Jogging On Main Street: Lake Elsinore Beats A Bad Rap

Lake Elsinore gets a bad rap: Many locals have dubbed the sometimes stagnant body of water, "Lake Smell-Some-More." On occasion, fishes die, float around on top of the water and inundate the shoreline with scaled carcasses right around mid-summer. In addition, the city is purportedly home to an untold number of questionable peeps, as evidenced by my acquaintances, Freddie and Georgina. I’ll get to them in a minute.

When my son, Juan, was about 7 years old, he began practicing Junior All-American Thunder Football at Lakepoint Park. In the peak of the August heat, teams are banded together based on age and weight class. Enthusiastic novices and seasoned players gather to practice Hail Mary’s after executing a deliberate, quarterback sneak sanctioned by the coaches (no penance required).

Suited in a gauntlet of body pads, shrouded by the oversized jersey and the undersized pants, my son looked like a miniature tanker, all raring to tackle…something…because isn’t that what football players are supposed to do?  The maternal problem I encountered was twofold: I just couldn’t watch my son get physically pummeled and I couldn’t watch the other little kids get pummeled, either (though most all is fair in love and football).

Left to sit and watch the grueling, two-hour practice sessions all week long, commencing in late August and running through November, I chose to jog around the park’s path. When I was done, I’d work out with resistance bands in the grassy area, desiring to keep a visual on Juan. I had to keep moving so I wouldn’t fall asleep (that’s the underlying reason I got out of the comfy lawn chair).

After garnering a little more confidence in my son’s relative safety and to relieve the tediousness of running in circles, I’d dart onto Lakeshore Drive to Main Street, heading eastbound. I’d flip a euwie under the 15 freeway, jogging down the other side in returning to the park along the quaint, tree-lined route.

Dusk is about the time Georgina took hold of a lamp post at the corner of Main and Graham, steadying her petite frame as she prepared to solicit a little monkey business from male passersby.

"Hey! You got a couple of bucks?" she shouted out to me one day, flagging me down just before I reached the corner.  Her matted, long, blonde hair hung in her crystalline blue-colored eyes.  She kept trying to move her bushy bangs aside, squinting in an effort to see through the fog of inebriation. I thought I may have been overt in my assessment of her colorfully expressive and optimally revealing attire, but the majestic, glittering, purple high-heeled shoes just didn’t make any sense and I’m not talking fashion (which is kind of moot in this scenario).

“Why, yes I do...thanks for asking," I answered, wryly.

"Well, s-s-smarty…can I have it?" she slurred and hiccupped.

"No, but what's your name?" I said, catching my breath, jumping around so as not to lose momentum.

“Georgina," she answered, looking down to one of her pockets, pulling out a pack of cigarettes with a lighter stuffed inside the box.

"Want one?" she offered.

"No, thanks. I'll see you later, Georgina," I said, breaking into a rhythmic stride.

In breaking my stride a few times during various football seasons, I escorted Freddie, who stood confused and wobbly in the middle of Main Street, to the sidewalk out of harm’s way. I always encountered him hunched over a dilapidated grocery basket overflowing with a pile of who knows what.

As Freddie pushed his belongings in serpentine fashion, he screamed obscenities to no one in particular. One evening on his ataxic foot journey, he was unknowingly blocking impatient drivers on Main Street. I could see him in the short distance; I was afraid someone would accidentally run him over.

Jogging right up behind him, I gently placed my hands on his shirtless, sweaty, sunburned, shoulders. He quickly turned around, startled. We were face-to-face, eye-to-eye, with no adversity or fear. Some of his dirty, stringy, silver hair was hanging in his face, while the rest of it lay down to the middle of his back in a makeshift braid. His filthy jeans were too big, barely held up by his prominent hip bones. He smiled a toothless grin.

"What's your name?" he asked. I thought he was going to ask who I was to be so gently commandeering, as in public safety or law enforcement.

"Lyn," I answered. "What's yours?"

"Freddie" he said, also slurring his speech.

The weather was sweltering, so the pungent odor of cigarettes combined with the alcohol on his breath and his overpowering body odor was enough to make me nauseous.

"Freddie, do me a favor," I said, helping him to turn around and move toward the sidewalk.

"Okay," he said, compliantly as I placed both of his hands on the handle of the basket, steering both Freddie and everything he owned from the middle of the busy street.

“Stay out of the middle of the road,” I suggested.

“All I know is the middle of the road,” he whimpered. “Where’s the bottle?”

“You’ll find it, Freddie. Take care,” I said, waving goodbye, continuing my trek to Lakepoint Park.

The reason all of this trekked my memory is because Lake Elsinore is one of my favorite, local, hide-aways. I like to ride my bike along the levy road on the southern end of the lake or once around the perimeter, about town. When I had jet skis, I’d frequent any one of the several boat launches, most any time of year.  Taking off for the middle of the lake where top speed rules, the winds churn in the late afternoon, creating white caps for catching a little air. 

Sometimes, I’m not up for driving to the beach, but I love the water, so I load up some gear (sans the surfboard) and make a day of it on the Lake’s well-kept, east-shore beach.  My intent is to soak in the quietude and read a book beneath an umbrella. However, I usually end up conversing with some really nice, interesting people who are just passing through.

It seems every football season is just passing through as well. My son plays on the high school football team now. When I take him to practice, I still jog somewhere near the field so I don’t have to drive back and forth, so I can work out and so I won’t sit and fall asleep.  I miss jogging on Main Street and running a Z-formation in the sand pit at Lakepoint Park, taking a breather on the shoreline while watching the sun set behind the hills and the trail of headlights coming over the Ortega Highway, so today, I indulged.