I’d been procrastinating for weeks, watching the heavy blonde pass my window in the mornings when I didn’t go in early. It was usually around eight when she went by, always starting off heading north. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen her coming back the other way; I suppose I’m usually gone by then.
It was time for me to make the run to the crossroads and the bridge that would take me over the highway if I chose to continue, or the other that would bring me to the tracks. I would start across the street from my studio, just in front of the church, rather than driving somewhere first as I usually do, tossing my house keys onto the front seat of my car and putting my driver’s license into my pocket just in case. I read a story once about a man who was hit by a car while jogging and was without identification, leaving his family to wonder for days what had happened to him.
The farm was first where I picked up an aroma that I couldn’t quite make out; it could have been the freshly tilled soil that was now furrowed and ready for planting, or maybe the blend of the hundreds of potted flowers that were left out on benches and tables that were for sale when the single string was removed from the entrance signaling that the stand was open for business. It would be a simple task to grab whatever one wanted during the night, but no one ever does.
I negotiated the first s curve where the lilacs that straddled the road and were so pungent just a few days ago were already faded and browning, their scent little more than a memory.
There is no real shoulder along most of this route, which is one of the reasons it has taken me so long to get started. I would have to rely on the kindness of the drivers passing by to steer away towards the center of the road so kept alert to the density of the nearby landscape in the event I had to dive into the shrubs to avoid a maniacal, neckless, anti-jogger in a diesel pick up. I was surprised how frequently cars passed each other in opposite directions at the precise moment they were passing me, almost as if I was a magnet that attracted this three way tryst.
I knew the first turn off was around a mile out and passed it soon enough with the bison ranch in mind for my midpoint, I had to at least get that far. I was fairly certain that I had clocked the second, larger intersection at two miles from home, but I really couldn’t remember. I was hoping the animals would be out grazing in the lower pasture by the road. I’d only passed them by at fifty or sixty so this would be a much more intimate exchange.
I felt the need to look down often as I moved between the asphalt and the somewhat softer packed gravel that was just wide enough at times to accommodate my strides, trying not to get caught on the edge, remembering the injury to my Achilles tendon while avoiding sticks on the trail through the woods.
The variety of trash that lined the drainage ditches was becoming a little unsettling; empty cigarette packs, beer cans, wrappers and bags with store names printed on them, a cover plate from a wall outlet. I don’t understand why people can’t wait until they get home to dispose of these things in their own household cans. I suppose it’s just laziness or a mild disdain for their own piece of the planet and their neighbors who then find it necessary to remove the debris from their lawns.
The ranch turned out to be a bit farther than I expected and there was no herd to be seen. I was only mildly disappointed, there will be other days. I’d been out for a while now and was uncertain of the distance to the second crossing but by the end of the ranch I could see the curve in the distance that I though might bring me close, the one near the church that was also utilized as a synagogue on Saturday mornings. I thought it was a nice gesture that they shared the little hall. I discovered when I neared that I was right; the triangular intersection was within reach, visible as I approached the parking lot. I have driven this route nearly every morning for the last seven months so should be somewhat knowledgeable of the various features and the distances between them.
Having reached my destination I headed for home, picking up the pace just a little, anxious now to be within that last mile where comfort returns.
The bridge over the stream offered the sounds of the nearby, low waterfall but as I crossed I saw a second, farther upstream that I had never noticed from my car. This was where, only briefly during the run, the traffic eased enough to allow the sounds of the birds and the gentle slap of my sneakers on the pavement to dominate.
I was nearly home when a semi pulled over right in front of me to let the line of cars behind pass, leaving no room between his trailer and the waist high grass, forcing me into the center of the road.
As I came to my studio I slowed to a walk and continued in order to cool down a bit, after sweating for a while now and finally removing the long sleeve jersey that I’d worn over my tee shirt thinking that it might have been appropriate attire when I’d begun.
