THIS JUST HAPPENED...(LAST NIGHT)
Been spending a lot of time at the computer lately, so my daily runs have been pushed to the evening. I rock the treadmill when there's a game on, but I decided to take a nice little evening jog tonight.
What to wear, what to wear. Well, where am I going? The way my mind thinks, the length and tightness of my shorts depends on what LA neighborhood I'm running through. Probably running east, so let's go with some longer shorts. No need to attract attention by wearing shorts that expose my entire femur and coccyx.
As I'm walking out, I realize the shorts would be the least of my problems - I have on a bright red mock neck top and a blue and silver mesh reflective vest. I'm wearing neon yellow shoes and gloves. I'm about 2 degrees from being in Lady Gaga's next video. Glad there was all that concern about the shorts.
I head south on La Brea and east on Wilshire - planning to take it down to Rossmore and run through Hancock Park. Within the first half mile, I'm almost hit by a car three times. THREE TIMES. Stop signs run through, traffic lights ignored. Odd that something like that would happen in an area called Koreatown (my mother is an Asian driver, God bless her, so we can talk about these things openly).
So I decide to get outta there and run north. I'll go up La Brea to Hollywood and Highland. Great idea - La Brea is a big, well-lit street and running down Hollywood Blvd always feels nice.
Mmmm, Pink's up ahead. Smells like bacon. One whiff has more potency than a 5-Hour Energy. Delightful. As I cross Melrose, I can't help but question who has it figured out, me or the dude at the end of the line waiting for a chili dog at 10:15PM.
I keep running north. I pass by the big shopping center at Santa Monica Blvd, there's music playing in the courtyard. It feels like the home stretch to the turnaround.
When I get to Fountain Ave, however, I see something odd - there's a lady walking down the block towards me. She has on a dress, fur coat, and is rolling a large suitcase behind her. I start to wonder why she's rolling a suitcase down the street...did she take a cab from the airport and run out of cab fare? Maybe she's selling bootleg DVDs? Maybe she's headed to a friend's house around the corner for a sleepover? But as I get closer to her, I realize that she may or may not be a man and he may or may not be a prostitute. Head down, I pick up my pace. Not fast enough, as the suitcased-one says something to me that I feel I need to shower off.
A little shaken, I jump out of my shoes at Delongpre when a dude asks me for change. he laughs when I jump, but all I can think is that this guy doesn't filter his selection of who he asks for change. He doesn't really consider whether or not a certain individual is carrying some extra coins. I mean, do I look like I'm running because I need to get to a Coinstar as soon as possible?
As I run past Sunset and as I hit Hollywood Blvd, I get caught in a smoke cloud from one of the club's patios. Just when I was starting to enjoy the brisk, foggy LA night, a big cigarette blast to the face. It's cool - makes me feel like I went out tonight.
I take a right on Hollywood and head down the walk of fame. My favorite stretch to run in the city. There's no traffic, so I can run in the street and it's awesome. As I cross Orange, something...the AFI Fest...is happening at the Chinese Theatre. Sidewalks are closed, all good, sidewalks do me no good here.
There's a guy working valet/security who sees me running down the block. He's in charge of some coned-off area in front of the theatre...the sidewalk is closed but the street is not...but his lane is apparently very private and cannot be approached. I move to the center lane, but he seems intent on not letting me pass. I'm less than 10 feet away and he reaches out to grab me. He says, "what do you think you're doing?!?"
In a split second, my mind tells me to knock this dude over. Drop him and keep running. No one can stop me. I'm strong and fast and doing nothing wrong. He's the one in the wrong, he should pay for it. Time to man up.
(beat)
Instead, I say "I'm run-nin-ng!!" and side step him.
I type "run-nin-ng" because I said the word in a voice that was not my own. It was the voice of a twelve year old girl. A voice that adds syllables to words. The voice of a whiny coward dressed in a bunch of brightly colored layers and sweating through all of them.
Luckily, I said "I'm run-nin-ng!" loud enough for some of the hundreds of people waiting in line for the theatre to hear. There was a split second of silence at Hollywood and Highland, and in that split second, strangers tried to kill a part of my soul.
But they could not. I proudly trotted down the block and headed back the way I came, to visit all my friends from the first 3 miles.
Run-nin-ng. Say it. Embarrassing, isn't it?
I bump into several dudes in front of the Roosevelt - they were weave-walking and I had a moment thinking I was like Adrian Peterson and they were my o-line - all I need to do is hit the gap and I'm through. But those dudes couldn't hold their blocks and we collided. Big dudes with lots of hair product but not a lot of hair. Again, time to pick up the pace.
Pretty smooth sailing back down La Brea. Pink's was even busier and even baconier. I take a right on 3rd street and am in the home stretch...I go into a stride for the last half mile.
"YO HOMEY REAL GOOD PACE BRO! HAHAHHA"
My heartrate goes from 170 to 0 in less than a second. These 4 dudes in all black everything on all black beachcruisers with a boombox scare the bejesus outta me. I need to read more Men's Journal or something - three times I'm tested and three times I show the cojones of a child afraid to ride the ferris wheel.
But I make it home safe and sound. All in all, a pretty eventful Tuesday night was had in about 45 minutes. Gotta hit the streets, streets is watchin....
**
(first posted at
scottycrowe.com).
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