After the large pond of green scum that sits in the middle of Santa Monica Beach the bike path transects further away from the land. By the time it passes the site of the original Muscle Beach, now relocated to the heart of Venice Beach, I am almost closer to the ocean than I am to the edge of the city. The path then travels under Santa Monica pier in the haunting darkness of wooden pier supports. At this point I stop running. My Mexican advisory and I will maybe one day meet again. Right now, I need a drink of water and a bathroom. Hmm, I wonder if anyone will really care if I go take a leak in the polluted lake on the sand?
Less than a half kilometer north of the pier I can see a little building built out on the sand. This must be a toilet. That is the only reason humanity builds little brick buildings out in the middle of the sand. There is a little cement path that leads out to the toilet block right in front of Perry's Café and Beach Rentals. In 1996, Perry's has already been a beach institution for 20 years, symbolizing the California beach lifestyle of roller blading, cycling, and boogie boarding. There is a very cute blond girl standing out the front of Perry's who is attracting a great deal of attention. It is a young Swedish girl employed by Perry's whose sole job it seems is to stand out by the bike path and act Swedish. She certainly can do that well and it is paying off impressively for Perry's in terms of foot traffic and food sales.
After I visit the little boy's room on the beach I stop for a moment to watch the Swedish girl some more. Agnetha Faltskog had been my favourite member of the band ABBA and there is certainly a little Agnetha in this girl. It is hard to put my finger on it exactly, but I take a wild guess it has something to do with them both being from Scandinavia. There is a tap on my shoulder. 'G'day Simon. What are you doing?' It is an Australian guy named Bevan who I knew because his sister had been the roommate who had nearly overdosed in the house I was now living in.
'Out for a run,' I say.
'You run down to the beach often?' He asks.
'Everyday.' I tell him with a straight face. 'What are you doing out?'
'I work here.'
'Really,' I say, ' that is great.' There is always a huge list of advantages with having a mate working at the beach. Cheap rentals, cold drinks, having someone to chat to so I don't look like a lonely loser. 'Think you could introduce me to the Swedish girl?'
A bunch of hoons - part 3
Bevan sidesteps introducing me to the Swedish girl. No reason to get my knickers in a twist. Like finding yourself running 10 kilometers when you only intended to do 5 hill sprints, these things take time. Bevan gets me a drink of water then I start the slow jog home. As I cross the intersection of Delaware and 20th street near my house I feel a great sense of pride at what I have accomplished. That is the furthest I have run in years, if not my entire life. In hindsight it had not been that difficult. I only need to change my mindset of what my goal is when I go out for a run. Try and impress the Swedish girl, not regurgitate my lunch.
The next day I get home and find myself anxiously searching for my running shoes. It is another beautiful day and I think to try and make it to Perry's again. This is how it always begins, as an innocent diversion to try and get up the nerve to talk to a Swedish girl. Every afternoon for the rest of the week I run the hour down to the beach rental shop, stand around drinking water talking to Bevan for 15 minutes, then run the hour home. Never said 'boo' to the girl. A week becomes a month. At this point it is a routine. The hour of jogging to the beach gives me plenty of opportunity to think of a witty opening line to say to Maria, I had at least learnt her name over the last 30 days. Once at the beach I always lose my nerve. I spend the hour running home psyching myself up for the next day.
Running along the streets in a city is not the same as driving them. I have travelled down Ocean Park Blvd., Pico Blvd., Santa Monica Blvd., and Wilshire Blvd. hundreds of times in my car and never given the businesses, houses, and intersections a moment's thought. Los Angeles is ruled by the automobile with an iron fist. The city is impersonal, fake, and distant. Suddenly now, as my feet pound the pavement every afternoon, the city has personality. It has character. It is a rather boring character but at least it now has something. The good thing about the fact that everyone in L.A. uses a car is that I have the sidewalks all to myself. I can't imagine going for a run in any other comparable sized metropolis, New York, Tokyo, or Jakarta, in the middle of a sunny afternoon and being so solitary. Los Angeles is not a pedestrian city. But this is the Zen of running. It is the time to be alone with my thoughts and meditate. While trying to come up with a sure fire opening line.
After three months my physiological system starts to go through a change. If I am not on the road running by 4pm my body starts to go through withdrawal symptoms. My hands wildly shake while my heart rate quickens, even if I am sitting down. I arrive home in a cold sweat and feverishly hunt down my running shoes like I am searching for vials of crack. Within five minutes of getting out the door and into my cadence my body experiences a runner's high. The fresh air, the vigorous activity, the rush of adrenaline. Absolutely glorious.
Having never touched a drug in my life this experience is my first addiction. The only way to describe it is to think about snorting an ounce of cocaine while working out on a stationary bike while watching a nature documentary. It is running for the sake of having the feeling of running. I have no purpose other than to be high on the exercise. Like every drug dependent user my other relationships begin to suffer. The Swedish girl is ignored as I need to run further past the beach rental shop to feed my growing habit. I am now running five hours a day, seven days a week. From my home in Santa Monica to the beach and then up into Malibu. The toenails on my feet turn black and fall out. I don't care. I have no time for pick up rugby games. No time for beers with my rugby mates. I had to be pounding the pavement. My friends tried an intervention to get me to go to the pub, but I went for a run instead. I closed myself off.
