Erin Go Run

When I lived in Solana Beach with a friend from college, we occasionally made our drunken way to a local bar that is not fit for the area, let me tell you. The ol’ “Surf and Saddle” brings out people from the wood works. On any given night, you could run into any slew of people. One night you might talk to a man that had just been released from prison for almost killing his sister’s ex-boyfriend, whereas on another night you will run into the freshly graduated (or drop-outs) from the nearby community college that live off of their winnings at the weekly goldfish racing.

One night in particular, Jimme and I had ventured our way to the Surf and Saddle for a nice cocktail or three. After almost being accosted by the ex-prisonmate and a group of college punks that don’t know the first clue about being alive on this Earth (ugh, seriously) one man seated at the bar had been eyeing our conversations immensely. Once Jimme and I got a moment to ourselves, his mid-life-crisis-lets-see-if-I-still-got-it radar began to go off. Beginning with the small talk “are you girls here alone” and “what are pretty girls like you doing in a bar like this” he found a way to begin talking more personally with Jimme. As she continued pounding her drink and fake laughing at his old-fashioned jokes while he gently caressed her leg and hand uncomfortably and awkwardly, I continued to look like I was meant to be at the bar alone. I did the usual; checked my phone every ten seconds for a possible text or call, watched TV intensely, tried to observe the bartenders to see which one would make my next drink stronger.

Long story short, this guy Larry turned out to be a “horse buyer” from Florida. He was here for the summer, watching the horses and buying them. His trick is that he buys the youngin’s (horses, I mean) and then sells them several years later when they are at their racing prime. He kept talking about this and that with Jimme and I, which seemed like a very unrealistic profession for his image (and name), but as long as he was buying our drinks, he could have been the King of Tibet and I would have stilled smiled and nodded.

He then proceeded to invite us to the track (us, only cause he knew I was Jimme’s wingman) to watch the horses practice. I, in my beginnings of a drunken stupor, began raving about my dream to do a time trial around the track. The Del Mar track is approximately one mile long, which, to a runner, is a fantasy. He promised me that he would get me on the track to do that, and insisted that Jimme get his number to make the arrangements… hmmm… suspicious at all? Naaaahhhhhh! He kept talking up his expertise about the turf, the horses, etc.etc. as I drifted off into runner’s dreamland and pictured my record braking mile on the Del Mar track making the news.

Needless to say, the summer went by and the text messages got creepier and creepier from Larry. He not only texted Jimme when he was in the shower thinking of her, but he also made sure to call and leave a message on her phone and then quickly call into her work to ask why she didn’t pick up. Eventually she avoided all contact, which led him to the last message we would hear from Larry stating how inconsiderate and rude it is to just blow someone off. He left back home at the end of the season and we never heard from Larry again.

As for the track, I insisted that Jimme return at least one of his calls, so to have a chance at the time trial. I thought better of myself and of, well, nothing much else. I would have protected Jimme from running off with “Larry the Horse Guy” just as long as I had gotten to run around that track. But alas, I will have to keep dreaming. But wait; its opening day…. Wonder who is at the Surf and Saddle?