sKooled

This morning, I went for a hilly run at Mt. Tabor Park here in Portland. I was meeting up with "Ruben": Another runner from a trail running group we belong to called TRAIL FACTOR. I type this all in caps because each time someone from the group sends an email to everyone, TRAIL FACTOR is capitalized each time the words TRAIL FACTOR FACTOR into the message.

Ruben greets me, and I clearly have some years on him. He's an incredibly sweet and cool cat, and I'm always up for makin' a new friend or three, so off we trotted up the road for about a mile's jog before hitting the TRAILS of the park.

Okay, I'll stop the all caps thing now. Okay, one last one.

FACTOR


The climb was subtle, but there, and I couldn't help but notice we were running at a speed slightly faster than my normal short run pace. Ah well. Things will slow down when we hit those massive climbs in the park thought I, gracefully skipping over road construction pot holes and following my partner into the park.

We get to talking, not necessarily about running at first: School, jobs, loving the Pacific NW, and then the first major climb rears it's ugly, muddy head. I was immediately reminded of an episode of The Simpsons wherein Homer agrees to climb a mountain sponsored by an energy bar. One of the people sponsoring the climb points out the window and it's revealed to reach miles into the sky. The man tells Homer, and I am paraphrasing, "Yes, riiiiight next to that one." The camera pans back to reveal a larger and even more ominous mountain beside the original towering giant. He then adds, "Uh huh. Juuust to the right of that one." Camera again pans back to reveal a monstrous mountain that completely dwarfs the others, stretching into the clouds.

That, my friends, was only slightly less steep than this first climb.

Ruben trots up the trail casually at a pace I myself would label "a slow sprint". I even tell him I need to walk a few seconds, which he happily does with me until it tapers back to something that would remind a human being as not-a-means-of-torture. Winding up and up, we finally hit the top and are on level loops around a central park when we begin talking about ultra marathon running.

Me: "Is that shirt from the local 50k I've heard about?"

Ruben: "yeah! It's really fun. I was in the lead until the last few miles."

Me: "jdhfpunf;oiwhrvudu[dcjnv!!!!!1111eleventy" (as my jaw had hit the ground, I was incoherent)

Me (finally getting it together): "What did you wind up placing?"

Ruben: "Third. I finished in 4 hours."

Me: "lASKDCkfgjkgjfkkgjriig886hrvhvhrifhinrcr!!"

As it turns out, I was on a hilly training run with, someone I would at least deem, an elite trail runner.

We returned to his place 45 minutes later, my legs burning from the intense speeds (at least for this old man) and enjoyed some snacks while watching Californication.

I bid Ruben farewell and promised we'd run together again, maybe for a long, slow run (please God, please - long and slow this time) and I returned home, muddy and humbled, with legs that felt as though Bruce Lee had swung by and kicked the living shit out of them.

I hadn't noticed the race trophies on his mantel until just before I'd left.

(post script: I just checked the website for the results from the 50k at Forest Park that was run in May. Guess who won the damned thing.)

I dare you to not tear up during this. DARE you, I say.

DARE YOU

It's okay if you don't. But if you don't, please refrain from stealing toys from orphans this Christmas. if you can.

First novel...

...first draft: Done.

After researching, outlining and writing the prose for 8 years (several of which were spent in a "drawer" on my hard drive, not to be opened, much less touched), today, sitting in the kitchen nook with the bright Portland sunshine filling the skies, I drummed out the final two pages of my first novel. And I have to admit, it feels...false? As in, is it really over?

Then I look over the final pages and see that the characters have run their courses, the plot has fully arced and, really, there's no place left to go.

Except to rewrites, starting on page 1. But not until next week.

I'm gonna enjoy this feeling for a bit.

Perspective

It seems my life's lesson, at least the greater arc of it, is perspective. So much has changed for me in the last two + years, the greatest of which is my perception of the world around me and my place in it. My eyes have been snapped open wide to how much there is to learn and how immediate life truly is. For this, I am forever thankful.

Last evening, a shift in history took place and with this shift, I believe (dare I say "hope"?) that the world's perspective was given a slight refocus. I could carry on about my personal feelings on the election, but the first and foremost word that sums up what has processed thus far: Calm. This is a far different blog entry than the one I posted 4 years ago, the morning after the election...

WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 03, 2004

Saddened. In disbelief. Frightened. Angered. Mortified. Stymied. Dissapointed. Freaked fucking out.

George W. Bush and his Republican regime have bought another 4 years in power.

The hopelessness is deeper than anything I've ever felt. The disbelief in my soul that 51% of my fellow American are fucking idiots. It hurts me that now, not only do we live in a sovereignty led by a born again Christian extremist, but more than 1/2 of the population supports that.

Let the drinking commence until 2008....

God help us all.

During this current financial crisis; amidst the single most important Presidential election in my voting lifetime, where the future of the country, nay, the world may lay in balance/teetering on the edge of oblivion, I would like to point us towards a more daunting and disturbing fact:

THE DEAD GIRL FROM POLTERGEIST IS IN A TV COMMERCIAL



I'm really sure what the commercial is trying to sell me, nor do I care. All I know is that Craig T Nelson agreed to appear in an ad alongside THE DEAD GIRL FROM POLTERGEIST. So to him I say:

Good on you!

It takes a brave actor to stretch his acting chops by performing in a scene with an actor who died 20 years ago at the tender age of 13. Why, her acting skills were at best those of a 15 year old! And now, her soul floating in the hereafter for two decades, how much better could her "acting-is-reacting" talents have possibly gotten? So it all falls on Craigers. And pull it off? Does he EVER!

I'm half-tempted to buy whatever-the-thing-is that THE DEAD GIRL FROM POLTERGEIST and the ubiquitous star of "The Killing Fields", "The Ghosts of Mississippi", and - his greatest tour de force performance prior to the commercial WITH THE DEAD GIRL FROM POLTERGEIST -"Coach" is selling, sight unseen. Why, the way he deadpans to camera as her lithe, tiny frame stares at him with the soulless eyes of a demon from the foot of the bed is the hilarious delivery that sends my shopping urges over the edge! His wry, mildly exacerbated reads of his lines as he continues to ignore the weakening, frail, and quite frankly, DEAD LITTLE GIRL absolutely leaves me in awe!

If you have yet to have seen this masterpiece in the flesh, please click below. And remember to dim all lights and wait until the stroke of midnight to watch it!

Ultrarunner Karl Meltzer's adventure across the Appalachian Trail that began in mid-August ended 2 days ago. His attempt to break the thru-hike record was met with challenge upon challenge: A bout with Trench Foot sent him to a hospital for examination and medical care, and painful achilles tendonitis made his every step excruciating as he ran and hiked some of the most beautiful and technical trails this country has to offer.

Karl reached the finish on September 29th after 54 days, 21 hours, and 12 minutes of relentless forward motion.

Way to do it, Karl!

Trashlicious

In Portland, we have four (4) trash/recycling containers: Muted green for trash, blue for "recyclabes", a bright green for yard waste, and a small, yellow container for glass. Frankly, I'm shocked we aren't asked to separate the different colors of glass. And I'm not being facetious.

We haven't quite figured out the trash pickup routine yet, even after 10 weeks of it. We were told by neighbors that glass pickup is on Wednesday morning and everything else Thursday morning, but then Ann phoned the company who told us that no, Thursday, everything is picked up, so make certain to cart our stuff out Wednesday evening.

Well, some Thursdays, one of the (random) containers sits untouched and remains full. And other weeks, they just don't show up at all. But they've been fairly consistent.

One of the more fascinating aspects about trash day (I can almost see you all perched on the edge of your chairs) are the recyclabes collectors. Routinely, we hear the clanging of empty glass containers bouncing about in shopping carts. This is a veritable army of glass collecting-hobbyists who descend on our trash like Lindsay Lohan on a new sexual identity (I worked real hard coming up with that one, folks). Thing is, they aren't the predictable homeless every time. Our first week, two college-age preppy "dudes" nabbed our stuff (beer money, we assumed). And now, not 3 minutes after I put the containers out front, I'm watching a middle aged Latino man who looks like he might have been playing chess in a park a few hours ago dig through our glass. All I can assume he's thinking is, "Damn, you people like beer."

That and, "King takes rook seven."