Self-Indulgence
Sometimes, I write about things other than children. A friend who by no stretch of the imagination is not a runner - the basketball playing type- has decided to run a marathon. He asked for some advice. All I could think of when he did was my own running philosophy: find that place that makes running feel secondary. This is what it turned in to...
This morning, I woke up at 6:45. I was tired as evident by the repeated buzzing of my alarm. Once I was up, stretched out like a lioness awakening from a nap, and put on the typical San Francisco at 7 a.m. running garb, I was ready.
I ran down the three flights of stairs, opened the door and the gate, and then breathed in the fresh morning air. Despite my attempt to stretch out every muscle, pop every joint, and self-adjust every vertebrate of my spine, I was still a little creaky. If India Arie’s sweet voice had not been singing through my IPOD, I was certain my knees would have sounded like the Tin Man’s pre-WD 40 steps. Two minutes into the run, everything changed.
When I reached the crest of Potrero Hill, I saw what I see every morning I decide to wake up early to get in my run: the San Francisco skyline with all of the perfectly parallel streets leading to it and following behind it to the bay. I turned right, and the man-made city seemed much less enchanting.
As I made my way down 18th Street, I was nearly blinded by the beams of sunlight bouncing off of the water, up over the hills and into my eyes. For many reasons, I am lucky this was not the case. The first is obvious. The second, not so much. As my eyes broke through the beams of light, in the distance, I saw what I see every morning I decide to wake up early to get in my run: the breadth of the bay, the big ships anchored on the shore of the East Bay, and the rolling hills – all still covered with a light layer of fog. It is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen a mere 20 minutes after slumber.
As India’s voice still sang, I suddenly came to a stop.
The one thing you should know about running is San Francisco is that sometimes, stops are inevitable.
As I waited for the flashing “Walk” sign to appear, I noticed the people around me. Unfortunately for them, I was singing aloud. Even more unfortunately, they were on their way to work and could not enjoy the beautiful morning run.
FINALLY the flashing light signaled that I could escape the trap of rest and continue. As swiftly as a gazelle in the African savannah, I floated across the street. The cars all came to a halt, and just like the folks waiting for the bus, I knew the drivers, too, were jealous. Two-one-two-one-two-two-two-two-two-two-two-one. The beat of the next song and my pace felt Morse-code like. I barely noticed, though because about three-quarters of a mile away, I saw what I see every morning I decide to wake up early to get in my run: AT&T Park, home of the San Francisco Giants.
Running next to the bay, now, I smelled the fresh, fishy water. I do not like the smell of fish, but today as the laser beams bounced from the fire ball in the sky onto my forehead and sweat began to drip from my forehead and through the long-sleeved shirt I decided to wear on this warmer-than-usual morning, the fresh, fishy air was refreshing.
As the reminder of Freeze Pops on a hot day filled my mind, I looked up. The bleachers in the stadium seemed so close. Close enough that if were a Friday night, I was certain that I would be able to see the faces of the fans. It was not Friday, but I was still running.
To the stadium, around the perimeter, around the café behind it, to the fishing pier.
India’s voice was suddenly drowned out. The masts of the boats clang together sounding almost as obnoxious as a cowbell. This morning, though, it was not obnoxious. Just like every morning I decide to wake up early to get in my run, it sounded beautiful.
The next few miles always blur, and today was not any different. The Embarcadero runs along the bay, and as always, others were getting their morning high, too. All were running. All were smiling. All were watching the few sail boats already on the water, the tourists up before many residents, the Golden Gate bridge in the distance, the sun slowly continuing to rise into the sky.
Then, it was over.
But not really over. As I made my way up Mission Street and away from the water, I dodged people, dogs, shopping carts, cars, and, of course, the occasional large piece of trash. I was interrupted numerous times by the solid red hand. I was surrounded no longer by nature and sunlight and fresh, fishy air but by what I see for the second four miles every time I decide to wake up early to get in my run: tall, larger-than-life buildings, cafes bustling with people, more Starbucks than in all of the city of St. Louis, briefcases, Wells Fargo ATMs, taxis, and even more trash. I took respite this morning and ran through Yerba Buena Garden, something I often do if I have enough time.
I did not stop and stretch, nor do I ever. I jog in place. I read Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.’s, famous speech, and if my timing is perfect, the message resounds as I hear the surprise of the waterfall turn on behind me. Recharged by the power of the words and the power of the natural, adrenaline high, I ran on.
Past more people, more cafes, more cars, more peeks of sunlight, I made it back to the hill.
Only this time, it’s all up. Four hills of varying length and grade.
Sprint.
Stop.
Breathe.
Sprint.
Stop.
Breathe.
Sprint.
Stop.
Breathe.
Sprint.
Stop.
