Where Did I Go? Out.

What did I do? Nothing.

Unless you count left-right-left-right-left-right as doing something. I did that, but I also tried to take some mental notes on what I saw. I slogged along for some 80 minutes (a bit more than seven miles, I figure), so I hope my brain waves weren't completely flat.

I ran straight down Channing Way toward the Bay, then doglegged onto Dwight, hopped the railroad tracks, and ran over the rise and into Aquatic Park. As I always do there, I thought of Rachel the Wonder Dog, my children's childhood pet and my companion on countless walks along the path next to the lake. What a crazy, good pup she was.

Heading north on the path, I passed a playground teeming with families. It's a relatively new amenity, meaning it wasn't around during the 80s, when I ran here quite a bit. I made a resolution to bring my granddaughter here sometime. At 28 months of age, she is a big fan of playgrounds. She's fearless on poles and ladders, believing, it seems, that she is exempt from the laws of gravity.

I continued north, taking the curve around the end of the lake and huffing up onto the pedestrian bridge that crosses I-80. Down the other side I went, into a cloud of dust being raised by toy remote-control vehicles that were zooming around in the dirt lot south of the Sea Breeze market. I've been trying to be more positive in my thinking lately, so when my first reaction was, Those idiots! I tried to amend it to, At least they're outside on this lovely day, not at home on the couch. But noisy toys don't rate high with me.

I ran south on the Bay Trail, toward Emeryville. I went out until my chronograph read 40 minutes, then turned and came back. Along the way I noted that the tide was high, the water blue and inviting. The sky over the city was crystal clear, the high-rises white in the sun. Over Marin County, though, an ugly brown haze was visible, starting over Mt. Tamalpais, the Sleeping Maiden, and thickening toward the north.

A lot of people took advantage of the great day. I saw a couple of fairly hefty women dressed in pedal pushers and wearing shades. The were motoring along pretty well--I wanted to tell them they should be carrying some water. Why do I always think I know the best way for utter strangers to comport themselves? Don't know why, but I do. I wanted to offer unsolicited advice to every single helmetless bicyclist I saw, and they were many.

My turnaround point was the little park that marks the start of the Emeryville peninsula that just into the Bay and holds the Emeryville Marina. I stopped and walked a little, catching my breath in the shade of the few trees I had reached.

On my way back I passed a guy I'd seen earlier as he pushed a shopping cart full of recyclables. He was fairly young, longish hair, stubbly beard, thin. He was sitting on the ground next to his shopping cart, reading. After I went by him, some impulse made me turn around and go back to him and ask if he'd like a drink of water (see, I do know what everyone else needs to do--and he needed to be hydrating). He said no thank you, I'm just reading the New Testament. Sure enough, a closer look showed me he had a little black Bible in his hands. I'm fine, but thanks for offering, he said.

On I went, then stopped at a water fountain that's near the Ashby Avenue freeway on-ramp. As I refilled my water bottle, I saw Mac, a friend from my running club, stretching at a nearby bench. Mac just turned 70. He is one tall drink of water--about 6' 4" and probably 160 pounds soaking wet. And the guy is fast. I mean he runs 8-minute miles to my 10 or 11. Sheesh. But it was good to see him, since he's not only speedy but charming. Lucky for him.

As I chatted with him, my friend with the shopping cart caught up with me. Thanks again for the offer, he said. That was a real act of kindness. He had a holy look in his eyes, a look I don't disparage.

Mac and I parted ways (he was on a 2.5-hour long run; me? not quite). I enjoyed watching a young Asian couple breeze by me, their straight, black hair bouncing in unison as they passed me like I was standing still. A father with a young daughter on the back of his tandem bike seemed unaware that his little helper was dragging her feet along the ground as he pumped vigorously to keep them moving. A little boy and his mother rode by on their bikes; instead of a regulation helmet he was wearing day-glo green headgear that sported multiple spikes, like a punk hairdo on steroids. I restrained my impulse to shout out and let the mother hear my doubts about the crash-cradling potential of such a helmet.

I crossed back over the freeway (pant, pant), through the park, over the railroad, and back up Channing. As I ran up the street (in the street, actually, which is always my preferred path when there's no traffic), a middle-aged hippie-looking guy opened his car door and emerged not far from me and, when he saw me, looked stern and said, you might want to run on the sidewalk. I might, I replied, and kept on running. Then I thought of what I could have said: You don't know me, you don't know that I'm always looking out for my own safety, that I've been running since 1978, that, that -- . And then I started laughing. Yet another old fart who knows the very best way for other people to comport themselves. Just as I do!

Of course, he just thinks he knows, while I really do.