A Jog to the Venice Pier
Sep. 3rd, 2007 06:16 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dedalus_1947Early in the summer, I started driving to my mom’s house in Venice, California, to jog at the beach, and to visit with her. Now, it may sound a bit extreme, driving 30 miles from my home in Canoga Park to Venice, in order to go jogging, but it is actually quite logical. I prefer jogging 4 to 5 miles, in the cool of late afternoons, at about 4:30 or 5 o’clock. As I jog along at that time of the day, I feel like I’m leaving all of my accumulated problems and worries on the road, and I finish my route refreshed and renewed. However, during the summer months in the San Fernando Valley, when outdoor temperatures climb into the high 80’s, to lower 90’s, until 7 or 8 o’clock, it is still uncomfortable running in the late afternoons. I hate the alternative of running in the mornings, so I avoid it at all costs (unless training for races or a half-marathon). In the past, when working at Shangri-la Middle School, I solved this jogging problem by driving to a part of the city that is always cool, the Westside. Leaving school, I could quickly drive through the Sepulveda Pass, and in a matter of 30 minutes, be running along San Vicente Blvd, in Brentwood, in ideal 68 degree weather. I’d start at Gretna Green Way, and run west on San Vicente Blvd; past the Brentwood Country Club, through Santa Monica, paralleling the Riviera CC, until I reached Ocean Avenue. I’d jog along the palisade walking path on Ocean until California Ave, and then I’d turn around and run back. It was always a glorious jog, with vistas of shady trees, beautiful homes, lush manicured lawns, and the sparkling beach and seacoast of Santa Monica. I could usually be home by 6:30 or 7:00 P.M. (and that was by taking the Pacific Coast Highway route and over Topanga Canyon Blvd). Unfortunately, that practice ceased with my assignment to MASH Middle School. It was simply too far to drive.
However, a few months ago, it occurred to me that by combining some activities on the same day, I could make a Westside trip more practical. On a Saturday (or Sunday), I could drive to my mom’s house in Venice, jog to the pier and along the bike path on Venice Beach, and then shower and visit with my mom and Stela. I would combine filial duty and healthy exercise, with a pleasant day at the beach. Since this epiphany, I’ve gone jogging on three occasions now. Running in Venice, and near the Strand, has been especially enjoyable because it stimulates many thoughts and memories of growing up and living in this part of town from 1959 to 1975.
I start my run in that unique part of southeast Venice called “The Golden Triangle” of Marina del Rey. This is a euphemistic title that has nothing to do with the historical opium or rum trades in India and China. It is a distinct housing area that actually takes the shape of a triangle, formed by the intersections of Washington Blvd on the north, Lincoln Blvd on the east, and Admiralty Way, in Marina del Rey, on the west (originally, an old railroad track comprised this bottom part of the triangle). When we first moved into this neighborhood in the summer of 1959, it was simply called Venice, and it sat atop a large section of barren county land that had been pumped dry of oil. With the incredible success and popularity of the Marina del Rey development (after a slow start in the 60’s and 70’s), the property values skyrocketed, and the area was metaphorically gilded for perpetuity. Home buyers, home re-designers, and high-rise developers are the new “Forty-niners” who now seem bent on settling and exploiting this new gold field.
From my mom’s house, I run along Berkeley Drive, curving towards the northwest corner of the triangle, at Washington Blvd. Berkeley still has three or four of the original ranch style homes that looked so modern in the late 50’s. These were clean-lined, single-storied, stucco homes, with simple floor plans, low pitched gable roofs, and painted in bright pastel colors. They were particularly well landscaped and manicured by the Japanese and Nisei families who owned and maintained most of the homes in the original tract. Our family struggled mightily for many years trying not to be embarrassed by the professionally cared-for lawns and gardens across the street. Every day I’d see the old Ford trucks, piled high with lawnmowers, edgers, trimmers, and rakes, drive off in the mornings and return late in the afternoons. Despite the long hours at their jobs, these gardeners, and their wives, would spend additional time working on their own homes and gardens. Their work ethic amazed me, and for many years I ascribed it to a unique racial predisposition to hard work. It was only in my college years, that I finally realized that my father, and others of his Depression-reared generation, also worked long and hard at their jobs and professions, and then came home to work additional hours at second jobs, or private commissions. My father was a studio photographer during the day and a freelance photographer in the evenings and on weekends. Occasionally, my father would take me along, when my mother could not go. I would try to help him develop and print countless photographs of weddings, birthdays, social events, and Little League and Pop Warner football games. He would shoot and develop the photos, and then my mother would help to print, advertise and market the pictures. They did this for years. I always found the process tedious and boring when I went. I was also puzzled by the optimism my parents had about the work, and toward the people who bought the pictures. It never occurred to me that they saw the work as a fortuitous, economic opportunity to add to a single income that was barely enough to raise and educate 6 children.
