New start

Every evening I take a run after work. We live nearby the Hollywood hills and like many people in Hollywood I often run up and down Runyon Canyon. As I ran up Fuller my calves started to burn a bit, the incline is steep and the concrete is uneven. Usually I’m sweating a bit before I even enter the park, but it was hot today so I felt droplets of sweat begin to bead on my temples and by the time I reached the small gate into the park by an unsupervised table filled with granola bars and bananas I was really sweating. It was getting darker earlier, so it was nearing dusk as I started up the canyon, trying to not breathe in too deeply the smog, or occasional smell of dog shit. I took the left path which is initially steeper, but would help ensure that I would reach the top before it was completely dark. I felt the pleasant sensation of my shoes sliding along the dusty dirt and rock path and began to forget about why it was important that I take this run.
The trails were not empty but much less full than on a Sunday morning, when a mish-mash of aspiring, would-be, and successful actors who looked like they could have successful fitness model careers took shirtless runs up and down the trails, accompanied by actresses, producers, and people hoping to sight celebrities, oh and not to forget the dogs. This small idyllic, in comparison to the swath of unplanned city, patch of nature was home to more than fifty dogs on weekends who for a brief hour or two had their chances to feel like unfettered animals. When my wife and I were younger, we would go dog watching on the weekends. Sundays we would wake up lazily, make love, and after a quick breakfast we would walk up this dusty, relatively natural canyon and look at all of the different dogs and their owners. At the time we wanted a dog and we would have little arguments over which dog we saw would have been perfect for us. I was partial to Australian Shepherds at the time; she wanted something small, a Pomeranian.
Fortunately, the hill is steep and there are pebbles and rocks scattered in some areas, so I still have to pay attention to my footing, otherwise after having been up and down this path over a hundred times I would simply be on autopilot and not enjoy this brief respite from everyday life. My calves had stopped hurting and I was keeping good time as I rounded one of the bends that overlooks the ravine below. The path is very wide and I can pass the people walking their dogs easily. There are two obvious draws to the Canyon, its own benefits, the dull green foliage that leads me to feel I’m not in the middle of a sprawling city, the views from the summit, the multiple paths and ridges to explore, and the convenient as well as interesting location of it, and then the people it attracts.
Of course amongst the crowds drawn to this collection of hills that overlooks some of the richest and nicest homes in Hollywood are families, dog walkers, the aforementioned aspiring actors, agents talking deals, and tourists, but what has been fascinating to me is almost everyone is beautiful. I haven’t reached some sort of blissful runner’s high that has deluded me into thinking this; that usually happens on the way down. Some of the most attractive men and women in Hollywood can be found putting themselves on display every weekend here, while tourists gaze upon their wet finely honed bodies and think to themselves “Ah, that’s what a Californian looks like,” these statuesque bodies that are the product of countless hours of dedication and strange California dieting techniques. I had always wanted to take a series of photographs of this attractive milieu, but I never will. I am not a photographer, and I have a busy life here.
As I get closer to the top I start to slow down a bit, I don’t want to come to a complete stop suddenly when I take my last look at this city that has been my home for the last twelve years. At the top of this popular path is a bench that overlooks Hollywood, and on a particularly clear day past Santa Monica to the Pacific Ocean. Those sorts of days only come right after there is rain which clears the air of the haze, the lingering, unvanquished remains of smog. Countless couples sit on this bench and find where they live, or shop while quietly admiring the vast expanse of single to two story buildings that make up the majority of Los Angeles. To the left of that bench there are multimillion dollar homes with bright blue, well-lit swimming pools and winding roads that connect steep driveways to the rest of what we accept as civilization. I stared down at those massive opulent homes and looked at the house Lauren and I had finally agreed on years ago, during those naïve, heady puppy shopping days, as being our dream house. It was far too large for our needs, a three story Spanish inspired home that my minimal architectural vocabulary cannot do justice to. It was the sort of home you imagined Zorro would retire to, not that either I or my wife were particularly Zorro-like, but it was regal, gorgeous, and a dream home that we reached compromise on. I struggled to fight back tears. This was another dream of ours that would never come to fruition. It wasn’t the money, I suppose over time I could someday afford that house, but it was my failure as a husband, a secret failure that would only become clear to her tomorrow.
I loved Lauren, her bright blue eyes, long legs, her knack for a bon mot, and her way of saying goodbye that was a breathless sigh. She was the mother to our nine year old daughter, and tirelessly dedicated to our family. I felt sick to my stomach and pushed these thoughts of her out of my head. I squinted and tried to see the ocean, glanced at the lonely skyscrapers and began my descent. At first the path is too steep and the dirt slips out easily from my feet so I walked carefully down to the massive slabs of stone that make up a small staircase. After I walked down those steps I began to run again until I reached my car, for a couple minutes I think of nothing and feel like a running boy. I reach my car and drive home, crying in the driveway before showering for Anne and Lauren’s return from Anne’s violin lesson.