The G Running Diary

A World Away: 11/25/02

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I must have found the complete opposite of running on beautiful Bay Area trails: running in Las Vegas. I was staying at the Las Vegas Hilton last week and decided to have a quick morning run to the downtown area. Seedy could describe it. Hookers and homeless amidst a veneer of attempted tourist niceties like palmtrees and paved walks. Excrement and stale beer on the sidewalks. It was easy to find my way. Straight down. The slushies and mardi gras beads of Fremont Street were beckoning me, but I purposefully did not pack any cash. Just me, my shorts, my long sleeve top, my shoes, and a watch. And a hat. I (almost) always run with a hat. "Boy you look fit." That was one comment. Cars passing by behaved as if their drivers had never seen a runner before. I felt like the only runner in the world. An anomoly in a world of excess and gluttony. Even with no one around me I could smell cigarettes.

I reached Fremont Street, crossed the road and stopped. A big sign on top of a new place affronted me: Jillian's. Me. Well sort of. Why'd they have to spell my name wrong? This was the new Vegas, the strip mallification of the seedy underworld. Bowling, movies, arcades, family food courts, and a dress code. And yet right there next to this new mecca the sidewalk smelled of the bleach that washed away the puke and piss of the late night before. I swore I saw Hunter S. Thompson himself, jerkily dancing in his own world at a bus stop, pretend-snapping a photo of me.

My return trip took me up the Strip, past Circus Circus and the Stratosphere. I was thinking of taking a look inside, but didn't dare insult my lungs more than I already had with the fumes of old cars. I suppose I was lucky that even though Comdex was going on all week, Vegas was not busy. The end of my journey was in the elevator heading to the 19th floor. Two girls asked if I'd been to the spa. "No, I just ran downtown and back." Together they said, "Wow!" I don't think they were runners.