“Huh-chugged, huh-chugged, huh-chugged” goes my breathing. “Pat-crunch, pat-crunch, pat-crunch” go my shoes along the sandy asphalt. Along Oxford Avenue, I’m struggling to establish a rhythm and momentum in my jogging. I’m not yet in synch. I can hear and feel my breathing. I can hear and feel my foot falls. They haven’t yet melded into one indistinguishable action – running. As Dickson Street connects with my path, I notice the new mega-homes, or “MacMansions”, that have been built along this street, after I left home in 1975. They are such a contrast to the simple ranch style homes on Berkeley. These are huge, multi-level monstrosities, without charm or character, built to utilize every available inch of land along this narrow strip of land. When we were children, this area was empty. We played on the abandoned railroad track that serviced the long exhausted oil fields in the lands that would become the Marina. Today, the 3 massive apartment towers of the Marina City Club loom over the streets, and the new homes along Oxford. The homes are glaring reminders of the new opulence of this area. Jogging up to the intersection of Washington Blvd, and Oxford, I veer to the left and head west toward the pier.
As children, Washington and Oxford was a major crossroad for us. It was the axis point for the major geographical directions that affected our lives. We could go left (west) toward the Marina and the beach. We could go right (north) toward Lincoln Blvd and the paths that spread from there to shops, stores, bus connections, school, and church. Or we could go straight, toward the wonders of old Venice, the Library, and the Little League Park that was located behind the bungalows along Washington. In the early 60’s, we all played baseball or softball in that park. Arthur, Stela, Gracie, and I would ride our bikes to practices, crossing Washington Blvd, and riding down Mildred to Boone Street. From Boone, we’d turn left into a huge basin area, which was vacant in those days, that housed the Venice Little League (Now there is an artificial lake complex called Del Rey Colony in that spot). Riding to baseball practices were our first excursions to the outer realms of our world as children. Soon, we would be pushing those boundaries outward and riding our bikes to school, the library, homes of friends, movies, and the beach. Washington was also the demarcation line between the county land of the Marina del Rey on one side, and Venice (the City of Los Angeles) on the other.
As I jog toward the pier, I choose to stay on the Marina side of Washington. This route has fewer streets to cross, and fewer chances to bring my steady running to a halt. However, while I lope along at an easy pace, I have to stay alert and attentive. This side of Washington is the “developed” Marina side, and it is loaded with hotels, apartments, businesses, shops, parking lots, restaurants, and traffic. The first noticeable building is the Marina International Hotel (MIH), a stealth hotel, located near the first entrance into the Marina. The MIH is constructed of aged wood, its rooms and accommodations partially hidden among trees and hedges, looking more like a private lodge than a hotel. It borders Palawan Way, the street we would take when we walked to Marina Beach on Admiralty Way. This was an inland swimming area that was cordoned off from boats and other vessels in the Marina. In our junior high school days, when it was important to look like you spent a lot of time at the beach, the Marina provided a more convenient access to water, sun, and restrooms. On a summer day, we could walk or cycle there quickly, catch some rays, swim around, and return home in time for a late lunch. It was much easier than going all the way to the beach, walking through hot sand, and battling unruly waves.
