Run
Encino, a week ago. Aurora, having eaten curry til eleven the night before, won't wake up for hours. Within days of our arrival, she'd embraced the L.A. style: little yellow shorts and Crocs, strawberry stains, lots of beaded necklaces, go Lakers, no hurry to bed. Not bad for a kid turning three.
Tamar, David and I pile into the car bright and early. Seven a.m. on a Saturday usually means coffee, but we're headed for the Sycamore Canyon Trail Run: I don't need a stimulant, and definitely don't want a diuretic.
Besides, I'd just gorged on a spur-of-the-moment Runner's Breakfast:
Blueberries and yogurt;
Matzah with caramel and chocolate;
An old banana that tasted bad;
Blueberries all by themselves;
Three glasses of water;
Smoked salmon, eaten with the fingers;
Matzah and smoked salmon;
Blueberries;
Five glasses of water.
We drive over Las Virgenes to Malibu - Pepperdine must have the best location of any university in America - then north along the Pacific to Point Mugu. A stream of runners stalk about on their deerlike legs, rattling with all sorts of crazy runners' paraphernalia: energy shots on carabiners, aerodynamic gaiters, chest compression bands, knee braces covering calf and thigh, expanses of spandex.
David sports plaid knee-length serge shorts and a green shirt: "Kiss me, I'm Irish." I wear my skimpiest shorts and a threadbare gray wife-beater. We pin our bibs on with safety pins, eat boiled almonds and stretch.
David is Tamar's brother, 23 and gangly. He biked across the U.S. a few months ago and is now busy having angst in New York City. We are about to run 18 kilometers together. Tamar is our platitude coach: "You can do it! You need to run!"
Garbled howls on an old-fashioned loudspeaker, and we're off! The atavistic rush of thumping along in a herd of humans, skipping by the women and elderly until I'm near the front. The fire road dwindles to a narrow path, which climbs many steep switchbacks to the canyon ridge. Slowpokes gather lines of impatient runners behind them, and whenever someone is rude enough to push their way forward I shout "one more!" and duck ahead.
The ridge is gained. Twinkling blue sea to my left, dusty green savannahs to my right. I have to force myself to focus on the rocky path, not wanting to reinjure my rolled ankle. Little pink ribbons dangle from sagebrush along the path.
Then we're descending steeply on a little goat path. Halfway down to the beach, someone remarks that the ribbons have disappeared; the four of us, strangers all, make bitter jokes about having gotten lost. We turn around and start climbing. There's six or seven minutes gone, and energy wasted.
David was well behind me, but is now surely ahead.
I should mention that the sun is blazing, and that neither of us opted to carry water. I'm listening to La Scala, an improvised concert by Keith Jarrett, on my iPod. The iPod is nestled into my crotch and is getting sweaty. Only one earphone works. I croon along under my breath.
Then a long, long downhill, I'm in a gang of serious trailrunners and we're barely in control, leaping headlong down - whoops, a rattlesnake and we soar over it - the path, shouting "three on your left!" The bottom brings a rest stop, most welcome: handfuls of M&M's clog my mouth, gulp after gulp of Gatorade and water. I fill my mouth with M&M's and turn around. Halfway there.
The long downhill is an endless uphill! The sun is beating down on me, and it just feels wrong to run this. I try to power-walk through a stitch, consoled to see everyone else walking too. It must be a thousand feet uphill in a mile.
Someone breaks into a jog and I force myself to keep up. At the top, I pass him - it's the guy who shoved me earlier to get by, and it feels sweet to cut in front of him and run off. A big black snake slithers away ahead of me. The ridge has beautiful breezes, and suddenly everything starts to slide by naturally and smoothly. Some strange endorphin has flooded my body. I just kick and start running hard.
The whole last third of the run is easy as pie. My knee doesn't hurt at all. My ankle doesn't hurt at all. My back doesn't hurt at all. I've never done a run where I wasn't in agony at this point. I float down the mountain, sprint my ass off to catch a woman at the end. The finish line comes toward me, there's Tamar smiling, then I'm through, winded, hands on knees, actually gasping, elated.
