Old rain hangs in the air and puddles on the artificial turf. Rusty goalposts lay on their sides around the edges of the chain-link fence. And, either an industrious seagull or a delinquent high school kid has pulled garbage out of the trashcan to strew across the track.
Inside the Santa Monica High School gym, a Christian youth group holds some sort of community get-together. But, out here, we have a different kind of meeting—the track and I. Here it is just me and the watch, the time ticking up. It is just me, with cars whizzing by below the cement wall and tourists trekking from the hotel next door to the beach. On the track, it is just me. This is a meeting of one.