Halfway through every early morning run, he shows up, tottering along. He can’t be more than four and a half feet tall, and he is old, very old. He nods at me curtly as I pass. Chinese, I’m guessing, but I could be wrong. Whatever the ethnicity, I feel very certain he was born there, not here. I can’t tell you exactly why, demeanor maybe, but it seems very clear to me that he is of another place and even more clearly another time. He seems far too dignified for the glitz of L.A. and very much like he knows something – a lot of somethings – that I don’t.

I am fascinated with this man. I want to know where he’s going each morning, and where he’s coming from. I wonder what his voice sounds like and where he finds clothes to fit such a small frame. I wonder if I stopped and told him about an aching knee or a sore runner’s foot, he would have some fantastically holistic remedy rather than the ice pack and ibuprofen I’ll resort to.

Mostly, he makes me glad I gave up the treadmill and started pounding out my miles on the streets. There are so many more interesting things out there...