I thought a walk through the cemetery might be just enough and as I moved along the side road I began to read the names and dates on the head stones, many going back to the mid eighteen hundreds while others were quite recent, even a few with only the dates of birth, waiting for those of their owners’ deaths to be engraved. I suppose it’s prudent to be prepared but I’m not certain I would want my name on one of those quite yet. It occurred to me as I walked that this was it, this is all there is, reduced to a skeleton and a stone marker, existing within a span of time that seems as brief and as fleeting as the fragrant blossoms of the lilacs, although, admittedly, the flowers have the opportunity for a repeat performance next year while we have only one chance.
Saturday, May 26, 2007
Deception
I decided that while I was here it was important to run the strip in its entirety as I had the Embarcadero in San Francisco a couple of weeks earlier, not really knowing how far that might be. It didn’t matter, only that something inside saw this as another opportunity to do something I had never done, and something I might never do again, another challenge.
I walked the winding, narrow, terra cotta colored path from the lobby to the sidewalk through the thickly torsoed, stunted palms, brushing my hand over one of the coarse trunks in an attempt to determine its authenticity. My hotel was nearly at the north end and I knew from past descents into the airport that the southern most and the last of the casinos bordered the edge of the runways.
I got up to speed quickly, no longer concerned with my athletic abilities, and moved past the nearest resort, the one that I’d stopped into last night out of sheer boredom and left an hour later with an extra hundred and forty, a rare victory in a town that exists purely for defeat, knowing that I would return the ill gotten cash to its rightful owners before my short visit was through.
The structure is vast; with three rectangular, white towers and a glistening, red quartz pavillion behind that is substantial enough to demonstrate the effects of aerial perspective as clearly as the surrounding mountains.
The blocks run the full length of each sprawling behemoth and the street curves just enough to make my final destination impossible to see.
A massive open pit behind a tarp covered fence was next, just to my right, where the smell of raw sewage permeated the air, and although the sidewalk is well maintained, hand mopped daily, the narrow grassy area just off to the side is littered with broken bottles, discarded plastic yard glasses spewing festively striped drinking straws, business cards and flyers featuring prostitutes who are probably pictured as far more attractive then they actually are, and the dispelled fantasies of instant fortune and the hopes of an end to lives of mediocrity.
The majority of the trash cans that line the streets spill over with Martini glasses and smell of rancid cocktails and stale vomit, quite distant from the odors of freshly baked bread and frying bacon that accompanied me on my journey towards Fisherman’s Wharf.
Near the heart of the strip, where the largest crowds will travel in drunken hoards during the evening hours, the cross streets are fenced and the only way to keep moving is via escalators and overhead bridges. This was certainly a new experience but I never hesitated, scaling the moving steel treads and quickly maneuvering through the tunnels and landings that led back to ground level.
I passed them all, Caesar’s Palace, Circus Circus, Wynn, Treasure Island, all of the bronze statuary that isn’t, the figures that aspire to simulate Carrarra marble but are nothing more than Styrofoam and stucco, the Eiffel Tower, Chrysler Building, Statue of Liberty and the Sphinx, all on the same avenue, the fountains that dance and the lure of gold leaf and grandeur that drag travelers into its jaws, only to spit them back onto the pristine walkways when they are no longer useful.
I passed more than one, lying on the sidewalk just after dawn, trying to shake off the shame and the loss and the embarrassment, only here these things are far less important than the next drink, and the next bet, and the next seduction, this is what they are here for.
One was dressed a beige suit while his friend was unreserved about belittling him, shouting at him until he got to his feet, which appeared doubtful; another was a woman, fetus-like on the sidewalk while a man sat very close by on an inverted, white five gallon pail holding his head in his hands. They probably had a room somewhere but never stood a chance of finding or reaching it.
I got to the end and crossed, heading back on the other side. The trip so far had been quite a bit longer than I expected as I once again crossed paths with other runners, and once again waved without response, without eye contact. I seriously doubt that I can possibly be that offensive in appearance or as menacing as I seem to be.
