I had the occasion to travel to Portland, Oregon, for the Portland Marathon. It occurs to me that people who run marathons are likely brain-damaged in some way. I am no exception. I wouldn't put a pet monkey through the amount of training it takes to run one of these, and I loathe monkeys. Worst animals ever, and I put them right up there with other things I loathe, such as clowns. Combine these two nightmares together, and you get something horrific like this:
Whoever put that picture together should be shot. Let me go back to the marathon thing, so I can use it as a palate cleanser. After more than 700 miles of running, it was time to run the Portland Marathon. I will note that the first guy to run a marathon, a Greek by the name of Pheidippides, fell over dead when he ran the 26.2 miles that encompass a marathon. A real dumb ass if you ask me. If you are in any way curious about my prior thoughts on that example of Darwinism applied to the human race, click on this link:
http://reddingmarathon.blogspot.com/2010/09/naked-greeks-pink-floyd.html
Back to travel to Portland. Interstate 5 has two contrasting parts. If you travel South of Redding, California, on I-5, you will be "treated" to the nastiest sights and smells. Dust clouds, city sprawl, and stinky cattle pens that look exactly like this:
I once spent a good hour and a half pulled over on I-5 across from one of those stinky cattle pens while I tried to dislodge my siamese cat from under the passenger seat of my car. I had to cut some stereo wires to get her out, and she emptied her bladder all over me. If you ever want to feel like a fancy sports car driver and get some driving gloves on the cheap, cat pee and cat hair make lovely wooly mittens for driving. It was a good trade. I lost my amplifier but gained some awesome wooly driving mittens. After the thousands of hamburgers I've consumed, I have to count this one as a win for the cows. I'm sure they enjoyed the sights and sounds of me cussing and swearing under a blistering 105 degree day.
In contrast, however, if you travel North, you will witness the majestic views of Mt. Shasta and then the verdant green pastures of Oregon. The only similarity with I-5 South is that these pastures are also dotted with cattle. Unlike I-5 South, these cows are not awaiting their imminent processing into hamburgers while huddled together in a dusty lot. They will eventually be "processed", but at least they are happy until they meet up with Ronald McDonald. Ronald is the sole clown I do not consider scary. Cows fear Ronald. I do not.
A curious thing happens as you travel further North into Oregon. The landscape is littered with "Adult Shops". I'm a seasoned traveler, and by "seasoned" I mean that I'm forty-six (46) years old. I know that an "Adult Shop" is a place where adults congregate for the purpose of purchasing ... you know ... marital aids. Is that a nice way to put it?
Anyway, I have a couple of theories as to why these shops are prevalent in Oregon. I will only indulge in my primary theory. My primary theory is that the amount of "Adult Shops" is directly proportionate to the amount of rainfall received. Oregon is a rainy, rainy, rainy place. There are many ways to ward off depression I suppose. Need something to spice up that dreary day? An Adult Shop is merely blocks away! As circumstantial evidence in support of my theory, Time magazine states that Portland has the highest number of strip clubs per capita in the good ole U.S.A. Indeed, indeed. Anecdotally, I think that Niagara Falls, Ontario, Canada, has us beat. Canada has to beat us at something.
http://content.time.com/time/travel/cityguide/article/0,31489,1975826_1975753_1975585,00.html
The windows of each of these "Adult Shops" are darkly tinted, and I'd be afraid to enter for fear of getting abducted and never found. The chances of never being found would be very high. Usually, missing persons investigations start with determining where the person was last seen. That would be the tricky thing because I would make damn sure that nobody saw me going in there. I'm not known for hanging around these kinds of places, so speculation (i.e., where can he typically be found?) wouldn't help at all. As such, I did not enter any of these places despite the fact that they are conveniently located next to the interstate. Suit yourself, dear traveler.
I will mention as an aside that a location just North of Chico, California, once offered topless car washes. I drove by that bit of conspicuous debauchery on the way to coaching my kid's football game in Chico. Not the kind of pregame appropriate for a kid, so I drive on. Just like California to one-up its neighbor to the North.
Have I also mentioned that being Catholic forbids entry into the "Adult Shop"? Most non-Catholics think that we use confession as a crutch and excuse to commit all sorts of sins. Not so ... it is terrifying!
This is not something I would want to confess. I don't think I could get a word out after saying "Bless me father, for I have sinned". I know that any seasoned priest has heard the full panoply of human stupidity, but after the sacramental equivalent of "how do you do, father?", I would be tongue tied. In summary, being Catholic, married and a coward has kept me clear of a lot of stuff I shouldn't be involved in. People always say to me, "Doesn't being Catholic make you have to follow a lot of rules?". Yes, and for me it is obviously a win win situation. Oregon "Adult Shop" crisis averted!
We arrived at one of the hotels located next to the Portland Airport. The day basically ended with a short two mile run that took us to the airport. That was followed up by my second hamburger of the day. Take that cows!
