew I would be proud of pushing myself. If I went into it with the mindset of, "Well, I'll just try to finish," I probably would've let myself slow down and walk multiple times. There's nothing wrong with that — a marathon is tough, people — but I know I'm capable of more.

I had an incredible network of family, friends and blog readers who encouraged me throughout training and assured me the race would be great. I can't say I would've had the confidence that I did without their support!

Completing the physical training is only a piece of the puzzle; having the mental strength going into the race is what really carries you through to the finish line.

***

Since I hit my goal time and truly had a great race — aside from the factors I couldn't control, like the overcrowded course and the depleted water stations — I wouldn't change anything about the way I trained for my first marathon.

Will I run another one? Of course! ...eventually. I need to forget the pain of the first one before I can even think about signing up for another.

Aside from my post-race stomach issues, I could barely walk the next day, and later my feet and ankles swelled up like crazy. It took a lot of rest, ice, compression and elevation to get them back to human proportions. Now, five days post-race, I'm finally feeling back to normal, and I'll probably go for a slow and short run this weekend.

Even though I won't train for another race for a while, I just can't imagine my life without the rhythmic sound of running shoes hitting the pavement.

###

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My First Marathon: Rock 'n' Roll Las Vegas

On Sunday afternoon I stood in the Mandalay Bay parking lot with my mom, eating a banana and keeping an eye on the porta-potty line so I could jump in before it got too long.

The sky was perfectly clear and the Las Vegas sun reflected off the gleaming hotel, bathing the entire race start in golden light.

Suddenly, it hit me: “I can’t believe I’m about to…”

“…run a marathon?” my mom finished for me as I choked up.

I nodded silently, my face crumpling with emotion as I thought back on the early Saturday-morning alarms, the piles of sweat-soaked running clothes and the hundreds of miles that had made up the past 19 weeks.

All for this day.

The marathon start was gloriously uncrowded, as the vast majority of the race’s 44,000 participants ran the half-marathon that started an hour and a half after the full. I easily tracked down the only other people I knew who were running the full, Chris and Rob, for a quick photo and round of good luck.

The weather in Vegas was colder than I'd expected — in the 40s and 50s — and I hadn't brought any long-sleeved running tops, so I went to Fashion Show Mall the day of the marathon to pick up the lululemon pullover I ended up wearing. The oldest rule of racing is, "Don't wear anything new on race day," but that was quickly replaced with, "Don't freeze to death on race day."

It was an extremely good decision.

My mom and Don made up my support crew, and they did an amazing job of accompanying me to the start line, reassuring me that the race would be great and literally saving my life afterward.

See that medical aid tent in the background? We'll be revisiting it in a major way.

After eating my banana and most of a Larabar, I took care of business in a porta-potty and then headed to corral 8 about 15 minutes before the 4:00 start.

I always stop feeling nervous as soon as I get to the start line of a race. Most of my pre-race anxiety stems from making sure I have everything I need, trying to eat stomach-friendly foods, getting there on time, being able to use the restroom, etc. Once I'm actually there, I'm good!

My race accessories included: my Garmin Forerunner 305 watch; a fuel belt with four chocolate Clif Shot gels and two bottles of Nuun; a hat and gloves for warmth; and a headlamp (included in our swag bags) so I'd be able to read my watch in the dark. I also grabbed three salt packets from a volunteer who handed them out at the last minute.

I almost didn't bring my fuel belt to Vegas because I thought it was kind of dorky to race with it, but it saved me big-time. Another good decision!

I hung out with my mom and Don for as long as possible...

...until finally, it was time to go.

The corrals were released about a minute and a half apart from each other to prevent bottlenecking in the first mile. I felt very alone as soon as I left my mom and Don, but also excited to run!

I should note here that a few days before the race, I discovered that Kate Gosselin was also running Las Vegas as her first marathon. Obviously, my competitive side came out.

I never believed that in a sea of tens of thousands of runners, I would actually see Kate Gosselin. But oh, I saw her, all right — she was in my corral. Super-tan, super-blond and super-tiny Kate Gosselin was just to my right, hanging out behind the 4:15 pacer.

If that's not extra motivation to hit my 4:15 goal time, I don't know what is.

Once my corral was released and I began running, I instantly choked back tears of joy and disbelief that I was finally running a marathon. I'm sure all the cheering people along the sidelines thought I was injured and in pain because my face was all screwed up into what Oprah calls "the ugly cry."