The Heavenly Bliss Wedding Chapel fell somewhere near the middle of my return trip; a small circular building where one could not only marry, but purchase discount Grand Canyon helicopter tour tickets, pick up souvenirs and T shirts, and gain internet access for only twenty five cents per minute.
Back past the Riviera and pedestrians wielding open beers and half filled plastic cocktail glasses, while couples sat at outdoor concrete tables with Bloody Mary’s in hand.
As I finally neared my hotel, moving along the sign on the fence advertising the three million dollar condos that would soon be available, I spotted another rectangle displaying the toll free number for reporting excessive dust from the seemingly untamable construction, the only law that appears to exist here or is in any way enforced.
I didn’t stop until I reached the glass doors to the lobby, slowing enough to allow them to slide open, welcoming me back to the sanctuary of one of the few structures that doesn’t contain a casino… or a restaurant (food is an afterthought on the strip, but alcohol is complimentary as long as you’re playing) and the quiet solitude of my eighteenth floor room.
I’d finished what I had set out to do and began preparing myself for the day ahead, the convention center and the clients, the inevitable errands that would be required of me, the union labor, and my selfish wishes that once all involved were satisfied, I could walk out the door for the last time and would never have to return to this place of unbridled deceit, where the untruths and the greed of corporate empires hide behind their fiberglass idols and theatrical facades.
I walked the winding, narrow, terra cotta colored path from the lobby to the sidewalk through the thickly torsoed, stunted palms, brushing my hand over one of the coarse trunks in an attempt to determine its authenticity. My hotel was nearly at the north end and I knew from past descents into the airport that the southern most and the last of the casinos bordered the edge of the runways.
I got up to speed quickly, no longer concerned with my athletic abilities, and moved past the nearest resort, the one that I’d stopped into last night out of sheer boredom and left an hour later with an extra hundred and forty, a rare victory in a town that exists purely for defeat, knowing that I would return the ill gotten cash to its rightful owners before my short visit was through.
The structure is vast; with three rectangular, white towers and a glistening, red quartz pavillion behind that is substantial enough to demonstrate the effects of aerial perspective as clearly as the surrounding mountains.
The blocks run the full length of each sprawling behemoth and the street curves just enough to make my final destination impossible to see.
A massive open pit behind a tarp covered fence was next, just to my right, where the smell of raw sewage permeated the air, and although the sidewalk is well maintained, hand mopped daily, the narrow grassy area just off to the side is littered with broken bottles, discarded plastic yard glasses spewing festively striped drinking straws, business cards and flyers featuring prostitutes who are probably pictured as far more attractive then they actually are, and the dispelled fantasies of instant fortune and the hopes of an end to lives of mediocrity.
The majority of the trash cans that line the streets spill over with Martini glasses and smell of rancid cocktails and stale vomit, quite distant from the odors of freshly baked bread and frying bacon that accompanied me on my journey towards Fisherman’s Wharf.
Near the heart of the strip, where the largest crowds will travel in drunken hoards during the evening hours, the cross streets are fenced and the only way to keep moving is via escalators and overhead bridges. This was certainly a new experience but I never hesitated, scaling the moving steel treads and quickly maneuvering through the tunnels and landings that led back to ground level.
I passed them all, Caesar’s Palace, Circus Circus, Wynn, Treasure Island, all of the bronze statuary that isn’t, the figures that aspire to simulate Carrarra marble but are nothing more than Styrofoam and stucco, the Eiffel Tower, Chrysler Building, Statue of Liberty and the Sphinx, all on the same avenue, the fountains that dance and the lure of gold leaf and grandeur that drag travelers into its jaws, only to spit them back onto the pristine walkways when they are no longer useful.
I passed more than one, lying on the sidewalk just after dawn, trying to shake off the shame and the loss and the embarrassment, only here these things are far less important than the next drink, and the next bet, and the next seduction, this is what they are here for.
One was dressed a beige suit while his friend was unreserved about belittling him, shouting at him until he got to his feet, which appeared doubtful; another was a woman, fetus-like on the sidewalk while a man sat very close by on an inverted, white five gallon pail holding his head in his hands. They probably had a room somewhere but never stood a chance of finding or reaching it.
