A Life More Complete(2)
Eight miles, my morning routine, and without it my day will be shot. Running keeps my OCD at bay and curbs my insomnia. Today is a Tuesday and added to my morning run is my beach yoga class.
I step out of my condo into the cool morning air that is only created in California. I live in the Sand section of Manhattan Beach, my condo, a total steal when I bought it six years ago, but a total dump, too. I breathe in the smell of salt as I long to feel the pavement pounding against my feet. I love the summer, the long, extended bursts of lasting sunlight, but as August impedes the sunlight recedes, leaving too early and appearing too late. I have an irrational fear of the dark. The kind of fear that grips you and makes your heart feel like it may explode out of your chest. It’s like watching a horror movie. I picture serial killers lurking, along with mask-wearing lunatics and gun-wielding psychopaths hiding in the darkness. Like I said, irrational. My outdoor runs will end due to this fear somewhere near October. Yet, today I know the sun will rise at 6:01am. I have to know this or else the fear will take over. I set off on my usual route down to the beach, taking Moonstone to Ocean and Ocean to 42nd Street, 42nd to the beach, then just slightly east of the pier for yoga, knowing that by the time I hit the sand the sun will begin to rise. The route is fully memorized.
The date floats around in my head as I eliminate my first mile: Tuesday, August 8, 2006. I left potholes for sinkholes, construction for gridlock, tornadoes for earthquakes; most would think it a lateral move. I walked away from a lake for an ocean, snow for sunshine, quietly explosive dysfunction for comfortably unfamiliar calm. Running allows me to reflect on my life and the choices I have made. I know without a doubt that I have no regrets. But I also steal a few minutes to recall all the memories of my former life that I still long for and desire in my moments of weakness. Deep-dish pizza and Chicago-style hot dogs. The oppressive extreme humidity and heat of a Midwest summer, something most would grow to hate. Not me—I loved it, I craved it. It was like being hugged by a warm, wet blanket every time you left your house. Summer thunderstorms and heat lightning, something my mother feared, forcing me to love it unconditionally. My undying love for the Chicago Cubs and Wrigley Field imposed upon me by my grandfather. We spent countless summers together pressed against strangers in the bleachers, eating peanuts and drinking lemon shake-ups. The sun burning down on us so intensely it actually blistered my shoulders once.
I shake my head to clear my thoughts. I press my feet firmly into the ground and my quads begin to burn as they always do around mile four. When I left home, this is what I envisioned and my dream had focused into a reality. And although successful, it’s difficult to be truly happy with where I ended up. The irony isn’t lost on me. I’m following a path closely related to my mother and it scares the shit out of me. I’m not surprised. Built from the same DNA, alike in so many ways, too many to outrun. I knew it would find me, like a long-lost puppy. My youthful idealism out the window, shriveled like a dead flower. I settled, sold myself short, all in the name of money. Yet money means freedom and freedom means work and work is what I do.
The sky is beginning to brighten up and welcome the day by fading from a deep blue to a pink as the sun makes an appearance. I can’t help but take it in and enjoy the loss of the night. My feet hit the sand hard, almost knocking me down, but I steady myself and adjust to the change in surface. I scan the vast ocean, taking in the early morning surfers but looking for one in particular. Then I spot him and as always, a smile spreads across my face. Bennett Torres.
I met Ben a few weeks after I moved into my Manhattan Beach condo six years ago. On my morning run, his adorable Boxer, Roxy, followed me for two miles. I ignored the dog under the pretense that this was this slick surfer dickhead’s way to pick up women on the beach. Yet, I heard the panic in his voice as he called for his dog. Glancing over my shoulder, I could see him running the length of the beach the opposite direction we were heading, calling her name and whistling as his voice became more and more riddled with fear and anxiety. I stopped my run, I turned to the dog, I said her name, and she did that adorable head tilt that all dogs do and I caved.
I turned and headed back in the direction of Roxy’s owner with Roxy trailing behind in such close proximity to my feet that I thought I might kick her. When we finally reached him, his dark brown eyes were wide with fear and he dropped to his knees in front of Roxy, engulfing her face in his hands. He rubbed his fingers vigorously over her ears, speaking to her as if she were a small, errant child.
“Roxy, you bad girl! Don’t you ever run away again. I was so worried!” All along, Roxy was tilting her head in different directions as the inflection in his voice changed. Everything about this was endearing: this man on his knees, the way he spoke to the dog, the kindness and love he bequeathed upon her, and his genuine concern for her safety. My words pulled him from his reverie. They left my mouth before my brain could stop them.