Then I sucked it up and focused on running at a steady and sustainable pace. I also realized I needed to get around the large 4:15 pace group, since I wanted to run slightly faster and it was clogging up the course.

As if that weren't enough, Kate Gosselin had a guy hanging off the back of a motorcycle taking pictures of her and yelling, "Look up! Act natural! LOOK UP!" More than a few snickers and echoes of, "Are you kidding me?" rippled through the runners. I had to get out of there.

I left the 4:15 pacer and Kate in my dust at the first opportunity, and I never saw Kate again (she finished in 4:59:21). The pacer and I would reunite many, many miles later.

The marathon course immediately veered off the Las Vegas Strip and wound through nondescript side streets for the first 13 miles. I've heard many runners say this part was horrible and boring, but I really liked it because it allowed me to focus on hitting my 9:40 min/mile goal pace and think about my strategy for the rest of the race. Every time my Garmin beeped and showed my split for each mile, I thought, "You're doing it! You're keeping a great pace! This is easy!"

It started getting dark, so I turned on my headlamp and was happy to find that I could easily read my watch. I also remembered from training at night that I could hit the "On/Off" button and it would briefly light up the watch face, then automatically light it up for a few seconds every time it showed a mile split. For some reason, instead of hitting the "On/Off" button once to accomplish this, I held the button down, which obviously turned off my watch.

Well, shit.

I briefly panicked, thinking I had completely lost the ability to keep track of my pace and overall time for the rest of the marathon. Then I turned the watch back on and was beyond relieved to find that it had saved my info and all I had to do was hit "Start" to resume timing.

My watch missed out on recording several seconds and a few fractions of a mile, and I had to manually hit "Lap" for a few miles until the watch resumed automatically showing my splits. It also screwed up the lap counter in such a way that I had to Photoshop the rest of the lap numbers down by one to have them reflect the actual mile numbers.

See how miles 5 and 6 are weird in terms of time and distance? I was ridiculously happy when my watch decided to start being normal again at mile 7.

I almost started to beat myself up and feel really pissed off about making this stupid mistake, but I stopped and said, "You're better than this. Just keep running." So that was that.

Mile 8 had the first notable incline as we ran over an overpass, but it wasn't that bad at all. Fast marathoners flew past us in the opposite direction, and I noted from a mile marker that we'd go back over the overpass right at mile 12. I had eaten my first Clif Shot at mile 6 as part of my plan to fuel up every 6 miles, but decided to take the next one at mile 11 so I would already be done with it by the time we hit that overpass.

Another good decision.

I was mentally and physically prepared for the return trip over the overpass and cruised up it with ease, passing several runners who slowed to walk. At this point I was within a mile of reaching the Strip and drank in the sight of all the famous hotels lit up in full glory.

I distinctly remember thinking, "I'm coming for you, motherf*ckers."

Mile 13 was a total rush. Every step brought me closer to the Strip, and I was thrilled to know that the rest of the course was on the infamous Strip itself. We ran through a little tunnel and rounded a corner that was completely packed with cheering spectators as we made our way there. At this point I had completed a half-marathon, and would now be racing farther than I'd ever raced before.

I felt awesome.

Miles 14 through 16 were great because I looked around and took in all the sights and sounds of the Strip at night. I wasn't hurting at all yet, and a series of cones separated the marathoners from the half-marathoners. We had plenty of room to do our running thing while the tail-end of the half-marathoners walked.

At mile 16, I whipped out the first of my salt packets and poured a little mound under my tongue, letting the salt absorb for a few minutes before taking a swig of Nuun (and I did this again at mile 19 and mile 22). The whole time, I had been grabbing water and Cytomax from each aid station, plus taking little sips of Nuun whenever I needed to. I loved having the Nuun because I didn't have to plan my Clif Shot consumption around aid stations. Fuel belt for the win!

I took my third Clif Shot at mile 17, and I needed the boost, since my legs — especially my feet — were starting to feel tired.

This is where the course started to get more crowded and the separation between the marathoners and half-marathoners became sloppy. You can see I slowed down quite a bit during miles 19 and 20 because I had to start fighting my way through slow half-marathoners. Mile 20 is not the time to piss off a marathoner, folks.