I got to the end and crossed, heading back on the other side. The trip so far had been quite a bit longer than I expected as I once again crossed paths with other runners, and once again waved without response, without eye contact. I seriously doubt that I can possibly be that offensive in appearance or as menacing as I seem to be.
The Heavenly Bliss Wedding Chapel fell somewhere near the middle of my return trip; a small circular building where one could not only marry, but purchase discount Grand Canyon helicopter tour tickets, pick up souvenirs and T shirts, and gain internet access for only twenty five cents per minute.
Back past the Riviera and pedestrians wielding open beers and half filled plastic cocktail glasses, while couples sat at outdoor concrete tables with Bloody Mary’s in hand.
As I finally neared my hotel, moving along the sign on the fence advertising the three million dollar condos that would soon be available, I spotted another rectangle displaying the toll free number for reporting excessive dust from the seemingly untamable construction, the only law that appears to exist here or is in any way enforced.
I didn’t stop until I reached the glass doors to the lobby, slowing enough to allow them to slide open, welcoming me back to the sanctuary of one of the few structures that doesn’t contain a casino… or a restaurant (food is an afterthought on the strip, but alcohol is complimentary as long as you’re playing) and the quiet solitude of my eighteenth floor room.
I’d finished what I had set out to do and began preparing myself for the day ahead, the convention center and the clients, the inevitable errands that would be required of me, the union labor, and my selfish wishes that once all involved were satisfied, I could walk out the door for the last time and would never have to return to this place of unbridled deceit, where the untruths and the greed of corporate empires hide behind their fiberglass idols and theatrical facades.
Another Place
Convinced that there was no possibility of a reasonable or rational outcome from this poorly planned and absolutely absurd attempt at family, I decided once I got started that I wasn’t going to be all that concerned about being late for breakfast. This was an opportunity that I will most likely never see again, and even if I ever do, may not possess the ability to take advantage of it. There were a few tourists milling in the lobby as I moved through the cavernous, marble clad and crystal chandeliered space, over to the right doors where the square, silver handicapped button could be depressed and the glass would open gracefully and invitingly. Half a block to Mission and then a left towards the water, getting up to speed quickly, maybe moving little too fast I thought, I’d better take it easy, at least for the first ten blocks or so, being that I had no fixed distance or destination in mind.
It was Saturday morning and the streets were quiet, sparsely populated by a scattering of homeless pushing weary shopping carts festooned with overstuffed and weathered, black plastic trash bags. Another lay on the sidewalk, up against a polished façade, shrouded in a tattered and dirty, lime green blanket. A prep cook all in white loaded boxes of produce into his kitchen while others took squeegees to storefront glass and hosed down the sidewalks.
I’d never run in a city before, any city. This was a new game, trying to maintain forward momentum while constantly scouting for safe passage through intersections, occasionally changing course when the hand was red and the L.E.D. readout ticked toward zero, other times accelerating to a sprint in an impromptu duel with the cross traffic.
It’s only nine or ten blocks to the Embarcadero, we had all bused there yesterday afternoon for a dinner that in many ways foreshadowed the one that was to follow the next evening, as well as the day that preceded it. I thought for a moment about going the other way, out towards the old neighborhood, probably no more than fourteen or fifteen blocks, but the thought passed as quickly as it had come, that place held no nostalgia, I needed the bay as my companion.
After crossing the four lane thoroughfare, the median and the trolley car tracks, I turned right at the water’s edge and headed for the Bay Bridge. It didn’t look to be more than a mile or two away. As I jogged alongside the concrete seating, decorated with bronze turtles and crabs, the rising sun settled into the center of the arc of the bridge’s suspension cables, like a fiery marble pulled back in a slingshot, poised to be released.
Under the massive structure and then another half mile and a lap around a large, asphalt lot that jutted into the bay where a few slept in their aging, rusted cars, occasionally running the engine to fight off the chill of the morning. A practice I’m not entirely unfamiliar with.