I slowly jog past a series of little stores and boutiques in oasis style, mini-malls along Washington: UPS store, Hair and Nail salon, Laundry and Cleaners, Joni’s Coffee Roast Café, and Noah’s Bagel. There is a lot of traffic in and around these stores, but the only real problems are the people on the sidewalk. The pavement is filled (especially on hot weekends), with slow moving pedestrians, shoppers, tourists, and parents with strollers. I can usually handle the pedestrians without much annoyance, but dealing with sidewalk cyclists is a peeve (Why don’t they ride in the street where they belong?). The businesses here have changed dramatically over the years, with none of the original stores in evidence. Joni’s is located on the site of Cinzano’s, a wine tasting shop and delicatessen that was built in 1971. We first discovered it when Jim, John, and Greg (see tag, Amigos) roomed together on Redlands Ave in Playa del Rey. At that time, we were new aficionados of the wine renaissance that was sweeping southern California. It was not uncommon in those days for us to meet there for an impromptu wine tasting session, select a bottle or two of Cabernet Sauvignon, or Pinot Noir, and then drink them with bread and cheese. We would sit at an outdoor table, under a wide Cinzano umbrella, gazing out as the world moved along, and naively, plan our futures. If our discussions became too hilarious or intense, we would buy additional bottles, and stay throughout the afternoon.
On the other side of the street, I can see some things that have not changed. The apartment bungalows on the north side of Washington (the Venice side) are still there. These bungalows were part of the old seedy part of Venice in the 60’s, even after the Marina was built. They were small, single story, one-bedroom, beach bungalows; low rent and low maintenance. It wasn’t until the boom of the 90’s and millennium that their values shot up and they became gentrified. Oddly enough, they have not been torn down and replaced with multi-story, bungazilla homes; rather they have simply been modernized and upgraded. Other than paint and careful landscaping, these homes still look the same. It’s a refreshing observation. I cross the Grand Canal of Venice at Strong Drive. The canal signals the end the Marina sector of Washington Blvd, and I slow my jog to almost a walk. Strong Drive parallels the Grand Canal, the only remaining canal in Venice, as it flows north to Venice Blvd, and south to Driftwood. There is a walking path along the more scenic parts of the Grand Canal, and visitors can see how this area has also been revitalized since the 60’s.
I finally enter the old Venice pier area, two compact blocks of store fronts, cafes, restaurants, bars, people, and cars. On weekends, these short streets are always gridlocked and crowded. The last block still allows head-in parking, a very retro touch, but difficult for joggers. I abandon the congested sidewalk and stride along the side of the road, being very leery of cars and bicycles. A parking lot and the Venice pier lay up ahead. They mark the vanishing point of Washington Boulevard. This is a loud and confusing point of transit and transfer, and I am surrounded by talking, laughing, arguing; people, bicycles, strollers, joggers, skaters, and pedestrians are moving quickly and going in all directions. I’m breathing heavily as I slow down to maneuver this chaotic, crowded, space. I turn north and enter the bike path, jogging well away from the pedestrian walkway, which is packed with weekend tourists and visitors who are coming to explore Venice Beach and Ocean Front Walk (also known as The Strand, or the Boardwalk). There is a bicycle rental shop at the entrance to the bike and pedestrian path that borders the sand. I take a deep breath, relax, and move forward, because this is where the more serene, beach segment of my jog will begin.
However, a few months ago, it occurred to me that by combining some activities on the same day, I could make a Westside trip more practical. On a Saturday (or Sunday), I could drive to my mom’s house in Venice, jog to the pier and along the bike path on Venice Beach, and then shower and visit with my mom and Stela. I would combine filial duty and healthy exercise, with a pleasant day at the beach. Since this epiphany, I’ve gone jogging on three occasions now. Running in Venice, and near the Strand, has been especially enjoyable because it stimulates many thoughts and memories of growing up and living in this part of town from 1959 to 1975.
I start my run in that unique part of southeast Venice called “The Golden Triangle” of Marina del Rey. This is a euphemistic title that has nothing to do with the historical opium or rum trades in India and China. It is a distinct housing area that actually takes the shape of a triangle, formed by the intersections of Washington Blvd on the north, Lincoln Blvd on the east, and Admiralty Way, in Marina del Rey, on the west (originally, an old railroad track comprised this bottom part of the triangle). When we first moved into this neighborhood in the summer of 1959, it was simply called Venice, and it sat atop a large section of barren county land that had been pumped dry of oil. With the incredible success and popularity of the Marina del Rey development (after a slow start in the 60’s and 70’s), the property values skyrocketed, and the area was metaphorically gilded for perpetuity. Home buyers, home re-designers, and high-rise developers are the new “Forty-niners” who now seem bent on settling and exploiting this new gold field.
