called the San Luis Ray River Trail. It runs parallel to a minor highway that connects to the 101 about 2.5 miles away. Having not put any miles on my feet in quite some time, I thought I’d break it in. I would’ve run all the way to the coast, but with my recent move across the country and other recent events that rendered me pretty much inert for more than a month, I figured I’d be nice to my already-too-frail-and-weak body and save the 5 mile loop for later. Three miles sounded good.

I was reluctant to wear both ear buds as I coasted along the side street on my way to the trail. I remembered someone telling me they’d spotted a mountain lion here before. Not sure how having one ear free would’ve helped me if I were to get ravaged by such a beast, but it made me feel better to consider it. Throwing caution to the wind, I turned onto the trail, both ear buds firmly stuck in place. Ooh, I’m such a rebel.

For me, running has always been good meditation. Years back I used to practice sitting meditation regularly and really enjoyed it, but something about my body, my mind, or my personality causes me to reach that “nothingness” moment more comfortably when I’m doing something repetitive, like drumming or running. I read once about marathoners who run sans watches (which is a huge deal, apparently). They were referred to as “Zen runners,” I guess because they are there in the moment with their bodies.  No watches to keep checking.  No headphones to escape into (a lot of races won’t let you wear headphones anyway).  Wish I could go 26 miles like that. But for now, I’ll stick to my 5Ks. With headphones.

I thought about a lot of things as the Pacific sun retired smoothly behind the horizon in front of me. My move, the events leading up to it, the events that would hopefully lead from it; my personality, who I am as a person, and how I respond under stress; whether my left knee would stop hurting, what I was going to eat for dinner, how quickly the temperature was dropping and how I should’ve worn a long sleeve shirt (more protection against the cold – and mountain lions).

I thought about how much respect I have for the amount of pain people can tolerate.  It’s been a while since I’ve laced up my bright yellow Zoot’s and hit the pavement, and my lungs, clear down my back, were screaming at me for the stupid, stupid mistake I’d made putting my Macbook down and getting off the couch to make some sort of attempt at physical fitness.  But there I was, still masochistically trotting along.  My mind drifted to some recent emotional suffering I, like an idiot, made myself go through.  The exhaustion, strangled appetite, tortured sleep, frayed nerves, intermittent mental panic, anomie.  Before I knew it, my unpleasant memories had distracted my screaming guts long enough to get me to the turnaround.  And so far, no mountain lion.  Bonus.

On the way back, on my left was a rock quarry (I think?) set back into the hills.  Not the most attractive site to look at while your lungs feel like they’re tearing at their alveoli (did I mention I was only going 3 miles? Wtf?), but torn alveoli aside, I could still smell the ocean behind me.  It’s all in the silver lining. A few bikers passed me.  One serious looking Lance wannabe decked out in multi-colored logo-laden tights and helmet (I know, I know. It all has a purpose, but I’ll never get over the schizophrenic billboard look), and a couple casual folks on cruisers, one with a small trailer/caddy-thingie on the back stacked with miscellaneous items.  I tried to imagine where he was going, but couldn’t come up with anything interesting so I dropped the thought.

Once I reached the entrance to the trail, I walked the rest of the distance to the house.  My legs are thanking me for it right now.  We happen to live in this neighborhood, nestled back off said minor highway, where every house has that cheap suburban California look.  Spanish tile, light to dark brown stucco exterior, large rectangular windows.  They look solid on the outside, and I must say there’s something attractive about the architecture, but you just know beneath the facade they’re nothing more than foam stuck between cheap wood and coated in plaster.  But, for some reason, I’m more willing to accept that here than in, say, Vegas, where I spent a few days last week for Thanksgiving.  In Vegas, everywhere I went was like that.  Large, cheap, and fake.  At least here I can go down the street and see buildings that have existed for more than a few years and will continue to exist for many more.  And they have character.  My recent emotional state has me craving authenticity and Vegas left me feeling little more than vapid. </rant on vegas>

Running seems authentic to me. It’s not running, but my brother once told me about the joy he got from taking a long ride through the mountains and stopping to look around and realize that he got to where he was on just his two legs.  There’s got to be some satisfaction in that.  I suppose I had a similar moment of reflection while trekking Salkantay mountain in southern Peru.  After 2 days of hiking I remember thinking, “Holy shit.  If I broke my leg out here they’d have to strap me to the back of a donkey and slap its ass in the direction of Cuzco to get me out of here.”  Sorta the same, right?

I’m looking for a way to tie this whole post up… you know, bring the climax to a resolution, or whatever (like there was any climax to begin with).  And. I. Fail.

But I do have some good tuneage to share. Enjoy.