Runyon Canyon Regulars
Photo by Jason Morrison
Runyon Canyon is a staple of the West Hollywood workout regime, and for good reason. It's free. It offers a variety of hikes, from a gentle, paved stroll, to rock-scrambling, three-contact-points-needed climbs. It's a nice respite from the city. Two blocks from Hollywood Boulevard, cleaved into the Hollywood Hills, it is a largely untouched, undeveloped land. It's dry and dusty, with brown-yellow brush and a few, curled trees for shade -- a slice of what Los Angeles looks like, as Nature intended. Legions of Angelenos take on those trails daily. Two weeks ago today, I joined them.
I'd avoided it for months, but proximity and my swelling corpulence won me over. On my lunch break I put on shorts, a white cotton tee, a baseball cap, then attacked the gentlest slope. The park, normally swamped when I pass it in the morning and evenings, was suspiciously empty, and five minutes in it became clear why. Being mid-day, the sun was at its highest and most intense. I had no water with me, and had not drunk much before I left. I felt short of breath. Sweat soaked through my hat in minutes. I only made it half-way up the hill before the heat and exhaustion drove me back to my air-conditioned office. When I returned, someone at work looked at me, astonished. "Didn't you know it was 105 degrees outside?" No, I did not know.
Despite all this, and especially after the dizziness passed, I felt good. Really good. In my legs and my arms, a warm satisfaction had developed -- like my brain wanted to congratulate my body with a nice endorphin cocktail for a great job of nearly succumbing to heat exhaustion. "Well done, lads. Next time we'll get 'em!" (For the purposes of this story, my brain speaks with a Cockney accent). So, because it felt good, the next day I tried it again. The heat wasn't so bad and I hydrated properly. I made it further up the hill. I brought my iPod and listened to NPR's This American Life. The whole experience was pleasant enough that the next day, Saturday, I hopped on my scooter, drove my morning commute (it's short, 12 minutes), and did it again. I was hooked. It's been fourteen days now, and I have hiked Runyon eleven of those days; today at lunch will be the twelfth.
Of all the routes, I prefer the western ridge line. It's the most difficult of the routes. A child on Nintendo, I am driven to seek the "hi-score". So, by my brain's flawed logic, the hardest route equals the most effort expended, and therefore the fastest improvement and quickest results. That sounds 'bout right, 'eh guv'nuh? Also, I don't feel as bad when I take a break every few minutes to catch my breath and take in the sites.
Because it is free and convenient, Runyon sees a slice of the populous that cuts through societal boundaries: racial, economic, and attractiveness. Toned-models in tights and crop-tops walk their maltipoos and talk on cell phones. Shirtless old men with white chest hair and dark, leathery skin jog slowly in faded shorts. Adonis-like actors run with long strides and short bleach-streaked hair, ipods strapped to their arm, white earphone wires bouncing in time. A middle-aged Jewish couple, with conservative haircuts and matching, maroon tracksuits. Tourist families in shorts, calves thick and pasty, children silent, slowly trudging up for a view of the Hollywood sign. Babies in strollers with big wheels, groups of 20-somethings chatting, businessmen catching up, and of course, the dogs. Runyon is one of the few off-leash parks in Los Angeles, so dogs abound. They love it; running up and down the trails, sniffing each other, peeing on things, more sniffing, etc. Sometimes you'll see a tiny dog trotting down the trail, alone, and then minutes later, their owner, running to catch up.
Then of course, there's me. Shorts. Shirt. A Forgetting Sarah Marshall promotional baseball cap. IPod tucked in the waist belt. I ran through all the This American Lives available on iTunes (I now have a new reason to look forward to Mondays). Now I'm listening to the Creative Screenwriting podcasts. Paul Haggis, man. He is not a fan of the Iraq war.