Last winter, even during temperatures in the 'teens, I busted my ass to get down to the running/biking path that abuts Lake Michigan to prepare for a 10K run in April. It was partly for the exercise, partly for the bragging rights--though I draw the line at temps in the single or negative digits--but also because the Lake Michigan path is the crossroads where freaks, geeks, old, young, fat, thin, bearded, shaved, fast, slow, and everyone in between gets their run on.
In fact, the whole shoreline is a guaranteed cultural experience. I have seen young lovers salsa dancing in their bathing suits, a motorcyclist with an enormous tattoo of Satan on his muscled back gently sniffing a dandelion, elderly Russian women sunbathing in their bras, children of all colors screaming in all languages, including the universal "gaaaah why are you exposing me to nature?" language, and picnics with several generations of stoners getting their buzz on.
The running path itself was no less diverse, though it had less pot smoking. However, there was the same amount of nudity and screaming, sometimes combined in the same jogger. My favorite was an 80 something grandpa who favored a get up I will charitably call a "running diaper" who was all sinew and bone, not an ounce of fat on his body. This guy would ALWAYS be there (though sans diaper in the winter time) and whenever he got inspired he would ululate at the top of his lungs. Eventually, however, he'd be lapped by a fat woman who'd been plugging away from Belmont Harbor to Navy Pier, without any need for stopping or screaming. She's probably STILL running all the way down to New Orleans today.
In other words, I felt positively mainstream and boring running there.
Back in L.A., I've taken to running around the track at Drake Stadium, which is actually a far more diverse crowd than the neighborhoods of West L.A. When I used to jog through Cheviot Hills, I never encountered anyone other than a bleached-blonde grandma with an enormous, perfectly stationery rack, a rack so hard and immobile that the runner would have to physically gyrate her hips around the weight of her chest. This, the full on makeup, and the bulbous space age headphones with antennae sprouting out of them make me think of her fondly as "the robot." She would never overtly acknowledge me, but I like to think that she wonders how I am doing sometimes, as I wonder about her.
Yeah, I know. Probably not.
In any case, Drake Stadium is home to hungover teen runners of various speeds and states of undress, so it is almost like coming home to Lake Michigan. Unlike the neighborhood joggers, everyone is clearly there to run rather than been seen running, and most of them are in incredible shape. Every once in a while I have the satisfaction of lapping a scornful pair of sorority sisters, but usually I am the old lady (man?) in the tattered sweatpants that people nod kindly at.
Today, as I was heaving and sobbing through my 8th lap around the track (that's nearly the 2 mile mark for those keeping score at home) a beautifully sculpted Adonis whose running shorts clung lovingly to his granite buttocks gave me a thumbs up and said, "Way to go, mama!" These words of praise and the brief moment of runners' solidarity gave me the strength to finish the lap and go one more.
Did he call me "mama" because I had obviously whelped twins? Because I was old enough to be his? Or was he (I just now thought of this) being sarcastic? I do not know. But I'm going to focus on the "way to go" and try not to wonder what else he might have been observing other than a plump 40 something hauling her jiggly ass across the finish line. Adonis would have rocked the hell out of a running diaper, but as it is he'll have to stand in for the weirdos of Lake Michigan in standard work out gear.
Way to go, Los Angeles.
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