Breathe.
Home.
It did not feel like eight miles. It did not even feel like one.
Find that place where running feels secondary.
This morning, I woke up at 6:45. I was tired as evident by the repeated buzzing of my alarm. Once I was up, stretched out like a lioness awakening from a nap, and put on the typical San Francisco at 7 a.m. running garb, I was ready.
I ran down the three flights of stairs, opened the door and the gate, and then breathed in the fresh morning air. Despite my attempt to stretch out every muscle, pop every joint, and self-adjust every vertebrate of my spine, I was still a little creaky. If India Arie’s sweet voice had not been singing through my IPOD, I was certain my knees would have sounded like the Tin Man’s pre-WD 40 steps. Two minutes into the run, everything changed.
When I reached the crest of Potrero Hill, I saw what I see every morning I decide to wake up early to get in my run: the San Francisco skyline with all of the perfectly parallel streets leading to it and following behind it to the bay. I turned right, and the man-made city seemed much less enchanting.
As I made my way down 18th Street, I was nearly blinded by the beams of sunlight bouncing off of the water, up over the hills and into my eyes. For many reasons, I am lucky this was not the case. The first is obvious. The second, not so much. As my eyes broke through the beams of light, in the distance, I saw what I see every morning I decide to wake up early to get in my run: the breadth of the bay, the big ships anchored on the shore of the East Bay, and the rolling hills – all still covered with a light layer of fog. It is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen a mere 20 minutes after slumber.
As India’s voice still sang, I suddenly came to a stop.
The one thing you should know about running is San Francisco is that sometimes, stops are inevitable.
As I waited for the flashing “Walk” sign to appear, I noticed the people around me. Unfortunately for them, I was singing aloud. Even more unfortunately, they were on their way to work and could not enjoy the beautiful morning run.
FINALLY the flashing light signaled that I could escape the trap of rest and continue. As swiftly as a gazelle in the African savannah, I floated across the street. The cars all came to a halt, and just like the folks waiting for the bus, I knew the drivers, too, were jealous. Two-one-two-one-two-two-two-two-two-two-two-one. The beat of the next song and my pace felt Morse-code like. I barely noticed, though because about three-quarters of a mile away, I saw what I see every morning I decide to wake up early to get in my run: AT&T Park, home of the San Francisco Giants.
Running next to the bay, now, I smelled the fresh, fishy water. I do not like the smell of fish, but today as the laser beams bounced from the fire ball in the sky onto my forehead and sweat began to drip from my forehead and through the long-sleeved shirt I decided to wear on this warmer-than-usual morning, the fresh, fishy air was refreshing.
As the reminder of Freeze Pops on a hot day filled my mind, I looked up. The bleachers in the stadium seemed so close. Close enough that if were a Friday night, I was certain that I would be able to see the faces of the fans. It was not Friday, but I was still running.
To the stadium, around the perimeter, around the café behind it, to the fishing pier.
India’s voice was suddenly drowned out. The masts of the boats clang together sounding almost as obnoxious as a cowbell. This morning, though, it was not obnoxious. Just like every morning I decide to wake up early to get in my run, it sounded beautiful.
The next few miles always blur, and today was not any different. The Embarcadero runs along the bay, and as always, others were getting their morning high, too. All were running. All were smiling. All were watching the few sail boats already on the water, the tourists up before many residents, the Golden Gate bridge in the distance, the sun slowly continuing to rise into the sky.
Then, it was over.
But not really over. As I made my way up Mission Street and away from the water, I dodged people, dogs, shopping carts, cars, and, of course, the occasional large piece of trash. I was interrupted numerous times by the solid red hand. I was surrounded no longer by nature and sunlight and fresh, fishy air but by what I see for the second four miles every time I decide to wake up early to get in my run: tall, larger-than-life buildings, cafes bustling with people, more Starbucks than in all of the city of St. Louis, briefcases, Wells Fargo ATMs, taxis, and even more trash. I took respite this morning and ran through Yerba Buena Garden, something I often do if I have enough time.
I did not stop and stretch, nor do I ever. I jog in place. I read Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.’s, famous speech, and if my timing is perfect, the message resounds as I hear the surprise of the waterfall turn on behind me. Recharged by the power of the words and the power of the natural, adrenaline high, I ran on.
Past more people, more cafes, more cars, more peeks of sunlight, I made it back to the hill.
Only this time, it’s all up. Four hills of varying length and grade.
Sprint.
Stop.
Breathe.
Sprint.
Stop.
Breathe.
Sprint.
Stop.
Breathe.
Sprint.
Stop.
Breathe.
Home.
It did not feel like eight miles. It did not even feel like one.
Find that place where running feels secondary.
posted by Leslie Garner at 1:11 PM
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