October 4, 2014:
Any seasoned runner will tell you that you should eat carbohydrate and lean proteins in the days approaching a marathon. No deep fried foods, dummy! Well, I'm contrary. I persist in thinking that I'm the athlete I once was (if I ever was a very good athlete) and that I can do whatever I want. That's what I did on the day before the marathon. The day starts with a visit to the mecca of all things doughnut - Voodoo Doughnuts (http://voodoodoughnut.com/index.php). I've never been, and so I took my usual approach of going to extremes. "Yay, a new experience! Is there a way that I can do this so that it will cause me physical and psychological harm? Yes. OK, then, what do I need to do?" The forty minute wait in line and the pickup game of ping pong with the wife right after gaining entry were the only healthy parts of this experience.
Notice how afraid those Voodoo Doughnuts are of me. They drool green in fear! So, to "carbo load" I ate one of those Voodoo Dolls and the Bacon Maple. The peach fritter would then follow its Voodoo brethren into my belly at about 8:00 p.m. later that evening. Is it possible to waste some 700 miles of training on a day of eating like a total pig? Yes ... well, almost.
While munching away in my hotel on the peach fritter, I turned on the television. If you really want to get the feel of a community, I believe you should watch a bit of their television. I turned on the news and saw a brief bit on adopting "special needs" dogs.
Warning flag! Why would you do that to yourself? I have one of those special needs dogs (the kind that pee all over your house, dig in the trash and bark constantly), and I must say that you are really doing a service to your fellow man by adopting one of these dogs. By taking that dog out of the adoption pool, you saved that other fella from his own stupidity. Here is a lesson in fatherhood, if your kid saves a just born pup by giving it mouth to mouth resuscitation, that is not the dog you want to allow your kids to keep. The lack of oxygen at the very first moments of life leads to unholy consequences.
As we walked around the City taking in the sights (i.e., Saturday Portland Market), I started to notice the "hipster vibe". The standard uniform of the Portland hipster is a light plaid shirt (not flannel - that honor must go to Seattle), some kind of sandals that only your mother would wear and a tee-shirt with a preachy logo on it. Witness the "Think Globally, Drink Locally" logo I noticed on one of these unshaven muppets.
What the hell is that slogan supposed to mean? What does thinking globally have to do with getting drunk? Most drunks struggle to look beyond the pint glass much less "think globally". I realize that these two totally unrelated topics are supposed to sound smart and witty, but I'm at a loss. Other potential tee-shirt slogans of the same vein but perhaps more logically related? How about "Think narrowly, drink everything." If you've ever spent time in a redneck bar, you know that at least there is a nexus for that slogan. And those guys actually practice what the tee-shirt would preach. Maybe, "Don't Think, Just Drink!" That slogan would at least describe my particular malady.
Aside from the snarky feeling I get from seeing tee-shirts like this, I must confess that it did make me thirsty. Why not go to the Portland Brewery (http://www.portlandbrewing.com/)? I tried to be good. I really tried. My lovely bride of 25 years ordered up a sampler which gives you five (5) shorts of different ales etc. Although she comes from a family that really knows how to drink beer, the girl came up short. I was drinking water ... until then. Fine influence she turned out to be!
I cannot stand when good beer is wasted. I still punch guys when they spill beer. Everyone knows this is the consequence of wasting beer. My "bro code" kicked in so I polished off the last half. Of course, if you are at a brewery, you have to take the tour. Off we went, and then they comp you a bunch more beer. Gulp, gulp. My wife's cousin and I once polished off several pitchers of ale at the Sierra Nevada Brewery just before a half-marathon, and so I told myself that the same theory should apply to double that distance. Gulp, gulp.
Well, on to the torture that was the Portland Marathon.
October 5, 2014:
Portland is a beautiful place. The people are friendly. What's not to love? Just look at this picture!
Every long run should be preceded by the selection of music. I created a 4 hour 15 minute playlist just in case I totally flamed out and took forever to finish. Highlights with commentary where I fail to find the deeper meaning to the lyrics are as follows:
1. Just What I Needed by The Cars - This song has the singer appreciating a woman who wastes all his time. What makes this acceptable? Because she has ribbons in her hair. What the hell????? Men are stupid.
2. Pumped Up Kicks by Foster the People - Have you ever listened to this song closely? It's about some kid taking out his vengeance on other kids by shooting them. "You better run ... faster than my bullets." Oh, sh*t, I can't run that fast. Whatever it was, I didn't do it! Where are Tipper Gore and all her liberal friends to save us from the perverse effects of rock music. Tipper????
3. The Giving Tree by Plain White T's - Something about analogizing yourself to a tree that your woman cuts up into planks, builds into a boat and sails off. Hey, buddy, why are you complaining? You are still with her ... just in the shape of a boat. Cling to her, my friend. Cling ....
4. Say It Ain't So by Weezer - A classic song for boys with daddy issues. "You've cleaned up, found Jesus, things are good so I hear ... your son is drowning in the flood." Something about adolescent rage because your parents said that you can't play Xbox I think. Yep. Nothing deeper than that, I'm sure.
