Behold, the Port of Oakland.
Cliffs of containers, stacked like giant Legos. Semi-trucks, belching heat and diesel exhaust. Ships gargantuan, massive hulks, hailing from far flung Nordic and Pacific locales.
Behold the Port, expanse of tarmac smeared atop landfill. The fill itself trucked in from the foundations of hillside mansions and BART tunnels, poured over estuarine marshes. Concrete unnaturality, stretching from West Oakland into the San Francisco Bay.
Behold the Port, zone of industry or polluted asphalt hernia, depending on your politics.
Behold the Port, one of my favorite places to run.
On weekends it is empty of souls, and it is quiet but for the Pacific winds that blow out most of the truck emissions. Ideal for a tempo run or a pedestrian meander or just to move unmolested, away from the madding crowd of Californians, congesting every other thoroughfare.
Over the last few years, I’ve spent some time here: easy group runs to Middle Harbor Shoreline Park, …
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