Tag Archives: socal

Rain or Shine

I remember that it was a driving rain, not the occasional sprinkle that SoCal folks like to call rain. It was the sort of rain that I normally wouldn’t run in, but I did that day simply because it was my last chance and others expected me there. What I did not know was that my regular running buddies had invited others, just for me, and it warmed my heart when ten friends showed up to run “The Strand” with me in the driving rain.

I discovered The Strand way back in 2010 when I resumed running after a twenty-plus year rest stop. Back then, I wanted to move beyond running circles on a track but needed somewhere flat, which wasn’t too easy to find around Malibu, and a friend told me about a special place where she did her marathon training. I checked it out and fell in love instantly. In the early days I ran alone, but eventually my friend, Jeff, tagged in, and before long we had a beautiful variety of folks along for the run, and I loved it. That final run in early 2019 was special to me, posing for a picture with ten great friends, all smiling and soaked to the bone, there as a sweet gift to me.

I suppose that I thought I might run it again someday. We left a daughter in California in 2019, so I knew that we would visit, and I probably thought that I would have a chance to run it again. But I could not have anticipated the curves in the road of life over the past five years, and by the time we made the surprising decision to move back in early 2023, due to back trouble, I wasn’t sure that I would even run again, much less on The Strand.

But today, I did. Six glorious miles, nearly five years later. Maybe Mother Nature is nostalgic because it almost rained me out, but the sun popped out like a giant surprise just as I took off, and I dodged the flooded parts of the path as I ran down memory lane.

To be candid, I had decided that it would be okay if I never ran again, including The Strand. Aging and injuries help readjust your expectations of life. But I felt wistful every time I drove by and kept the goal in mind, and I am glad that I had a chance to do something that was special to me—again. I know enough now to admit that I might run it hundreds more times, or never again, and either way is okay. But I guarantee you that I will appreciate each opportunity, should they arise.

As I ran, I remembered a lovely poem from a dark poet, Raymond Carver, who expressed his desire to go down to the ocean and see the sights one more time, at least. He wrote:

I hate to seem greedy—I have so much
to be thankful for already.
But I want to get up early one more morning, at least.

And go to my place with some coffee and wait.
Just wait, to see what’s going to happen.

Exactly. I hate to seem greedy, too, but my posture will also be facing forward, hoping for the chance to go to my favorite running place one more time, at least – rain or shine.

The Answer, My Friend

The stunning natural beauty of Southern California is no secret, providing compelling reasons for the ridiculous housing prices in the form of abundant sunshine, glistening beaches, mild temperatures, ocean breezes, and rugged mountains all together in one spectacular package. Likewise, the opposing natural forces are equally well known, i.e., terrifying earthquakes, dangerous mudslides, and raging wildfires, but there is one negative that comes to mind less readily if you do not live here: Santa Ana winds.

If the popular SoCal picture is driving down PCH with the top down, a gentle breeze caressing your face, then the Santa Ana wind experience is more like having your face used for a punching bag by someone wearing clothes irons instead of boxing gloves. Seriously, imagine howling, constant, hot, dry winds, with frequent hurricane-force gusts, and you’ll get the picture.

The Santa Anas heighten wildfire fears for good reason, and they are even thought to affect the mood of the entire region. In 1938, Raymond Chandler wrote the following passage in his novel, “Red Wind:” “There was a desert wind blowing that night. It was one of those hot dry Santa Anas that come down through the mountain passes and curl your hair and make your nerves jump and your skin itch. On nights like that every booze party ends in a fight. Meek little wives feel the edge of the carving and study their husbands’ necks. Anything can happen.”

The Santa Anas arrived last night and are howling as I write this afternoon.

We have been given the ridiculous opportunity to live in a tiny apartment directly on the Pacific Ocean for the past few months until we move on to campus, and it has been an awesome privilege to lie in bed at night and listen to the waves. It is truly amazing. Last night, however, we listened to the winds howl instead, and this morning I was out in the street surveying damage and retrieving the trash cans. With the sunrise, I noticed that the waves kept coming, but the powerful winds took a layer of ocean spray each time and lifted it to the sky like a LeBron James powder toss (see picture above, although it doesn’t do it justice).

Just another day in paradise.

As today unfolds, something I had forgotten about this crazy phenomenon returns to mind, and that is how beautiful it is afterward. The absurd winds seem to cleanse the sky of any hint of haze, and it looks like someone drew the horizon with a Sharpie. The winds come and go, and in the aftermath, it is more beautiful than ever.