As a side note, I had always heard of marathoners "hitting the wall" anywhere between mile 18 and mile 22. I decided before I even began this race that "the wall" didn't exist, and I wasn't even going to entertain the idea of hitting it. I never felt like I hit "the wall" — not even close — and I truly believe it was largely due to that attitude. Honey badger don't care!

At mile 21, shit got real with the half-marathoners.

I could not believe my split for mile 21. The "sloppy" separation between the full and the half runners became "non-existent," and slow half-marathoners stretched across the entire course, leaving the full marathoners to either waste a ton of energy weaving through them or to run in the gutter and on the sidewalk. Occasionally people who worked for Competitor would yell, "Half-marathoners and walkers move to the right!" but everyone either had headphones in or were too tired to care.

I think I took my last Clif Shot at mile 23.

At some point — it's all a blur now — the 4:15 pacer caught up with me and saved the day. She sped through the crowd like a boss, yelling, "Pace group coming through! GET OUT OF THE WAY!" I jumped right on her tail and committed to never fall behind.

Her pace literally felt like 5K pace to me, although now I see it wasn't nearly that fast. I had to dig deep for these miles.

At one point I pulled over to an aid station only to find that it was completely out of water and Cytomax (and my bottles only had a few drops left, at best). When I looked up to spot the pacer, she had pulled way ahead. I started freaking out and busted my ass to catch up.

As I sidled up to her, she checked her watch and said, "Oh, now we're like 20 seconds ahead of our pace," then started slowing down. I was tired, I was thirsty, I was out of fuel and I was ready to be done. I took off and left the 4:15 pacer behind for the second and final time.

I have no idea where this last mile came from. It was my fastest mile by far, and I spent most of it staring at the ground and willing Mandalay Bay to pick up and move closer to my current location. I no longer had a rabbit to chase; the only one who could push me to the finish line was me.

I had spent the last several miles telling myself, "You can do anything for four more miles. You can do anything for three more miles. You can do anything for two more miles..." and that's what got me through until the end. That, and thinking: "DEVON. GUT. IT. OUT."

Can we take a moment to think about the mental anguish that comes with running not just 0.2 mile, but nearly half a mile at the end of a marathon when your watch says you've already run 26?

As I ran toward the finish chute, I consciously lifted my eyes from the ground to take in the scene and a huge smile spread across my face. I wasn't even sure what my time would be since I had screwed up my watch earlier; I was just so happy to be finished.

I never walked. I never gave up. I wasn't even all that upset about the half-marathoner debacle and the empty water stations. I couldn't believe I never got hungry, I never got a single cramp, I never needed to go to the bathroom and I finished the race in full beast mode.

I'm lucky, I know, but I also worked my ass off for 19 weeks for this race, and it was worth every sacrifice. This is what a marathon finish should feel like.

Official time: 4:15:10
Average pace: 9:44

I'd love to say that I calmly collected my medal and space blanket, got my finisher's photo taken and then reunited joyously with my family.

Instead, I searched like a fiend for water through the mass of runners, chugged it, skipped the photo line and staggered to find my mom and Don so I could collapse on the ground.

I ended up like this. And then, halfway through that banana, I found the nearest garbage can and violently emptied the contents of my stomach in three great heaves.

We went into Mandalay Bay so I could attempt to warm up, and Don massaged my legs and feet like a saint. I tentatively sipped more water because I was so thirsty. After a good half-hour, I felt like we could head back to our hotel... until I stood up. Then I found another garbage can and threw in three more heaves for good measure.

Don't ask me how I vomited six times on a nearly empty stomach. Just know that it was exactly as fun as it sounds.

And that is how I came to spend a good amount of time in the medical tent, wearing three sweatshirts and sipping Cytomax and warm chicken broth. I don't think this was the worst I've ever felt in my life, but it was pretty darn close.

I eventually felt warmed-up and hydrated enough to leave, except for the whole walking thing. Since I had been too busy throwing up to stretch, my legs were very sore and stiff.

My mom and Don dragged me to the Four Seasons, where we hijacked a wheelchair and hung out in the ritzy lobby while Don negotiated with someone to wheel me in the general direction of our hotel, which was New York, New York. (The line for cabs was a mile long.)

There are no slot machines or lobby bars at the Four Seasons. Just rich people.

They turned on the fireplace just for me, and I felt very distinguished and fancy even though I looked like death.