I thought this might make an appropriate mid point and started back the way I had come, passing others along the way moving in the opposite direction, sometimes waving or nodding, never garnering a response, they all seemed emotionless, robotic, looking only straight ahead, being certain that any eye contact was kept out of the equation.
Maybe one block farther than I had started and I could make my way back to the hotel on the red brick sidewalks of Market Street.
A farmers market was setting up under an array of pop up tents just outside the recently renovated Ferry Building. As I moved past I regretted not having a dollar that I could toss onto the table in exchange for a peach that was perched at the top of one of the displays.
Market Street came and went. I caught a glimpse of the Golden Gate in the distance, canopied by the thick band of clouds that has probably always hung in that particular spot and will probably never leave. Fisherman’s Wharf became my new destination, probably not as far as Ghirardelli Square, that would get me into the hills, Pier Forty Five, the last one, and one of the orchestra members that symphonically contributed to my demise and subsequent reincarnation, I wanted to see it again, no longer as a threat, no longer as something that tortured, but as nothing more than a hollow shell. It seemed distant but at this particular moment I felt as if I had just begun my journey and could go on indefinitely.
I was admiring the row of beefy looking palms standing motionless in a row along the center median when I heard their calls, pulling me off course and onto one of the wooden piers that go a little way out into the bay. The slap of my sneakers on the concrete changed to a dull, hollow thud as I made my way passed a woman in one of the turnouts engaged in Tai Chi. I spotted them off to my right before I was halfway out, easily a hundred. Sea lions lounging on the low, floating docks below, their barks growing louder as I approached. I couldn’t help but smile as I turned and headed back to continue on my chosen course.
The odor of frying bacon invaded my senses for the second time as I passed one of the bakeries near the wharf, just shy of my destination. When finally arriving I did a kind of rain dance, running in circles in front of the locked, glass doors a couple of times, attempting to make out the silhouette of my former nemesis. I couldn’t and didn’t particularly care, not wanting to dwell here, now moving with the bay to my left and the Bay Bridge once again in my vision. There was no way for me to judge how far I’d gone, only by the amount of time I’d been out, and I wouldn’t know this until getting back to the hotel, not that it really mattered, just curious.
I caught sight of the clock that decorated the central tower of the Ferry Building, the hands on the front were obviously out of sync, the face on the side reading a hair before eight. At my usual pace I’d be near seven miles with at least one still to go. I felt comfortable, undaunted, barely sweating in the cool, damp, morning air. Back to Market and across the tracks where a small craft fair was being assembled under its own variety of temporary shelters. I paid it little attention as I ran through the center, speeding up perceptibly, wincing just a little as I passed the tables filled with ceramics and jewelry. The aroma of bacon returned three blocks down, inspiring thoughts of breakfast, then back to Fourth Street and another left that would bring me to the hotel, not slowing until reaching the front door and opting to pass it by in favor of a slower walk around the block to cool down just a little, stopping by a corner lamp post to stretch my back.
Up to the room and a quick shower before joining the others in the second floor restaurant where the two boys were already running wild, unsupervised and unchallenged, through the tables and the planters, disturbing enough to drive other patrons to move to more distant corners.
It was Saturday morning and the streets were quiet, sparsely populated by a scattering of homeless pushing weary shopping carts festooned with overstuffed and weathered, black plastic trash bags. Another lay on the sidewalk, up against a polished façade, shrouded in a tattered and dirty, lime green blanket. A prep cook all in white loaded boxes of produce into his kitchen while others took squeegees to storefront glass and hosed down the sidewalks.
I’d never run in a city before, any city. This was a new game, trying to maintain forward momentum while constantly scouting for safe passage through intersections, occasionally changing course when the hand was red and the L.E.D. readout ticked toward zero, other times accelerating to a sprint in an impromptu duel with the cross traffic.