This and a whole bunch of other tunes will keep me in form during the race. The marathon starts and finishes down by the lawn area you see in the picture. Thirteen thousand of us lined up to run the marathon and half marathon. Before the start, all the participants sing the national anthem. It was glorious. Our voices cascaded down through the city blocks only to outlet over the quiet waters of the Willamette River. It was so lovely that I resisted the strong urge to slap the goofy running cap off of every guy who didn't show due respect by taking off his cap. It would have been kind of fun. In the crush of bodies at the start, I could have easily slapped a couple off and nobody would have even known it was me. Let's not stir things up, and get going!
The marathon route itself is mostly in industrial areas. I was expecting a bit more with Portland being so charming. The route was lined with bands, hefty belly dancers, and (for some strange reason) guys dressed up like pirates. What would possess someone to dress up like a pirate and yell "Argh!!! Ahoy, matey!" at a bunch of over-exhausted skinny people? And this leads me to a moral dilemma.
I was chugging along, and saw the pirate guys. Right as my head was nagging me to mutter out loud, "What the f**k?", one of these pirates starts calling out for high-fives. I left him hanging. I just didn't feel like high-fiving some off-balance, boozy guy who is doing the Renaissance Fair version of Pirates of the Caribbean. Kind of like this guy:
I ran right on by. The moral dilemma (and I actually thought about this as I ran by) is that I like to be friendly. If someone is going to offer me a kindness, I want to reciprocate. I really do. Say what you will, but these knuckleheads took the time to come down to the race and wish us well. In light of the effort, and despite the tailpipe inhaling induced desire to dress up like this, I just couldn't bring myself to do it. It's just too damned weird! Nonetheless, I tried to atone by spending the remainder of the race high-fiving every little kid who offered it up. Kids are great. I like kids, and they can be excused if they want to dress like a pirate a la Mr. Depp. No excuse for a grown man though. None whatsoever.
In any event, the marathon course is largely flat. I felt good. I was flying and well ahead of my desired pace. In fact, I left the 3 hour 45 minute pace group behind. That worked well until mile 18. It was at mile 18 that we had just climbed up to the St. John's Bridge and turned back toward downtown Portland. I could see the skyscrapers that hailed the finish a mere 8 miles away in the hazy morning. It was at that point that the little Voodoo Doll, Bacon Maple and Peach Fritter kicked my hind end. Mix in that delicious Cherry Stout from the Portland Brewery, and you have the perfect concoction to bring you a potent amount of misery. I slowed and slowed, but if you know anything about me, I would rather die than walk. You don't train so you can walk a marathon - not even 50 feet of it. If I can yell at my kid because he isn't giving 100% at a football practice, you can for damned sure bet that I was heaping all sorts of abuse on myself.
At mile 23 I was feeling worn out and nauseous. If one of those pirates were to show up, I would have spewed all over his buckler and soiled his doubloons. Some dude right in front of me pulled off the road to barf, and I almost did the same. It only takes one to start a good barf o' rama. Nonetheless, you have to stop to barf and that wasn't happening. I swallowed it down. It was at this juncture that every motivational sign I saw (there were hundreds) was a curse. You know how when someone tells you everything is going to be o.k. when you are feeling miserable? "Thanks, but you're not helping." It would not be good form to wrestle one of these things away from some well-wisher, rip it up and stomp on it. I digress.
At mile 25 the 3 hour 45 minute pace group passed me. Even though my main goal was to crack 4 hours, I wanted that extra 15 minutes shaved off. Unfortunately, the girl leading that pace group was shouting encouraging slogans "Almost there! Push it! You've got this!" I followed for about a half mile trying to keep pace or at least shove her off the side of the road into a planter. I had the humiliation of watching them slowly escape me. Ah, me. I finished it at 3:46. One minute off, and I will damned sure blow up 3:45 next time, and there will be a next time .... without the hamburgers ... without the beer ... without the Voodoo Doughnuts ... and without the pirates.
My bride and I hobbled the four city blocks back to our hotel. She didn't hobble. She felt just fine. I showered, and fell asleep on the bed for an hour and a half. The only thing that got me out of bed is that I wanted to meet up with some family. That resulted in lots of barbecue ribs. Later that night, it was Thai food. Because I have a brain mostly composed of empty space, gears and sprockets, I haven't learned a damned thing. It took me a day and half to shake off the niggling desire to puke.
We did manage to make it into a lovely library across from the hotel. It was three stories tall, and it was a matter of principle to walk up and down each step. It was worth the effort because I found a freaky book called "Outcast Samurai Dancer". It is a picture book with explanation in Japanese. I know freaky when I see it. I didn't need the English translation.
The picture on the front gives you a fair enough picture of what is in the inside. But, no, not really. The pictures inside remind me of something out of American Horror Story. Naked Japanese men and women in odd, twisted poses with Kabuki paint. Looking at this book is kind of like how you can't help but look at an accident as you drive by. Wow! These Japanese fetishists are weirder than your standard Canadian.
OK, I've had enough of Portland. Time to go. Tomorrow's drive awaits and I have wounds to heal.
In summary, and putting all joking and snarkiness aside, we had a great trip. Portland is a stunning city. It is dotted with lovely parks and cottages. The people are very nice. If you have a chance to go you should. At the very least, stop and put a hurting on one of those Voodoo Dolls.
Just look at that little guy squeal!