Eventually a small man who looked like Marc Anthony became my designated wheelchair-pusher, and he escorted us from the Four Seasons to Mandalay Bay, where he dropped us off at the tram. The tram took us to Excalibur, and I hobbled across the skybridge to New York, New York. We got to our room just before midnight — three and a half hours after I finished the race.

I had to get one final photo to commemorate the night. I'm well aware that my nose is red, my eyes are tired and my skin has that just-returned-from-the-brink-of-death glow, but I don't care.

Even though the night progressed, errr, rather unfavorably, it didn't even begin to put a damper on the high of my accomplishment.

I'm a marathoner, baby.

###

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NYC, Part III: The Last Part, I Promise

Monday was my last day in NYC, and I planned to start it off by dragging my host, Jacob Sokol, on an early-morning, four-mile run.

Then I totally slept through the "early-morning" part.

After my day of sightseeing, I had returned to Queens and fallen asleep around 9:30 p.m. I guess the three-hour time difference, the 10-mile run, the two nights of raucous drinking and hours of traipsing around Manhattan caught up with me. Hey, who knew?

By the time I actually peeled myself off the futon, Jacob was on a business call and I had to run solo. I'm sure he was terribly, terribly disappointed. : )

I ran less than a mile to a park, which contained a playground with a sign designating it as "Jurassic Playground." Naturally, I assumed that meant I must be running in... eh-hem... Jurassic Park... but alas, it was actually Flushing Meadows Corona Park.

Dear Queens: I think you should reconsider.

My run took me all the way around Meadow Lake and back to Jacob's apartment for a total of four miles, which was exactly what I had on my marathon training plan. I love it when things just fall into place like that.

With only a few hours left of my trip, I cleaned up and headed into Manhattan one last time. I boarded an empty subway car, which made me feel like I was in one of those post-apocalyptic movies. Hey, where's the massive crush of people that I'm used to?

Don't worry, they were waiting to get on at the next few stations.

I checked out Parsons The New School for Design (again: "Things I've Seen on Project Runway") and Union Square, and then walked up and down some tree-lined blocks of apartments and townhouses.

This is where I thought for the first time: OK, I could live here.

I'm sure all these nice, cute places cost more per month in rent than I pay in six, but one can dream!

Speaking of dreams, I finally had the celebrity sighting I had secretly been hoping for. It happened to be Chris Noth, of all people!

File under: "People I've Seen on Sex and the City."

I spotted him walking around by himself in the East Village area. He passed me on the sidewalk going the opposite direction, and I awkwardly studied his face to determine if it was really him. I wasn't entirely sure because he had a little scraggly mustache situation going on, but I then saw another passerby nudge his companion and point at him. Boom.

Yes, I acknowledge that I'm a huge, touristy nerd.

One giant cup of self-serve frozen yogurt later, it was time for me to take my last subway ride back to Queens and head to the airport.

I sat on a bench outside of 16 Handles and soaked in as much of the sunny afternoon as I could before I left. It was a short, low-key last day in NYC, but I enjoyed every minute of it.

***

I once dreamt of attending NYU and living a fun, fast-paced life in the big city. Now that I've been there, I can say that I'm certain I would have loved it. But I'm also certain that the University of Washington was the right place for me at the time, and I'm eternally grateful that I'm not stuck with the hefty student loans I would have needed to go to NYU.

So would I live in New York City now? Probably not. I really love some areas, like Greenwich Village, but I wouldn't pay an arm and a leg to live there.

I can also do without this, which I'm pretty sure is considered some kind of felony in Seattle:

Not to mention that I won't miss the huge crowds, long lines, scary driving, constant honking and overwhelming sense of hurriedness. I don't mean to criticize, because I definitely appreciate that NYC has its own way of doing things, but I'm just more suited for the slower life I lead in the Pacific Northwest.

But would I go back to visit again... and again... and again? Of course! All those delicious, chewy New York bagels won't eat themselves, you know. I had an incredible trip, and I know I only experienced the tip of the iceberg.

The city certainly did its best to win me over with stunning weather all weekend, but I've found that no matter where I'm coming from, I'm more at peace when I look out of an airplane window and notice that Seattle's streets are gleaming with precipitation. But of course.

I feel a new sense of appreciation each time I watch the mountains, lakes and evergreens etch their familiar pattern in the landscape below.

And while exiting the plane, I peer through the glass one last time, and realize that, to me, those rain-spattered windows will always mean home.

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