It’s only nine or ten blocks to the Embarcadero, we had all bused there yesterday afternoon for a dinner that in many ways foreshadowed the one that was to follow the next evening, as well as the day that preceded it. I thought for a moment about going the other way, out towards the old neighborhood, probably no more than fourteen or fifteen blocks, but the thought passed as quickly as it had come, that place held no nostalgia, I needed the bay as my companion.
After crossing the four lane thoroughfare, the median and the trolley car tracks, I turned right at the water’s edge and headed for the Bay Bridge. It didn’t look to be more than a mile or two away. As I jogged alongside the concrete seating, decorated with bronze turtles and crabs, the rising sun settled into the center of the arc of the bridge’s suspension cables, like a fiery marble pulled back in a slingshot, poised to be released.
Under the massive structure and then another half mile and a lap around a large, asphalt lot that jutted into the bay where a few slept in their aging, rusted cars, occasionally running the engine to fight off the chill of the morning. A practice I’m not entirely unfamiliar with.
I thought this might make an appropriate mid point and started back the way I had come, passing others along the way moving in the opposite direction, sometimes waving or nodding, never garnering a response, they all seemed emotionless, robotic, looking only straight ahead, being certain that any eye contact was kept out of the equation.
Maybe one block farther than I had started and I could make my way back to the hotel on the red brick sidewalks of Market Street.
A farmers market was setting up under an array of pop up tents just outside the recently renovated Ferry Building. As I moved past I regretted not having a dollar that I could toss onto the table in exchange for a peach that was perched at the top of one of the displays.
Market Street came and went. I caught a glimpse of the Golden Gate in the distance, canopied by the thick band of clouds that has probably always hung in that particular spot and will probably never leave. Fisherman’s Wharf became my new destination, probably not as far as Ghirardelli Square, that would get me into the hills, Pier Forty Five, the last one, and one of the orchestra members that symphonically contributed to my demise and subsequent reincarnation, I wanted to see it again, no longer as a threat, no longer as something that tortured, but as nothing more than a hollow shell. It seemed distant but at this particular moment I felt as if I had just begun my journey and could go on indefinitely.
I was admiring the row of beefy looking palms standing motionless in a row along the center median when I heard their calls, pulling me off course and onto one of the wooden piers that go a little way out into the bay. The slap of my sneakers on the concrete changed to a dull, hollow thud as I made my way passed a woman in one of the turnouts engaged in Tai Chi. I spotted them off to my right before I was halfway out, easily a hundred. Sea lions lounging on the low, floating docks below, their barks growing louder as I approached. I couldn’t help but smile as I turned and headed back to continue on my chosen course.
The odor of frying bacon invaded my senses for the second time as I passed one of the bakeries near the wharf, just shy of my destination. When finally arriving I did a kind of rain dance, running in circles in front of the locked, glass doors a couple of times, attempting to make out the silhouette of my former nemesis. I couldn’t and didn’t particularly care, not wanting to dwell here, now moving with the bay to my left and the Bay Bridge once again in my vision. There was no way for me to judge how far I’d gone, only by the amount of time I’d been out, and I wouldn’t know this until getting back to the hotel, not that it really mattered, just curious.
I caught sight of the clock that decorated the central tower of the Ferry Building, the hands on the front were obviously out of sync, the face on the side reading a hair before eight. At my usual pace I’d be near seven miles with at least one still to go. I felt comfortable, undaunted, barely sweating in the cool, damp, morning air. Back to Market and across the tracks where a small craft fair was being assembled under its own variety of temporary shelters. I paid it little attention as I ran through the center, speeding up perceptibly, wincing just a little as I passed the tables filled with ceramics and jewelry. The aroma of bacon returned three blocks down, inspiring thoughts of breakfast, then back to Fourth Street and another left that would bring me to the hotel, not slowing until reaching the front door and opting to pass it by in favor of a slower walk around the block to cool down just a little, stopping by a corner lamp post to stretch my back.
Up to the room and a quick shower before joining the others in the second floor restaurant where the two boys were already running wild, unsupervised and unchallenged, through the tables and the planters, disturbing enough to drive other patrons to move to more distant corners.
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