From my mom’s house, I run along Berkeley Drive, curving towards the northwest corner of the triangle, at Washington Blvd. Berkeley still has three or four of the original ranch style homes that looked so modern in the late 50’s. These were clean-lined, single-storied, stucco homes, with simple floor plans, low pitched gable roofs, and painted in bright pastel colors. They were particularly well landscaped and manicured by the Japanese and Nisei families who owned and maintained most of the homes in the original tract. Our family struggled mightily for many years trying not to be embarrassed by the professionally cared-for lawns and gardens across the street. Every day I’d see the old Ford trucks, piled high with lawnmowers, edgers, trimmers, and rakes, drive off in the mornings and return late in the afternoons. Despite the long hours at their jobs, these gardeners, and their wives, would spend additional time working on their own homes and gardens. Their work ethic amazed me, and for many years I ascribed it to a unique racial predisposition to hard work. It was only in my college years, that I finally realized that my father, and others of his Depression-reared generation, also worked long and hard at their jobs and professions, and then came home to work additional hours at second jobs, or private commissions. My father was a studio photographer during the day and a freelance photographer in the evenings and on weekends. Occasionally, my father would take me along, when my mother could not go. I would try to help him develop and print countless photographs of weddings, birthdays, social events, and Little League and Pop Warner football games. He would shoot and develop the photos, and then my mother would help to print, advertise and market the pictures. They did this for years. I always found the process tedious and boring when I went. I was also puzzled by the optimism my parents had about the work, and toward the people who bought the pictures. It never occurred to me that they saw the work as a fortuitous, economic opportunity to add to a single income that was barely enough to raise and educate 6 children.
“Huh-chugged, huh-chugged, huh-chugged” goes my breathing. “Pat-crunch, pat-crunch, pat-crunch” go my shoes along the sandy asphalt. Along Oxford Avenue, I’m struggling to establish a rhythm and momentum in my jogging. I’m not yet in synch. I can hear and feel my breathing. I can hear and feel my foot falls. They haven’t yet melded into one indistinguishable action – running. As Dickson Street connects with my path, I notice the new mega-homes, or “MacMansions”, that have been built along this street, after I left home in 1975. They are such a contrast to the simple ranch style homes on Berkeley. These are huge, multi-level monstrosities, without charm or character, built to utilize every available inch of land along this narrow strip of land. When we were children, this area was empty. We played on the abandoned railroad track that serviced the long exhausted oil fields in the lands that would become the Marina. Today, the 3 massive apartment towers of the Marina City Club loom over the streets, and the new homes along Oxford. The homes are glaring reminders of the new opulence of this area. Jogging up to the intersection of Washington Blvd, and Oxford, I veer to the left and head west toward the pier.
As children, Washington and Oxford was a major crossroad for us. It was the axis point for the major geographical directions that affected our lives. We could go left (west) toward the Marina and the beach. We could go right (north) toward Lincoln Blvd and the paths that spread from there to shops, stores, bus connections, school, and church. Or we could go straight, toward the wonders of old Venice, the Library, and the Little League Park that was located behind the bungalows along Washington. In the early 60’s, we all played baseball or softball in that park. Arthur, Stela, Gracie, and I would ride our bikes to practices, crossing Washington Blvd, and riding down Mildred to Boone Street. From Boone, we’d turn left into a huge basin area, which was vacant in those days, that housed the Venice Little League (Now there is an artificial lake complex called Del Rey Colony in that spot). Riding to baseball practices were our first excursions to the outer realms of our world as children. Soon, we would be pushing those boundaries outward and riding our bikes to school, the library, homes of friends, movies, and the beach. Washington was also the demarcation line between the county land of the Marina del Rey on one side, and Venice (the City of Los Angeles) on the other.