I remember many a Bible lesson about the Greek word translated “Spirit” (that really means, “Wind”), and how you cannot see the wind as it blows, but you can surely feel it and notice its effect on things. That seems relevant to life in general as I look out my window this afternoon. The winds of life surely come and go, sometimes gentle and refreshing, sometimes harsh and destructive, but regardless, when they die down, something remains. Whether those winds cleanse us or wreck us, as surely as the Santa Anas visit Los Angeles, they surely clear out the haze and produce some clarity.

If you really want to know what is there down in the depths of your soul, like I often do, maybe Dylan nailed it when he said that the answer is blowing in the wind.

Hooray for (Mt.) Hollywood

I am pleased to report that we hiked the Mt. Hollywood Trail this morning (not to be confused with Mt. Lee of the famed HOLLYWOOD sign). To do so, we left Malibu just before sunrise and arrived in the Griffith Observatory parking lot before 8am, well before you have to pay to park there but nowhere nearly before significant numbers of folks arrive to enjoy the spectacular hike, e.g., as we approached the trailhead, a large high school cross country team was stretching in preparation for some serious hill work.

From one perspective it turned out to be an easy hike—wide trails, easy to follow, and just 1.2 miles to the summit—but the 550 feet of constant elevation is anything but simple. Case in point: The many runner passersby did not appear to be whistling show tunes. And although I refuse to complain about SoCal weather, while the weather app said it was 67 degrees, most of the trail was exposed to the sun and it was the hottest 67 degrees imaginable, maybe with our slowly approaching the sun and all.

There were fun, quirky parts of the hike, like the Berlin Forest, complete with a road sign sharing that it is 5,795 miles to Berlin, Germany, one of L.A.’s sister cities, and a rest stop sponsored by Tiffany & Company, but of course, where one can sit and enjoy a nice view of the HOLLYWOOD sign. But the panoramic views along the way were the real stars of the show: looking back down on the Observatory and Park, looking out at Downtown Los Angeles, and on a clear day like today, looking all the way to Catalina Island and the vast Pacific Ocean.

For our purposes, it was simply another nice day to be together, out in nature, seeing something special, and not to be overlooked, enjoying the beautiful human diversity found in this City of Angels. It was a good morning from start to finish.

We stopped at one point on the trail in an area ominously named Dante’s View, partly to see what was there, but mostly to stop going uphill for a minute, and in that brief moment yet another small pack of the young cross country team passed us by, and when they did I overheard one young leader encouraging his teammates by saying, “This is going to make us better.”

Well said, my young friend. Well said. That’s why Jody and I got up early today and drove across Los Angeles—to be better, both individually and together.

This morning, thanks to a young runner that I didn’t even look up to see, I was reminded that courageously pushing ourselves up the hills of life surely isn’t easy, but it makes us better, and the views from the top are absolutely worth the struggle.

Rising From the Ashes (Waters, Rubble, Ice, or Whatever)

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Mother Nature cleared her throat this week and shut down several roads leading to our life here in sunny (once again) Malibu.  My wife and I apparently collect natural disasters, starting with Arkansas tornadoes and ice storms, continuing with Gulf Coast floods and hurricanes, and now that we’ve hit the jackpot, California drought, earthquakes, wildfires, and mudslides.  We just need a blizzard, tsunami, and volcano to complete the set.  Stockpiling seashells sounds significantly safer (sweet sentence!), but since an ice storm played a major role in the early days of our relationship, I guess the disaster collection is appropriate.

Jody and I met on New Year’s Day 1994 at a high school basketball tournament in Jonesboro, Arkansas.  I was there as a high school basketball coach, and she was there, according to her own rendition, in part to meet me.  You can picture me there at a guardrail in the arena, standing by myself, watching basketball, unsuspecting, when this beautiful young woman innocently (ha!) walks up to introduce herself.  I never knew what hit me that night, but it turned out to be love.

I didn’t have much of a chance according to the Vegas oddsmakers given my dating record yet somehow didn’t mess things up right away.  We talked through several basketball games that night, followed by a trip to Steak ‘n Shake since we weren’t particularly ready to stop the conversation.  We subsequently went on a date or two in January and could sense that something special was in the works.  And then came the infamous ice storm of 1994, a disaster that The Weather Channel ranked as #2 in their list of the “Nation’s Worst Ice Storms.”

Best.  Disaster.  Ever.

