Dawn’s rosy fingers embraced the light stanchions of Petco Park as I slid into the soft San Diego morning. My monkey shirt (the new one with a kill on the sleeve) shielded my spirit for an attempt to run longer than I had in months. It always seems to be that these early season runs are somehow more frightening than later runs more than twice their length. Then again, running long has almost always been a question of confidence rather than ability for me.
The previous two mornings’ jaunts had been scouting activities in prelude to this attempt. Hotel maps of “jogging routes” are clearly made by non runners. First of all, no runner “jogs.” Even a runner who goes at a 14 minute pace will not cop to jogging. Secondly, the instruction to “cut through” a major building such as a convention center is booshit, especially when there is a sidewalk around said major building. A wide sidewalk even that does not involve running up or down stairs to get to the promenade.
But if you know the promenade is there, it is worth taking the time on the previous two days to find the best route there. So in the crepuscular light, I rounded the corner and began ambling up the port’s shore. Across the inlet, ships in the fleet which had arrived several days earlier were at stations preparing for this day. The largest flyover since the Second World War was planned for the afternoon.
Pink light also shone on the backs of pedicabs and sherutes lined up at the empty cruise terminal. They apparently knew something I did not know, but the buds in my ears would have made asking difficult. So far I had avoided anything more driving than U2 as I wanted to ease into this run, but as I passed the art deco facade of the San Diego municipal building, ol’ Van came on with his lament for a dying friend.
I don’t know what it says about me that I find “TB Sheets” to be such a motivational song, but there are few better ways for me to transform a run than to hear that tune. I turned the corner onto Harbor Island and saw La Jolla sweep up in front of me. Sport fishers were spincasting from the shore as families lay claim to their spots for air show watching. More runners were out now, although I suspect the elderly couple in jeans were really just jogging.
Anyone seeing me leave the hotel may have thought it odd that a pair of sunglasses were pushed up on my head, but as I left the island and steered back towards downtown, the sun shown through the buildings which stood like terebinths between me and Mexico. I lowered my glasses as Ozzy cried “Aye! Aye! Aye!” into my ears.
It had come time to drive the train, whether that be folly or not. 6 hours or more of travel lay ahead, and I needed some endorphins. The Oosterdam had arrived at port by the time I returned to the rickshaws, and I bobbed and weaved through the thickening pedestrian traffic like Sweetness on Soldier Field. A proliferation of dough couples in matching warm-ups threatened to sour my take on this run.
Until Mick, as only he can, gave an “oh yeah” and, though their mouths did not move, I could hear them speak. What is the matter with this boy that I would rise well before reveille to run 11 miles or more? Of all the things to recommend most places I visit, why do I judge them by their runs? Perversity, and Jagger knows it. Rounding the convention center once more, I hit the finish line and punched the stopwatch. 1:32. Not too shabby. Of course, there are no hills on San Diego bay.