Tamar, David and I pile into the car bright and early. Seven a.m. on a Saturday usually means coffee, but we're headed for the Sycamore Canyon Trail Run: I don't need a stimulant, and definitely don't want a diuretic.
Besides, I'd just gorged on a spur-of-the-moment Runner's Breakfast:
Blueberries and yogurt;
Matzah with caramel and chocolate;
An old banana that tasted bad;
Blueberries all by themselves;
Three glasses of water;
Smoked salmon, eaten with the fingers;
Matzah and smoked salmon;
Blueberries;
Five glasses of water.
We drive over Las Virgenes to Malibu - Pepperdine must have the best location of any university in America - then north along the Pacific to Point Mugu. A stream of runners stalk about on their deerlike legs, rattling with all sorts of crazy runners' paraphernalia: energy shots on carabiners, aerodynamic gaiters, chest compression bands, knee braces covering calf and thigh, expanses of spandex.
David sports plaid knee-length serge shorts and a green shirt: "Kiss me, I'm Irish." I wear my skimpiest shorts and a threadbare gray wife-beater. We pin our bibs on with safety pins, eat boiled almonds and stretch.
David is Tamar's brother, 23 and gangly. He biked across the U.S. a few months ago and is now busy having angst in New York City. We are about to run 18 kilometers together. Tamar is our platitude coach: "You can do it! You need to run!"
Garbled howls on an old-fashioned loudspeaker, and we're off! The atavistic rush of thumping along in a herd of humans, skipping by the women and elderly until I'm near the front. The fire road dwindles to a narrow path, which climbs many steep switchbacks to the canyon ridge. Slowpokes gather lines of impatient runners behind them, and whenever someone is rude enough to push their way forward I shout "one more!" and duck ahead.
The ridge is gained. Twinkling blue sea to my left, dusty green savannahs to my right. I have to force myself to focus on the rocky path, not wanting to reinjure my rolled ankle. Little pink ribbons dangle from sagebrush along the path.
Then we're descending steeply on a little goat path. Halfway down to the beach, someone remarks that the ribbons have disappeared; the four of us, strangers all, make bitter jokes about having gotten lost. We turn around and start climbing. There's six or seven minutes gone, and energy wasted.
David was well behind me, but is now surely ahead.
I should mention that the sun is blazing, and that neither of us opted to carry water. I'm listening to La Scala, an improvised concert by Keith Jarrett, on my iPod. The iPod is nestled into my crotch and is getting sweaty. Only one earphone works. I croon along under my breath.
Then a long, long downhill, I'm in a gang of serious trailrunners and we're barely in control, leaping headlong down - whoops, a rattlesnake and we soar over it - the path, shouting "three on your left!" The bottom brings a rest stop, most welcome: handfuls of M&M's clog my mouth, gulp after gulp of Gatorade and water. I fill my mouth with M&M's and turn around. Halfway there.
The long downhill is an endless uphill! The sun is beating down on me, and it just feels wrong to run this. I try to power-walk through a stitch, consoled to see everyone else walking too. It must be a thousand feet uphill in a mile.
Someone breaks into a jog and I force myself to keep up. At the top, I pass him - it's the guy who shoved me earlier to get by, and it feels sweet to cut in front of him and run off. A big black snake slithers away ahead of me. The ridge has beautiful breezes, and suddenly everything starts to slide by naturally and smoothly. Some strange endorphin has flooded my body. I just kick and start running hard.
The whole last third of the run is easy as pie. My knee doesn't hurt at all. My ankle doesn't hurt at all. My back doesn't hurt at all. I've never done a run where I wasn't in agony at this point. I float down the mountain, sprint my ass off to catch a woman at the end. The finish line comes toward me, there's Tamar smiling, then I'm through, winded, hands on knees, actually gasping, elated.