Good Fences Make Good Neighbors, Sort Of

This spring, I arrived back in San Diego around the same time that the so-called "caravan" of migrants from Central America also reached the Tijuana-San Diego border crossing. Having fled violence and governments who failed to protect them, these migrants were seeking asylum and their political circumstances had generated publicity, scrutiny and debate. As the summer wore on, they would find themselves at the center of extremely controversial and ever-changing immigration policies that became known by the shorthand "child separation."

But the day before they reached the border, and weeks before people of all political persuasions would throw up their hands in disgust and proclaim the U.S. immigration system "broken," I really wanted to see the border first-hand.

I've spent the last year crossing international borders with ease, the navy blue pleather passport with a golden eagle ensuring my passage. In many of the countries I've visited, people lamented that lack of diplomatic relations (among other factors) barred them from getting a visitor visa to travel freely. The status of being an American in the world confers privileges that I have always been aware of, but our weakening relationships with so many countries has made it easy to imagine a world in which the freedom to travel and be welcomed isn't guaranteed. And now the predicament of these asylum-seekers reinforced that for me.

The San Ysidro border crossing between Tijuana and San Diego is said to be one of the busiest borders in the world: driving north into the US, hours-long wait times are routine, despite 35 lanes to accommodate the traffic. But a couple of miles west of there, the border is an entirely different scene. A tall, slatted metal fence reinforced with chainlink stands in the sand and stretches a hundred yards or more into the crashing surf of the Pacific Ocean.

On the U.S. side, Border Field State Park is in the Tijuana River estuary, a scrubby open space of marshes with a few trails that runs right up to the international border on its southern edge and the coast on its western side. When people stroll or bike the flat dirt trails, they eventually end up at the picnic area close to the fence line. For most of the border in this region, two parallel fence lines undulate with the terrain, with a no man's land in between that's videotaped, scrutinized and patrolled. But right here on the beach, the intensity of the surveillance seems to make it possible for one fence to do the job (plus some caution tape and stern signage).

On the American side, almost no one was out in the big open park on the cloudy, windy day I ventured down there. On the Mexican side, though, the city's development brushes up against the border, where apartment buildings, shops and neighborhoods are easily within view. Families and friends were on the beach on the Mexican side; I saw a few border selfies taken; people visited, laughed, hung out.

The "caravan" that would imminently reach the official border crossing seemed a world away from here. I was felt an awkward irony to be standing alone on the U.S. side of the border, watching through the fence line as people enjoyed an easy afternoon on the Mexican side.

[May 2018: U.S.-Mexico border]

Run.

Keeping cool when meeting a hero (just barely)

There are people who are so famous that they are identifiable by one name only. Cher comes to mind. Prince. Bjork. (Maybe this is a just a music phenomenon?)

And, Meb.

Mebrahtom Keflezighi is arguably the most inspiring and accomplished marathoner in American running history. His family's escape from Eritrea when he was child ended in San Diego, where as school kids he and his siblings learned English, excelled in school and, in Meb's case, dominated in sports. His high school and college (UCLA) running careers shredded records and blew away the competition.

By the time he retired from professional competition in Fall 2017, he was known widely just as Meb. He'd competed in four Olympics, winning a silver medal in 2004; he won the New York City marathon in 2009; and won the Boston Marathon in 2014, one year after bombs tore apart the finish line and tore at the spirit of people who love the sport. 

As a fellow San Diegan, I have low-level stalked Meb for years: eager to know what his next big race would be, how rooted he feels in his home town, how connected he still feels to East Africa. My admiration for him isn't based just on his achievement; it's based on his ability to make a comeback. I remember reading an article in Runner's World that basically counted him out as an aging, injured runner who was the last one to realize his career was over. That was years before he won Boston. His shoe sponsor Nike dropped him at one point, the commercial equivalent of being fired. When Sketcher's picked him up later, it raised eyebrows. Not only did his sponsor drop him, but he was stooping to a sponsorship with a fashion/street shoe company. Fast forward to now, Sketchers has an established performance line designed by Meb and a former Nike designer. What's an runner in his forties doing in an Olympic marathon trial anyway? Coming in second. With negative splits. 2:12:20. That's what. And all the while, he was raising a family, starting a philanthropic foundation, lifting upcoming competitors with his mentorship, and inspiring fans with his integrity.

He is the real deal.

So, when my friends at Vermont City Marathon asked me to help with them a project that connected media, running, San Diego, Vermont and Meb, it was moment when everything I love in life converged. I was somewhere in China when I got a message from Jess with a question: Would I be available to interview Meb for a series of videos to promote Vermont City Marathon? Meb will be in Vermont for the marathon, and they needed to get the word out. I'm sure that exuberant swearing was involved as I clutched my phone rereading the message. Um, yes. Yes, definitely!

Earlier this month, Meb, a video crew and I spent an afternoon in Balboa Park in San Diego. The conversation was a tour of his life's incredible twists and turns. Meb has pounded thousands of miles running on the trails around this park. Just down the road from there is San Diego High School, where he developed from a natural talent to a disciplined competitor. At one point in our interview, the videographer noticed two young runners go by in the background and then contort themselves as they did a double-take. That's Meb!! A few minutes later, they ran through again with a pack of friends, many of them wearing SDHS singlets, eliciting a shout of recognition from Meb. "That's my team!" he smiled and described exactly what route he imagined they'd be running.

My work has put me in the position to meet and interview somewhat famous people, most of them politicians. I've rarely felt star-struck or moved by the experience. But this was different. This was Meb.

Among the interview notes I wrote to myself.

November Project

My own running while I was in San Diego was less noteworthy than winning major world marathons, but still pretty fun! I looked up the local November Project chapter and joined their early morning, twice-weekly workouts in Balboa Park and Pacific Beach.

Here's what I love about November Project: you get a large group of really friendly, high energy people together and they push each other with unbridled enthusiasm and support to the best workout possible, regardless of your ability. Here, I met people who were working out for the first time, alongside people who were professional athletes. (Seriously. I unwittingly met Todd Clever, recently retired from the US national rugby team. I texted Liz, who follows international rugby and would know better than I, "Have you heard of Todd Clever?" Her answer, "Um, yeah. He's only the most famous American rugby player ever.")

Big thank you to San Diego November Project! 6:29 a.m. comes early, but I never regretted the festive hours I spent with y'all.

Flu season be damned, NP workouts require a LOT of hugs and high-fives.