One day I am talking to a patient who notices my afternoon tremors and I mention that I am into running. 'Not to worry I am in control. Can stop at any time.' He asks me if I ever thought of running a marathon. I tell him I would like to but don't have enough spare time with all the running I am doing to even think about running in a marathon. Denial, the first sign of addiction. On my next visit to see him he presents me with two guaranteed entry forms for the New York City Marathon. The man is the father of the President of the New York Road Runners Association. How unlikely is that? But, what a score for me. It is like giving a donut to a diabetic with hyperglycemia. Normally, there are limited ways for a junkie to gain access to compete in the prestigious NYC marathon. Enter the raffle for spots, do the run to raise money for a charity, meet a strict time qualifying standard, or be a Kenyan. I had just leap frogged everyone in the list. All I want to do is get home, find my runners, and put in six hours on the cement. For a man who has already lost his toenails running five hours every day for no reason at all, I am now in danger of having my entire lower half succumb to gangrene.
Daily I am out by the ocean laying down distance. There is no variation or alternate day training schedule. I am not trying to make this complicated. It is as simple as run as far as I think I can go before I need to turn around and get home before dark. Basic, raw, and enjoyable. Much as many things in life are before some 'expert' comes along to give us their opinion that we are doing it wrong. Like eating was before Nathan Pritikin threw a cat amongst the pigeons with his low fat/high fiber regime, or Vatsyatana penned the Karma Sutra. In a world with millions of gurus it still takes me at least five squares of toilet paper to wipe my bum. TED TALK- Why less than five is the suboptimal number of squares to get the job done effectively.
My stop offs to chat with Bevan become little more than him providing me a glass of water. The Swedish girl starts paying me attention because I am ignoring her. But I have no time for matters relating to childhood fantasies of the lead singer of ABBA. The Malibu section of my unaltering training path takes me past a prime shooting
location for Baywatch, still in its height, at Will Rogers State Beach at the bottom of Temescal Canyon Blvd. The Headquarters locale used for the television show is built on top of the real lifeguard headquarters that exists there. On several occasions I clearly see Pamela Anderson, Donna D'Errico, and Gena Lee Nolan parading around the food truck in their swimsuits. Didn't care. This despite the Harvard School of Useless Surveys showing that 99.9% of all men on the planet have at one time had a Baywatch fantasy. (The three exceptions being George Michael, Kevin Spacey, and the guy who runs Apple) I am too consumed with running to concern myself with the most desirable women on the planet in the 90's.
I can't see what is happening to me. My life is spiraling out of control. If I am ignoring Pamela Anderson in her prime (in her god damn prime) there is something seriously wrong. Craving the daily injection of endorphins is ruining my life. Yet there I was, as fit as buggery. This is the dark side of health and longevity that practitioners such as Nathan Pritikin never divulged to the hordes of rich overweight clientele that frequented his beachside weight loss spa. Although the fact he ended his own life by committing suicide should have been a giveaway.
Then it all changes in a heartbeat. One day I am finishing a run. The late September sun is declining below the horizon. In a few minutes the air temperature will plummet 15-20 degrees as the cold atmosphere hovering over the frigid Pacific will inundate the L.A. basin. The shorter days mean that my runs are pushing the limits of daylight hours. Even though my body is dependent on the running to get its fix I never stay out after dark. I may be abusing myself, but I am not stupid. This is Los Angeles and I do live in the hood.
I cross from the southern side of Pico Blvd. onto the northern footpath as I won't make the light. Rather than break stride it is easier to evade the intersection at 20th entirely and avoid passing Eddie's liquor store. This location has an armed robbery attempt at least bi-weekly. I make a left at the corner onto 20th street and have two blocks to go to get to Delaware. There is no one else on the streets. As I am about to cross 20th I notice a group of six teenage African American kids standing outside the Section 8 apartments. I don't think much of it. It is not like I am on the neighbourhood watch patrol. Don't even think this neighbourhood has a watch patrol. If it did, they would be permanently stationed outside of Eddie's.
The group is suddenly focused on me. 'Whitey, whose chasing you?' One of them yells.
'Why you runnin' cracker?'
'Haha, you know white boys can't run.'
It is only juvenile taunts from a bunch of hoons. Hardly vicious. Nothing for me to be concerned about. One of the good things about having grown up in Australia is that when someone calls me a 'cracker' I associate that word with Jatz cracker biscuits. The slur doesn't make me mad, it makes me hungry for French onion dip. I decide to let them have their fun rather than to shut them down in a nanosecond with a casual, 'Hey, you stupid fucks. Don't you have better things to do with your time than to stand on a street corner and have a circle jerk?' (Or something equally as polite) But call it fate, call it destiny, call it dumb luck, I say nothing. And I never say nothing. Never ever. I run past them 20 meters to my house, open the door and walk in. My roommate is on the couch watching television. I go through my bedroom to the shared bathroom to splash some water on my face. It is at that moment a gang war erupts outside on the street. Pop, pop, pop, popity, popity, pop pop. Blurrrbbbbbb. Tack, tack, pop. Blurrrbbbbb.
