Last time I ran with a group—or, at least, that was the
idea—I was in Ottawa a few years ago. As that Frontrunners experience turned
out to be perplexingly negative, I had low expectations for the Santa
Monica run with L.A. Frontrunners.
But I also had some hope. I’d run with the group for my last
few months in L.A. before moving to Vancouver. They were a bit nerdy and not so
good about reciprocal conversation, but nice enough. I even made friends with
one of them though we lost touch after he wanted more than friendship and I
just wasn’t feeling it. People say, “Okay, sure. Let’s just be friends”, but it
rarely works.
Decent memories from L.A. Frontrunners nonetheless. Hadn’t
been for a run with the group in nineteen years, but it was comforting to know
they still met on the same weeknight at 6:30 in the same spot in the park along
Ocean Avenue with the same ocean view.
Still, I wasn’t sure anyone else show up. The website had
references to 2011 so maybe the whole group had gone kaput. Maybe everyone had
switched to yoga. Or bootcamp in one of the canyons. Or—I’m not making this
up--Prancercise. (Sadly, it has nothing to do with everyone putting on
reindeer antlers.) Maybe I’d appear at another Frontrunners session just to be
jogging solo again.
There are a lot worse places to jog.
As I approached the meeting site—the Millennial Plaque
which, okay, wasn’t there back in ’94—I noticed three men standing around in
jogging gear. One immediately stepped up and introduced himself. Something in
my walk, my clothing or my look apparently screamed “GAY!”
Thank goodness. (After eight years of rural life, you never
know!)
Immediately, they were friendlier than the Ottawa folks.
Having had his say, Greeter Guy stood back, intently doing calf stretches, but
the other two brought me into their chitchat and one shared a lovely story
about a guy’s vomit mutating into some sort of being. From a novel, I think.
Although it did remind me of that urban myth about that rescued dog at sea that
turns out to be an oversized rat. Surprisingly, I let my mind drift off, gazing
at the sea, the succulent flora adorning the park and the homeless man passed
out ten feet away from us on the grass. (I noticed signs of breathing, thank
goodness.)
When my mind drifted back to Frontrunners, the group had
doubled and a few more approached. By the time we were ready to run, there
15-20. The leader gathered us in a circle, asked for announcements and had us
each say our name—the same routine from all those years ago. The name share is
always rapid fire. I must have heard about five names, remembering three. Would
they have run with those stickie nametags had I bought a pack? But then, you
can’t read what is under “Hello my name is” if everyone leaves you in the wake.
Having broken my foot back in February, the recovery has
been maddeningly slow. I finally had my first successful (albeit abbreviated)
run just two weeks ago and managed another short run doing laps around the Silver Lake Reservoir on my second night in L.A. So this was Run No. 3. Would I be able
to keep up? Would the left foot give out? What if I reinjured it? (I failed to
purchase traveler’s medical insurance before leaving Canada.)
We started and people immediately paired up, with me running
on my own.
Impose yourself into a
pairing, my inner voice said. Oh, how I hate that voice. It always sounds
like my mother, always harkening me back to adolescence when I’d waste away
hundred-degree summer days watching “The Price Is Right” inside, my Showcase
Showdown bidding plan interrupted by my mother urging me to go knock on the
neighbor’s door,...the high school quarterback’s house. Yeah, right. My
thoughts of winning a boat, a trip to Cancun and a lifetime supply of
Rice-A-Roni were far more grounded in reality.
As always, I ignored that inner voice.
And so I jogged bravely onward. Solo, just like back home,
only a little more relaxed without having to watch for bears or cougars. Or
highly scratchy blackberry bushes.
But then a friendly voice over my shoulder asked, “How long
are you visiting?” A friendly man, the oldest in the group, in good shape for
sixty-five. We jogged together as others passed. Eventually another man joined
us. It was pleasant conversation that petered out as sweat started to stream
down our faces and, now on the winding beach path, we had to focus on dodging
cyclists, roller bladers and the ever-oblivious walkers who stretched across
the entire width of the path, cameras capturing every moment.
In the obstacle course, I got a little ahead of my jogging
mates and I could hear them carry on their conversation. It had been nice to be
included, but I wasn’t essential. The pace had been too slow and felt unnatural
for me. Like driving with the emergency brake on. I took the moment to pick up
the pace and jog on my own, eyeing a couple members of the group ahead in the
distance.
I passed them and spotted another pair up further.
Reached and passed.
Yes, I can get a little competitive when I run. I like to
pass. It breaks the monotony of a run when there are moving targets ahead.
My left foot felt great, the pace seemed right. How
exhilarating to really jog again! For months, I wondered if I’d ever run again.
I stopped the passing when I reached Greeter Guy. His pace
was decent and, as we were approaching the final incline back to Ocean Avenue,
I had no desire to pass him and then be passed again with me huffing and
puffing, a wolf who finally meets his brick house.
Sensing that Greeter wasn’t a gifted conversationalist, I
took the lead and asked a series of questions about himself. No reciprocity,
but no ill intent either. Just like old times.
A potluck followed the run and, not knowing this, I’d
brought nothing. The guy with the vomit tale had said I was more than welcome
to attend, but as a quirky vegetarian with eating issues, I’m not a potluck
fan.
For a moment, I faced a dilemma. I could wait around and
socialize with what I sensed was a friendly group. Isn’t that why I came to
L.A.? To connect with people? But the run had only been four miles. My standard
run has always been 6-7 miles. I still felt energized. This was my first chance
since the fainting episode to reach my standard.
I politely said goodbye to the few runners that were waiting
around and then continued on, jogging up my favorite road in Santa Monica, San
Vicente Boulevard, with the gorgeous tree-lined island splitting east and
westbound traffic. It was part of my old jogging route and on my bucket list of
things to do again while in L.A.
Pretty sure I exceeded my regular running distance and due
to the old tree roots jutting out along the path, I was beginning to feel
discomfort in my foot (and both knees) as I returned to Ocean Avenue. Still,
nothing could pierce my joy bubble. I did it. Sure, exercising trumped
socializing, but I was elated.
So elated in fact that I walked back to the picnic tables
where the potluck was underway. I politely declined gnawing on a roasted
chicken carcass, forgot about my shyness and casually chatted for the next hour
with a group of genuinely nice people. I tossed aside my need to be critical,
smiling politely as more than one guy said, “Oh, you’re from Canada! I love
Canada. I was in Toronto last year.” Yep, Vancouver, Toronto,...same thing.
(The critic tends to resurface when I write and the endorphins settle down.)
Smile on.
As it got dark—an hour earlier than in Vancouver—I
remembered my little dog waiting back in our little bungalow with no lights on
and I excused myself again.
“You coming back next week?” I was asked several times.
Absolutely.
