Run for the Hills

I have never, in my life, been a runner.

Ever.

But lately, I've found myself wanting to run, springing forward, arms swinging, unprovoked, just to move ahead, more quickly.

I had somewhat of a running epiphany a little over a year ago in Joshua Tree when I was late to my Keys Ranch tour, and my car was stuck behind a locked gate, necessitating a practically jetpack-fueled run up a long driveway to meet my tour group. Sure, I was running downhill most of the way. But it wasn't so bad.

Since then, I've witnessed plenty of trail runners in LA, particularly in Runyon Canyon, where they wear very little, and carry a bottle of water, or an iPhone, at most. But I haven't really felt like I belong with them - like I'm one of them - though occasionally I'm descending a trail so steep, I'm paralyzed by fear, and instead of taking it as slow as possible or scooting on my behind, I rip it off like a Band-Aid, running down it like hell, hoping to God I'm able to stop myself at the bottom.

Two weekends ago, I was running late to pick up tickets from the Hollywood Bowl, and, for fear of missing out, ran most of the mile-long uphill climb there from my car parked in a lot on Selma.

And the funny thing is, it felt good.

It felt so good that sometimes at night, when I'm walking around my neighborhood, I just want to run home.

I'm not in a hurry.

I just want to run.

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