Don't waste my time, I need an opponent Not only will I dog you but I make you retire Don't get close, this cut is on fire -Tone Loc A toothless man near a Starbucks is cheering on a mother in biker shorts. "GWOOOOOHHH! YEAH!" She doesn't react. As I pass, he doesn't offer a single clap. He takes a break, waiting for the next set of shaved legs to pass. We must have rousted him out of his sidewalk bed, all ten thousand of us. A few runners wave at him. Others smile and stare at their shoes. He isn't the only one we've woken up early on this Sunday morning. Bleary-eyed yuppies sit on porches in sweat pants, sipping coffee out of oversized mugs. Others peer out through third-story blinds. Tone Loc's beats have been bouncing off their walls for an hour. It's a quarter after nine on a Sunday morning. I haven't seen a quarter after nine on a Sunday morning since I was 11 years old, right around the time I stopped attending church. I've invested close to $100 and four weeks into this and the race is already over. The winners crossed the finish line an hour ago. Three miles away, seemingly oblivious, there are thousands of us still running, jogging, walking and power-walking towards the end. Why are we doing this to ourselves at this ungodly Godly hour on the Sabbath? Better yet, why are we paying $27 to do this? The heart of the city has been shutdown. Only three runners will win this race and they already have. The rest of us could easily putter around somewhere that wouldn't inconvenience Portland's most densely populated neighborhoods. I'm not the first to go looking for an answer to the question: "Why do these mad buggers run?" Those words were posed in an out-of-print book 23 years ago and the author still makes occasional trips to the Honolulu marathon looking for the answer. It should be for obvious. For the fresh air and exercise. To wear off a few pounds of high-fructose corn syrup. For the sunshine, a mass-produced medal and a t-shirt that will fade after a single wash. Naw, there has to be more to it than that, especially with Devo and A Flock of Seagulls directly involved.
July 1st - 32 days to start time
I had to see this and quickly registered for the race. Somehow, I can remember the exact moment I had last ran competitively: Mr. Skile's high school PE class. Rather than go up against five burly members of various freshman PPS teams, I walked the length of a 100-yard dash. Skile, a Craig T. Nelson look alike with a qucik trigger temper, had little patience for this snide act of defiance. "GO TO THE LOCKER ROOM! I DON'T EVEN WANT TO LOOK AT YOU!" The other kids shook their heads and called me a pussy as I headed inside. Was this a punishment? No, it was a Get Out of Jail Free card for the day. I blame them for ruining sports and exercise for me, everything from the NBA to a quick jog to the local 7-11 between 1993 and 1998. The word "sports" quickly became a punchline. After registering for the race I dropped a positively stupid amount of money on a pair of Nike Alvord IIs, running shoes meant for cross-training, not running on pavement. It's the only way I can justify the purchase. When this is all over I can use them for hiking.
July 8th - 24 days to start time
The first outing was an unmitigated but not unexpected disaster. Ten years of laziness meant I couldn't run further than three blocks without stopping for a Gatorade infusion. I had three weeks to work the time up to fifty-four minutes, the expected completion time for a beginner. To train properly, I should have started around Valentine's Day, increasing the distance steadily by a quarter-mile each week until I made it to 6. A few gifted runners can conquer a mile in three minutes. On July 7th, it took me fifteen. The Riverview offers picturesque views of the Willamette and serves as the final resting place for local luminaries like Henry Weinhard and Henry Pittock but it isn't the best place to train for a mini-marathon. The cemetary's hills are cruel and its winding curves more confusing than a hedge maze. Covered in sweat and lost among century-old tombstone, after sunset, with the Run Lola Run soundtrack wafting in through a pair of headphones is equal parts stupid andscary. That night it took me over 30 minutes to find my way out. Four days later, I found myself on a long hill on the edge of the grounds in 90 degree heat. Nearby were several groups of mourners somberly cleaning the plots of family members. From afar they shot me an occasional glare as I took a seat on a curb. If only they had been there a few nights prior when a mountain biker plowed over ground markers with her German Shepard. I consider asking one for a ride back to the gates but thought better of it. Heat stroke would be better than all the shouting and awkwardness. Self-consciousness was getting me nowhere. The dead and their entourages were tougher critics than Skile. It was time to train somewhere else.
July 19th - 13 days to start time
I fill a shirt with sweat on a 95 degree afternoon. Barchested men covered in multiple layers of gray hair bomb past. Running uphill in the kind of heat is like sprinting through a lake of a gym filled with stale Jell-O. To the Carousel and back takes well over an hour. The blazing-fast Zen masters around me, some nearly thrice my age, can do it in 30 minutes or less. I'm out of my element and I'm wearing the wrong shoes. I decide that all future trips up Terwilliger will be at night. After sunset, the runners-for-life are replaced a more interesting crowd. Over the course of a few evenings, I pass countless teens making out in their parents mini-vans with Jammin' 95.5 drifting out of cracked windows. I catch a man in a white polo shirt peering in parked cars for something to steal. Two motorcyclists, after careening over the jogging trail to a picnic table have a quiet argument in the dark. They're dressed in identical yellow jumpsuits. An old hatchback parked by the Veteran's Hospital has what looks like a bullet hole in the windshield. The hill's crickets provide a nice soundtrack.
July 28th - 4 days to race time
I'm attempting to mix a camping trip with friends and training. Up to this point, the vacation has been littered with everyday disasters. The afternoon before, a highway cop in Reno 911 gear slapped me with a $243 ticket for trying to keep pace with Marion County's Ram trucks. A few hours pass and I nearly run out of gas outside of Bend.
We're out here to float in the lake's typically calm waters and chug discount Hefeweizen. Now we're forced to choose between apathetic drifting to the opposite shore or strenuous exercise to get back to the Ballpark Franks at the campsite. The wee bit of increased upper body strength I'll earn from the long haul back to shore won't increase my running stamina. Zuma, a border collie with more energy than a nuclear power plant, stands boldly at the bow of one craft, looking like a furry Master and Commander. Ten minutes prior, the dog leapt into this ice cold lake in a foolish attempt to swim fifty yards to his master's one man raft. Zuma makes it ten feet before yelping for help. We quickly switch crafts and I slice up a toe on a sharp rock. Now I'm injured.
I'm assured that shore is only ten minutes away. I have to piss so bad I give myself a headache. Prefontaine and Rocky never went through this.
July 30th - 36 hours to race time
Click here for part two of this thrilling sports saga!
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