Seaford Half Marathon - 5th June 2005

[Sweder]

Time of day: 06:20
Distance: 6 miles appx
Terrain: Concrete buggy path
Location: Carmel Mountain Ranch Country Club, San Diego CA
Duration: 59 mins

An all too brief business trip to Los Angeles and San Diego - the whole thing took less than 3 days - saw me awaken in Carmel Mountain Ranch this Friday morning not exactly sure where I was.

Mike, my agent in this part of the world and a good friend for many years, and his lovely wife Kim had spoiled me rotten, serving up a feast of great food and fine ales and wines the night before. Corn-fed steaks the size of dinner plates garnished with wafer-thin slices of garlic, green beans, sauteed mushrooms and a healthy portion of home-made creamed corn, washed down with an excellent Cakebread Vineyard Merlot from the heart of the Napa Valley.

As I lounged, bloated and tired, in the hot-tub, gazing at a new arrangement of stars, I felt sympathy with the poor Boa Constrictor who's just devoured an indecently large prey. I made brave pronouncements about an early morning run just before the rush of blood to my digestive system left my eyelids unable to support themselves any further, and headed for bed.

The alarm clock winked 5:23 am as the cacophony of birds outside my window greeted the first rays of another impressive Southern Californian sunrise. I remembered my vow to hit the streets early and resolved to keep such rash thoughts to myself in future. The Addistars lurked expectantly by the door, my surf shorts alongside them. I'd crashed in Mike's home office and decided to prevaricate, checking e-mails before the UK office bailed for the weekend. Nothing pressing there; I was all out of excuses. Time to greet the dawn.

Carmel Mountain Ranch nestles in the hill country less than 20 miles north of San Diego, some 6 miles inland from the Pacific Ocean resort of La Jolla. Mike and Kim had settled in a comfortable commuter residence, repleat with American TV clichés such as white picket fences, mailboxes (with little red flags) and immaculate front yards in all directions. I could have been standing on Wysteria Lane, although sadly there was no sign of Gabrielle.

Another aspect of American suburbia is the golf course threaded in between the houses. Carmel Mountain has just such a feature, a full 18 holes of beautifully sculpted landscape set up to challenge even the best golfer. I'd played here on previous visits, but sadly there was no chance this time. I had decided before I left for the States that I would run around the concrete buggie path, this being my only opportunity to get some miles in. Most 18 hole courses add up to around a 4 mile walk. The extensive meandering of the path at Carmel Mountain Golf & Country Club, coupled with numerous and extremely long deviations from greens to tees, often across or under main roads, made this one closer to 6.

I set off at 6.20 am under cool blue skies. The houses backing on to the course lay dormant, occupants yet to rise. My only companions at this hour were a number of Jack Rabbits (looking suspiciously like Hares, or at least skinnier, lankier versions of the cuddly European bunnies) and a gang of Jackdaws that followed me around for a few holes, cawing raucously at the sight of this lumpy Limey chugging around their domain. 30 minutes into the run we were joined by the hispanic workforce, clad in uniform Khaki shirts and Pith Helmets. I hoped we'd get the weather they expected, although I could happily wait another hour or two for the heat of the day to arrive. The gardeners busied about their chores, smoothing bunkers and evicting the occasional errant weed in the shade of tall pines and ceders, ignoring my well-meant 'Shearers'.

Despite the early hour I soon worked up a sweat. There's not a flat fairway in the 18, and I realised early on that not carrying water was a big mistake. Happily a number of water dispeners (perfectly chilled of course) were located by every 3rd or 4th teebox, each with a supply of dinky paper cups; I took full advantage. I congratulated myself at the forward planning that permitted me to pack the Addistar roadsters as opposed to my usual offroaders. The paved buggie path proved unyielding, yet to have run on the perfectly manicured fairways would have been an act of sacrelidge.

Heading up the beautiful par 5 16th, with its hidden gulch laden with scrub and cacti, and the striking giant boulder hazard planted in sand in the centre of the fairway, the effects of this rollercoaster run began to bite. At the intersection between the 17th green and 18th tee, yet another major road, I veered right towards the house and the cool embrace of the cold shower I'd been daydreaming about for the last 20 minutes.

Mike and Kim were up and about - Mike firing e-mails left and right, Kim rattling breakfast pots and pans with gusto. Despite waking with food far from my thoughts my morning thrash had roused my appetite. Eggs over easy, sausage links, sliced beef tomatos and fresh avocado with lashings of freshly squeezedl orange juice and piping hot black coffee hit the spot.

Several hours later Mike and I hit the freeway, detouring via La Jolla en route to the Amtrak railroad station in San Diego for my 3pm train to LAX and the Virgin flight home. The Pacific Surfliner runs from downtown San Diego into the heart of LA via the coast. The views as I sat scrawling meeting notes were spectacular, pure California. Surfers danced in white-capped waves, palms pines and cedars their silent, waving audience. A dazzling array of architectural styles flashed past; Spanish Villas, French Farmhouses, Mock Tudor homes and space-age modern glass constructions rubbed shoulders with traditional American wooden homesteads. Between the clusters of habitation mile upon mile of golden sand, laced with Ice-plants and sprawling Cacti, kissed the gently rolling Pacific surf. We sped through Camp Pendleton, home to the US Marines, as trainee soldiers absailed from Chinook helicopters into the hilly scrub.

After Oceanside the tracks leaned inland through rambling hills populated by Joshua Trees and into Santa Ana, a small town that shares it's name with the hot winds that fan the forest fires infamous and lethal in the region. On to Anaheim, home of The Mouse. We stopped, the Amtrak station directly opposite the impressive home of the California Angels baseball team. The conductor, in a classic American Railroad style, announced on the tannoy that Mr Coby Bryant was at this moment signing autographs in the stadium lobby. This revelation failed to entice my fellow passengers to disembark. In the parking lot a giant billboard depicted a well endowed young lady strapped into a tight white T-shirt with the word 'Hooters' splashed across the front in dayglow orange. Hmm, now that might be worth leaving the train for . . .

Hooters, for those unfamiliar with the brand, is an American fast food franchise. Despite the requirement for waitresses to flaunt their natural (or synthetic) talents in tight fitting clothes (including bright orange hotpants) Hooters is a family restaurant. They specialise in Southern fast food, specifically chicken wings, hot wings and, as re-named by a colleague a while ago, Effin Hot Wings.

On through Fullerton Station into the sprawling, smog-shrouded metropolis that is Los Angeles. My ticket for this most comfortable and entertaining journey cost 26 dollars (about 15 quid), with a 12 dollar upgrade to Business Class. What value.