But the woman in the battered soft-top convertible will say he looked drugged. His expression is mid-marathon serene, focused on the goal and not yet overwhelmed by the distance.

He holds a straight line through the morning’s small desperations, the problems waiting to unfold, the desire to be elsewhere, to be anywhere but here today and tomorrow and all the mornings that run together into one citywide tangle of freeways and on-ramp closures and Sig Alerts, a whole day narrowed to the stop and go. He ignores the commuters sealed off in their climate- controlled cars, trapped in the first news cycle and the wheel of Top 40. He runs unburdened by the hundreds of sacrifices these commuters have made to arrive at this traffic jam on time-the breakfast missed, the children unseen, the husband abandoned in bed, the night cut short on account of the early morning, the weak gas station coffee, the unpleasant carpool, the sleep lost, the hasty shower, last night’s clothes, last night’s makeup. They’ve mastered their mathematical calculations-the distance × rate × time of the trip to work.

They left home early, hoping to avoid the bumper to bumper, the inevitable slowdown of their mornings. The drivers watch from behind their steering wheels, distracted from toggling between radio stations, fixing their makeup in the rearview, talking to friends back east for whom the day is fully formed. But he is flowing freely, reverse commuting through the stalled vehicles. They merge in jerks and starts from the Pasadena Freeway onto the Hollywood or the Santa Ana. and traffic is already jammed through downtown, ground to a standstill as cars attempt to cross five lanes, moving in increments so small their progress is nearly invisible. He is shirtless, the hint of swimmer’s muscle rippling below his tanned skin, his arms pumping in a one-two rhythm in sync with the beat of his feet.

He is almost beautiful-running with the San Gabriels over one shoulder, the rise of the Hollywood Freeway as it arcs above the Pasadena Freeway over the other. She is the author of The Art of Disappearing and Visitation Street. Ivy Pochoda grew up in Cobble Hill, Brooklyn, and is a former professional squash player. A visionary portrait of contemporary Los Angeles in all its facets, from the Mojave Desert to the Pacific, from the 110 to Skid Row. The following is from Ivy Pochoda’s novel, Wonder Valley.

Ivy pochoda wonder valley