Naively, I casually walk back into the living room. My roommate is gone!
'Get down,' says a voice from behind the couch.
'What?'
'Get down on the ground or you'll get shot.'
I dive to the ground. 'The bullets can't penetrate the house, can they?' I ask.
I thought stucco walls could stop an M16. Every Hollywood movie I have ever seen has heroes crouch behind open car doors, overturned tables, and picket fences while been shot at. They never suffer a scratch.
'These walls are like paper to a bullet,' my roommate tells me. Bloody Hollywood.
The next week I move out. I have another mate with a one-bedroom apartment in Westwood near UCLA. I sleep on the couch. For my marathon training I now run around the university campus. There is no beach, no sewerage outflow, no Swedish girls, no Pamela Anderson. Just young college students carrying their school books walking five abreast on the sidewalk that I must yell at to get out of my way. Running now sucks.
I still regret not saying something to those little punks. A month later I am off in New York City to run the marathon. A week after that I am almost pronounced dead at the scene of a car accident. So, if they had shot me it almost might not have mattered.
Feeling stoked
There are not many things in this world that I find heartbreaking. Death, disease, and disfiguration are part and parcel of my day at work. I see it so often I have become numb to it. Humans grow accustomed to the shock and pain of distress. This happens to all of us when faced with traumatizing anguish. We are habituated to it. How else could Jim Bakker survive waking up every morning beside Tammy Faye for so many years? Acclimatization. Combined with black out curtains on the windows and a wraparound sleep mask. It is our best defense from continual despair. Occasionally, something slips through our guard. Warning get some tissues.
I once had a 46-year-old autistic man to evaluate at the hospital. He had been hit by a car crossing the street and broken both his ankles. The genius doctor in charge of his case writes an order for gait training twice a day but no weight bearing on either leg for 6-8 weeks. You can only laugh sometimes when you realize these guys are cutting into bodies every week. I read the chart completely but enter the room without complete awareness of all the factors at play. The patient has a tense but unmindful look on his face. He is not fully aware of what is going on. When I ask him if he is in pain, he shakes his head, no. He does it more to not be in trouble than due to the fact he is not uncomfortable. He has the disposition of a well behaved 11-year-old. This man couldn't hurt a fly. I can tell he is gentle to his core. He wouldn't know how to hurt a fly.
'Where do you live?' I ask. A standard background question that has the nurse frantically wave for me to leave the room with her. What did I do wrong? Is he going to become upset telling me his address? Never had this happen before. Anyone who knows me knows I am not the most sensitive guy in the world, but I have plenty of empathy for anyone who is the unfortunate victim of an accident. This man is an innocent, in both the hand dealt him in life and with being involved in a hit and run. I follow the nurse outside expecting to be given her inflated fear of me making the patient feel uncomfortable. The practice of Medicine has become a safe space. No one can be allowed to hear the truth if it means hurting their feelings. It is quite honestly a disaster. The nurse tells me that the patient lives with his mother. They had both gotten off a bus and were crossing the street when a car ran a red light and hit them. The mother had been killed, but the son doesn't know yet. He remembers nothing of the accident. The nurse has already been asked several times about the mother. She cries as she tells me she doesn't know how to respond. Gulp.
I go back in to continue my therapy session with him. The man is very keen to do well and follows every instruction I give him humbly, while constantly apologizing. He sits up at the edge of the bed and a broad smile flashes over his face at his accomplishment. I tell him that he can't stand up for a few weeks and that he will need to go to a nursing home for some rehab, if he is accepted. He thanks me. I am not sure he fully understands, but he is not upset at the news. Then come the words that tear at my heart, 'I want to make Mom proud of me for when I get home.'
My throat chokes. 'You will mate. You will,' I barely get out.
I get him back to lying down and give him some sincere encouragement while I struggle to keep myself together. The five paces to exit the door seem like a marathon. Apart from not yelling at the punks in Santa Monica this is the only time in my life I have kept my mouth shut. In whatever way people m
ay judge a person for the things they have done during their life, or their sarcastic attitude toward everything, they may never see how a heart reacts during the moments like this. Now you can call me a flipping softie, tree hugger.
This is not the most tear-jerking moment in my life. Not by a long shot.
Every guy has that one girl that slips through their fingertips in their life. The one that got away. I am not talking about the drunk hag at the bar on Saturday night who said she would let you take her home, then went to the bathroom, passed out, and you never saw her again. I am talking about one special girl. The metaphorical Helen of Troy. The one girl no one else could measure up to in your eyes. (Talking to the guys and lesos here) The '24 years of living next door to Alice,' in your world. The lady with whom you might have had the briefest of moments to impress her and you either failed to capitalize on it or, went completely tits up and buggered it to hell. And this is the type of woman that men only get one chance in life with. We have all had our shot at a Sophia Loren type. A superstar. A woman that transcends beauty and desire. Most of us crash and burn, never to speak a word of our failure to anyone. Some of us barely survive to tell the tale.
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