As I jog toward the pier, I choose to stay on the Marina side of Washington. This route has fewer streets to cross, and fewer chances to bring my steady running to a halt. However, while I lope along at an easy pace, I have to stay alert and attentive. This side of Washington is the “developed” Marina side, and it is loaded with hotels, apartments, businesses, shops, parking lots, restaurants, and traffic. The first noticeable building is the Marina International Hotel (MIH), a stealth hotel, located near the first entrance into the Marina. The MIH is constructed of aged wood, its rooms and accommodations partially hidden among trees and hedges, looking more like a private lodge than a hotel. It borders Palawan Way, the street we would take when we walked to Marina Beach on Admiralty Way. This was an inland swimming area that was cordoned off from boats and other vessels in the Marina. In our junior high school days, when it was important to look like you spent a lot of time at the beach, the Marina provided a more convenient access to water, sun, and restrooms. On a summer day, we could walk or cycle there quickly, catch some rays, swim around, and return home in time for a late lunch. It was much easier than going all the way to the beach, walking through hot sand, and battling unruly waves.
I slowly jog past a series of little stores and boutiques in oasis style, mini-malls along Washington: UPS store, Hair and Nail salon, Laundry and Cleaners, Joni’s Coffee Roast Café, and Noah’s Bagel. There is a lot of traffic in and around these stores, but the only real problems are the people on the sidewalk. The pavement is filled (especially on hot weekends), with slow moving pedestrians, shoppers, tourists, and parents with strollers. I can usually handle the pedestrians without much annoyance, but dealing with sidewalk cyclists is a peeve (Why don’t they ride in the street where they belong?). The businesses here have changed dramatically over the years, with none of the original stores in evidence. Joni’s is located on the site of Cinzano’s, a wine tasting shop and delicatessen that was built in 1971. We first discovered it when Jim, John, and Greg (see tag, Amigos) roomed together on Redlands Ave in Playa del Rey. At that time, we were new aficionados of the wine renaissance that was sweeping southern California. It was not uncommon in those days for us to meet there for an impromptu wine tasting session, select a bottle or two of Cabernet Sauvignon, or Pinot Noir, and then drink them with bread and cheese. We would sit at an outdoor table, under a wide Cinzano umbrella, gazing out as the world moved along, and naively, plan our futures. If our discussions became too hilarious or intense, we would buy additional bottles, and stay throughout the afternoon.
On the other side of the street, I can see some things that have not changed. The apartment bungalows on the north side of Washington (the Venice side) are still there. These bungalows were part of the old seedy part of Venice in the 60’s, even after the Marina was built. They were small, single story, one-bedroom, beach bungalows; low rent and low maintenance. It wasn’t until the boom of the 90’s and millennium that their values shot up and they became gentrified. Oddly enough, they have not been torn down and replaced with multi-story, bungazilla homes; rather they have simply been modernized and upgraded. Other than paint and careful landscaping, these homes still look the same. It’s a refreshing observation. I cross the Grand Canal of Venice at Strong Drive. The canal signals the end the Marina sector of Washington Blvd, and I slow my jog to almost a walk. Strong Drive parallels the Grand Canal, the only remaining canal in Venice, as it flows north to Venice Blvd, and south to Driftwood. There is a walking path along the more scenic parts of the Grand Canal, and visitors can see how this area has also been revitalized since the 60’s.
I finally enter the old Venice pier area, two compact blocks of store fronts, cafes, restaurants, bars, people, and cars. On weekends, these short streets are always gridlocked and crowded. The last block still allows head-in parking, a very retro touch, but difficult for joggers. I abandon the congested sidewalk and stride along the side of the road, being very leery of cars and bicycles. A parking lot and the Venice pier lay up ahead. They mark the vanishing point of Washington Boulevard. This is a loud and confusing point of transit and transfer, and I am surrounded by talking, laughing, arguing; people, bicycles, strollers, joggers, skaters, and pedestrians are moving quickly and going in all directions. I’m breathing heavily as I slow down to maneuver this chaotic, crowded, space. I turn north and enter the bike path, jogging well away from the pedestrian walkway, which is packed with weekend tourists and visitors who are coming to explore Venice Beach and Ocean Front Walk (also known as The Strand, or the Boardwalk). There is a bicycle rental shop at the entrance to the bike and pedestrian path that borders the sand. I take a deep breath, relax, and move forward, because this is where the more serene, beach segment of my jog will begin.
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