"Running" by Alessandra Moctezuma in Sunshine/Noir III: Writing from San Diego and Tijuana

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Alessandra Moctezuma’s moving poem “Running” is both meditation on and tribute to her late husband Mike Davis. To buy Sunshine/Noir III: Writing from San Diego and Tijuana, go here.

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(Mike and Ale)
September 2022

We were never running towards 
Or running from,
The cadence of our steps, side – by – side,
Was a constant in our daily routine.

We raced up the mountains and 
Pranced down ravines. 
More often, it was just the hot asphalt of the urban streets
Around our homes in Pasadena or Golden Hill,
Mike running barefoot along the cooler midline white strips. 

We never ran too fast or for too long. 
3-4 miles at an easy pace. 
Mike never missed a day. 
In the night, he ran alone with a coyote amigo in Griffith Park,
and during the troubles along the Lagan River in Belfast.

Globetrotting…we had adventures jogging at home and around the world:

Running up the San Gabriels, scrambling down a hill where
My best friend got poison oak that spread up to that most intimate part
and ended up in the ER.
(don’t hike in shorts is my advice)
Toxicodendon 

While teaching in Long Island we explored Caumsett Park. 
A trail that started at a 1920s Great Gatsby manor,
And weaved through a ‘tree of heaven’ forest and then along the beach.
Alianthus altissima

In New Zealand, we jogged a half-marathon distance through Auckland suburbs 
that reminded me of LA. Wellington was San Francisco with its
Hills and Victorian homes. In Rotorua the smell of rotten eggs and folks 
greeting me in Maori.
Christchurch had the look of an old English village with houses and
Edifices built in gray stone. That day’s run led us to a brewery where
We got drunk 9% proof beer. We played pool
With a mercenary with long green hair and then he took us bowling that night. 
In my intoxicated state I was superbly good at both. 
It was winter and freezing cold but Mike ran alone 
Around the Kā Roimata o Hine Hukatere glacier at night.
Rhacomitium crispulum

The legend goes that Hine Hukatere, who loved to climb in the mountains, lost her beloved lover Wave in an avalanche. Her grief was so strong that she cried a whole river of tears, which flowed down the mountain. The gods then froze her tears, which resulted in the glacier that we see today. That’s why the glacier is named “The tears of Hine Hukatere”.

In Montreal, crisp snow blanketed the ground.
We trekked up le Mount Royal, folks in cross country skis whizzing by. 
Returning to the hotel my foot sunk in an icy puddle. 
On another day our journey ended in a bistro in the French part of the city 
and a meal of fondue. (I think we also took the subway to the deserted Olympic park)
Acer saccharum,

In New Orleans, we ran through working class neighborhoods
That would be flooded by Katrina.
I remember the humidity, the beautiful small city cemeteries, the surreal
Scene of a ship passing almost above us, there alongside the street.
Running when suddenly a man starts yelling “Mike, Mike”, Anthony Fontenot
One of his students from Sci-Arc. 

Best shape ever during our time in the Big Island. Hiking on
A narrow trail above Waipi’o valley with waterfalls and thousand foot drops.
Running along Volcano Park, stepping on hot newly formed lava at the edge 
Of the ocean and seeing the melted fire fall and solidify as it touched the water. 
The flower of Pele, o’hia lehua emerging from the a’a. 
Climbing down into lava tubes finding offerings of flowers and scattered bones.
Metrosideros polymorpha

We landed in a blizzard in  St. John, Newfoundland on St. Patrick’s day
To find everyone partying on the street. Next day, we ran alongside the harbor with large ships
Where I chatted in Spanish with Cuban fishermen who invited us onboard.

In London, Mike showed me secret canals and we jogged with the smell of
Coal burning. 

Some of my earliest memories are of the thump, thump, thump, the rhythm of my dad running in place in his bedroom in our house in Tecamachalco. 15 minutes every morning after he got out of the shower. I see him counting the time with his watch, and me pondering, why is he running, running and going nowhere?
Opuntia

As an uncoordinated teen with no depth perception running was the only thing I could do in PE. 
When we moved to LA, my father and I ran every morning before school alongside St. Vicente Blvd., the median with the choral trees close to where Marilyn Monroe overdosed and Nicole Simpson was murdered. We ran to the beach and swam in the Pacific Ocean. I have him to blame for accidentally making it into the high school cross country team.
Erythina caffra

Mike stopped running after his esophagectomy 5 years ago. So, when weather permits I go hiking the San Diego mountains and canyons with my son James. He covers longer distances but at a leisurely pace. Every several hundred feet he stops, crouches, takes out his camera and measuring tools. Look here, a dudleya, a snake cactus, a yucca (actually he probably uses all their Latin names). He takes his time observing every native plant, insect, lizard and butterfly. He regales me with stories about the dudleya poaching gangs or the 1800s botanist descriptions of now extinct species. James is like Mike a fountain of knowledge and has an ability to recall and connect the history and science. 
Dudleya abramsii

It’s an adventure to run and walk with these men so close to my heart: My father, my partner, my son. 

Alessandra Moctezuma is an educator, curator and artist. She is gallery director and professor of Fine Art at San Diego Mesa College where she leads the Museum Studies program.