Sunday, July 02, 2006
Parkrunners; and The North Beach Revisitation
Happy day, blogland! For those of you for whom Monday is not a holiday, you have my sincere condolences. This includes myself, as I have a half-day of work Monday, which is all I usually have. So I guess I get half a condolence, which is, I guess, a condo. Whaddaya know, I’m a property owner. I thought it would be more satisfying, but then again, what is?
Friday, as I think I mentioned, I had a quick trip to L.A. It went well - I got to drive a car I was curious about (the Chevy HHR, which is more fun from the outside than from the inside), didn’t get lost, ate a healthy lunch for a goddamn change, and got done quick enough to catch a flight home 90 minutes earlier than I thought I would. But with all this wonderousness and fabulosity, there were two moments that really stood out for me - bookends to my day, occurring at just about the same spot about twelve hours apart. Oh, and in case you didn’t think you’d find out what they were, I’m a-gonna tell you right now:
5:30 am: I’m heading to the airport, as quick as I can. The flight is in an hour and the airport is half an hour away under the best possible circumstances, which I shouldn’t be counting on. It’s dark; dawn has barely bestirred herself, and the sky is gunmetal blue. I’m taking the shortest, quickest possible route - through the park. The eastern part of the park is highly groomed and manicured, a real victorian folly. And as I’m gunning the little soob up towards the Conservatory, I see a solidary figure trotting along the lawn. I’ve already seen a few people running or walking dogs in the damp gloom, but this looks like a dog without an owner. My old SPCA training kicks in and I scan the shadows for this dog’s person, momentarily concerned for its welfare… and then, noticing no one and starting to get anxious for it, I take a closer look. This pup has a very energetic, light-footed trot. Its head is up and alert, but dips frequently to taste the scent of the turf. Its tail extends with cool relaxation and its body is lean and tough and tan. This is no dog. It’s a coyote, and a good sized one too. I have nothing to worry about as far as he’s concerned. It’s the feral cats in the grove by the museum who should be anxious, not me. I’d been tense and preoccupied as I raced along, but this wild being reminded me at the very outset of my day to keep myself under control. Tension doesn’t solve problems. If things ever actually become a matter of life or death, control is the one thing I’ll need most of all. So, thanks, coyote. Hope you found what you were looking for. You certainly pointed me in the right direction.
6:30 pm: I’ve gotten home and it’s turned into a really nice day. I can’t remember getting home from work so early, with so much energy and sunlight to burn, so I decide to take a run in the park. I’m pounding along, feeling neither strong nor pathetic, just sort of keeping time with my music and waiting for the endorphins to kick in. I watch other joggers and the many pedestrians as they stream past me and each other - the tourist families, the buddhist monks in saffron robes, the various exercisers with their various levels of fitness. There are some I know I’ll pass once more as I turn to go the other way back home, and some I’ll never lay eyes on again. Some inspire me to run a little faster or to forego the break that my lungs are begging me to take. Some make me feel as if I’m exceptionally fit. Some make me feel as if I’m a gastropod on a saltlick. It’s quite a crowd there in the park on Friday evening. But the one guy I really remember is the one who crossed my path just about where I’d seen the coyote that morning. He was shirtless and wore no earphones; he ran in a pair of cut-off dungarees and grimy running shoes, slim and pale and sweat-shimmering in the lowering light. He ran hard. His face seemed very serious. His hair was ridiculously serious: it was shaved in a mohawk that had been carefully sculpted into several stiff spikes that bobbed at least six inches over his head. So much work, to impress the rest of us runners that he was tougher and more stylish than we were. There’s a lesson in perspective right there. Anyone who spikes his hair to go running on a summer evening in the park, sees the world very differently than I do.
Speaking of seeing the world as I do, today Kel and Z and I went out to North Beach for a bit of a stroll and some tasty suds. We parked, as is our wont, easily and conveniently, and strolled among a few side streets before taking our traditional promenade along Boulevard Cristobal Colon, or Columbus Avenue. It amuses me that this renowned navigator is known in his homeland of Italy by the same name as we here know our lower tract, but those were simpler, more alimentary times. (my dear watson.)
Next thing we know, we’re across the street from a little sheetmetal workshop, which is to say, a little shop where sheetmetal is worked, and also, a little shop made of sheetmetal. In the mid-afternoon sun it looked pretty damn cool.
A few streets down we found ourselves in front of one of my most favorite shops, which I’ve never visited during business hours so I can only imagine how it smells inside. Here’s a hint: they don’t sell purses.
We soon navigated back to the endpoint of our perigrinations, returning whence we’d parked our little car next to a defunct moviehouse that’s now blocked off with plywood panels and festooned with street art.
The old theater is just up the block from the Rogue Alehouse, where I was delighted to negotiate a few gift certificates for a beer or three (british bitters and american amber for me, and a very rich chocolate stout for kel). As we rested and imbibed, Zacharias caught up with business in a breathtaking display of juvenile multitasking.
Then we came home and did housework and got a couple ranmabrackets installed above our bed and generally let the day drift into quietude. There are many more details of the weekend I could share but you’ve got better things to do than punish yourself with tales of Lena Horne’s performance of Rocky Racoon, or the baked goods at Stella, or the sweet Argentinian movie we watched. However, I will leave you with this image of a hotel sign I recently mentioned hereabouts. I tried to catch it before the sky was so dark, but no dice.
That’s enough for now, I think. That “vacancy” sign makes me sleepy. See you a little later in the week, and here’s hoping your 4th is full of benign pyrotechnics and the kind of freedom that’s worth fighting for.
