I flew into San Diego on Sunday night around 7:00 p.m. local time. I was pretty exhausted from 9 hours of travelling, and I really just wanted to see the ocean before I went to bed. I went looking for the hotel shuttle but eventually settled for a $20 Crazy Taxi blast through the downtown area before finally getting to my hotel. This accomplished two things: first, I got super motion sick as expected; second, I did get a glimpse of the whole area and what I believe to be was the ocean. Cool.
I woke up extremely early Monday, at what I believe was 5:00 a.m. local time. This is right around when I usually start getting woken up by Audrey and Ellie as she prepares to leave for work, as it was 8:00 a.m. EST. By 5:30 I was awake enough to chat with Ellie as she drove to work. I decided I probably should try to get more sleep, but by 7:00 a.m. I knew it wasn't happening. I unpacked a little bit, grabbed my Vibrams, and headed out.
I really wanted to get to the ocean. I think it might be something hardwired into me from when I was little. One of the first things we always did when we got to Cape Cod was to head to the ocean. I assume it was to just check and make sure it was still there. Thus, by natural instinct, I started my morning run to what I thought was just a couple of miles away.
By the time I got out of my hotel's little bay area, I realized how much of an endeavor I really was about to start. At around two miles, I had just gotten to Sea World, and I stopped to ask a security guard how far the ocean was. He kind of looked at me, then slightly grinned and said "Oh, just about three more miles straight up the road." Seriously? . . . By my math, this little run to the ocean was now going to be a ten-mile run, and that's if the guy estimated right.
Let me tell you, he was pretty spot on. After running parallel to the Sea World parking lots for a good forty-five minutes—and no, that is not an exaggeration—I stopped to ask myself if I really had it in me to go all the way there. The problem, you see, was I knew I could get there . . . but getting back was going to be the problem. Normally when I run, I try to make a loop, not a beeline straight away.
I decided that I really couldn't make the journey, and, defeated, I turned around. I made it all of one-tenth of a mile back to the hotel when I once again stopped and thought, "no, **** this, I am seeing the mother ****** ocean." I kept going at a slight trot, completely drained. I can honestly say I am not used to 70-degree sunny weather. The sun sapped my energy. I needed hydration and something to eat pretty badly as I was already an hour into the trip. Luckily, the local surfer neighborhood had an open Subway, so I totally ate fresh. Chugging half a bottle of water and scarfing an oatmeal cookie, I made it to the stupid ocean.
Honestly, the Pacific Ocean looks pretty much the same as the Atlantic Ocean. Pretty wide and open, and pretty blueish greenish blackish. . . . I was pretty happy to see some dolphins swimming close to shore, as well as the homeless guy sleeping on the beach. I suppose being a bum in California beats the hell out of being one in Buffalo.
My return trip was pretty uneventful, as I had conserved some water for the way back. I was completely drained, but at least I knew the route to take and approximately how far I had to go. All in all, it was around a 15-kilometer run, just under 10 miles. I have to be honest, I did walk more than I usually do, but I tried to keep up at least a trot the majority of the time.
I got back to the hotel over two hours after I had left . . . completely drained. Luckily I found some fruit juice and a muffin—the food of champions right there. After all that, I am pretty happy. It felt great to get a ridiculous run under my belt before the clock hit 10:00 a.m. I also felt like I accomplished something by seeing the stupid ocean. My dad will be proud.
stupid ******* ocean.
That’s determination. Enjoyed the post.
I hate football.