I spent most of Saturday horizontal on the couch nursing a cold. Sunday morning, amped on Mucinex, I took my bike (and Matthew) to Central Park to ride two loops of the park for the first time ever.  The maximum I’d ever conquered in the park before is one loop.

It’s a strange activity for someone who spent most of the weekend trying to take it easy. But I’m training for something. What? Yup! I haven’t mentioned it here because I’m a little intimidated by it.

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It’s been nearly two months since my last post.

Cycling 22 miles to Coney Island was pretty much a mic drop as far as this blog and my fitness life are concerned so I’m okay with the dramatic hiatus.

I am certain that questions of my whereabouts crowded web forums in similar style to chatter about Tupac’s disappearance. That is unless you follow me on Instagram. From my millennial-esque oversharing, you know exactly where I was. (#ButWhereisTupacREALLY?)

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Ever since mankind ceased being nomadic, political and religious factions have fought over land. It’s a tale as old as time, even since before West Side Story.

But there is an untold tale of tribal land grab happening in a zip code close to home. Even though NY1 isn’t covering it, Central Park is home to a conflict. The groups involved are so fundamentally different in their desires, I don’t see how we can ever live in harmony.

Every Saturday morning, three factions set out to the Central Park loop armed with cameras, bicycles or just a sweat-heavy singlet. This land war is between tourists, bikers and runners. View Post