Classes at my school were canceled for what seemed like forever.  Jody’s work was not canceled, but since she lived about a forty-five minute drive away on super treacherous roads, she stayed close by at a friend’s apartment throughout the ice storm.  Over the course of that week or two we had the equivalent of a year or so of dating.  At least that’s what we tell ourselves since we were engaged a month later and married by May.

Jody and I have seen a natural disaster or two along the way, and living in California we can count on encountering more.  But we’ve also seen some pretty amazing things emerge “naturally” from both natural and unnatural disasters, and the past twenty-three years of my life is the best evidence of all.

A Little Moderation

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The Great Southern California Drought seems awfully wet nowadays.  I read that it will take several wet years to rescue SoCal from its drought condition, but you have to give it to January 2017 for trying to do it all at once.  Last Friday’s rains produced multiple mudslides that effectively turned Malibu into a peninsula in advance of the heavy rains that hit on Sunday.  If the Pepperdine deer and coyotes start lining up in pairs, you will find me consulting Waze for the nearest Noah.

So it appears that the prayers for rain produced so much of it that the world around here is literally falling apart.  Figures.  Life’s strong suit does not appear to be producing a happy medium.

While not below the poverty line, I grew up relatively poor.  In the early 1980s, my dad was laid off from his longtime work as a butcher in a meatpacking plant and took a part-time job at a neighborhood grocery store.  I knew the store well, having built my baseball and football card collection from its candy counter thirty cents and one pack at a time.  When my loving father found out that I liked a particular brand of candy, he would bring home so much of it in brown paper bags that I couldn’t stand to look at it anymore.  You don’t get upset with a dad who loves you that much.  But you do start secretly feeding Laffy Taffy to stray animals.

Moderation is as rare as happiness is elusive, and there just may be a connection between the two.  And if the current state of American politics is instructive, moderation is less popular than ever.  Extreme is in, and moderation is out.

Imagine changing the names of television shows and events from extreme to moderate:

  • Moderate Home Makeover (ABC)
  • Moderate RVs (Travel Channel)
  • Moderate Weight Loss (ABC)
  • Moderate Couponing (TLC)
  • Moderate Homes (HGTV)
  • Moderate Cuisine (The Food Network)
  • The Moderation Games (ESPN)

Not really ratings grabbers.

But the ancient philosophers may have been on to something when they advised moderation. “Never go to excess, but let moderation be your guide.” (Cicero)  “If one oversteps the bounds of moderation, the greatest pleasures cease to please.” (Epicetus)  “If you have found honey, eat only enough for you, lest you have your fill of it and vomit it.” (Proverbs 25:16, ESV; see also Laffy Taffy, above.)

As this blessed rain falls and the hills collapse, I guess I’m just thinking that the ancient virtue, Temperance, deserves a second look.

Nameless Friends

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For the past six years, “The Strand” has been my Saturday morning running home. It is a gorgeous location, beginning at Will Rogers State Beach on the corner of Pacific Coast Highway and Temescal Canyon and extending through Santa Monica, Venice, and Marina del Rey, and if you are crazy enough, continues on through Manhattan Beach and Redondo Beach to its terminus in Torrance—a grand total of twenty miles. It is a spectacular route with its beautiful sunrises, open sand, crashing ocean waves, occasional dolphin sightings, and eclectic collection of locals and tourists out walking, jogging, cycling, and roller blading all day every day. I love it.

But the best thing about it to me is the crew that assembles there. After running solo for a year or two, my friend, Jeff, joined in once he relocated from Alabama to California. That made a good thing even better. With time, we enlarged our little running group to include friends, colleagues, and students, and I lost track of who all has joined in on our early morning adventures.

There are others, too—friends without names—that I know next to nothing about but immediately recognize and greet there on Saturday mornings. These nameless friends reflect the beautiful diversity of Southern California, and I feel a strange connection with each and every one despite such limited interaction. My favorite is a gentleman who rides his bike wearing earbuds and wraparound shades and after months of my unnoticed waving one day looked up and became one of my best buddies. He playfully criticizes me when I have been absent and notices when our little running group has grown or disappeared and points these things out in the two seconds we share in passing. Two seconds on intermittent Saturdays, and I doubt I will never know his name or his story, but he is my friend.

I’m really not sure why this seems special to me, but it does. It may be some deep desire to live in harmony with all of humanity for no other reason than we happen to share this planet. A desire to be connected to everyone in this world, named or not.

Whatever. I’ll be back at The Strand to see all of my friends soon and will be happy to see them.