Something to Sneeze At

In case you missed out – the Dirty Birdy STELLAR!  I’d heard word of it for weeks.  To be honest, it didn’t sound like my kind of thing.  Avid hand-washer, I generally prefer to stay clean.  This was going to be something new.

I certainly hadn’t committed to it.  The idea – enticing as it was – seemed far fetched.  I just couldn’t see myself participating.  Sloshing on my belly through a pool of mud?  So not me.  However, I felt it was my duty as a photographer and an artist to go shoot the heck out of it (especially since my cameraman, Vinny, was home sick).  That way I could transmit the messy ruckus to all those squares out there still afraid to get dirty.  Then again, if I got the gall, I could always jump on in and run as bandit.  That became the plan.  Anticipation began to mount in the last 24 hours leading up to the event to the point when we were finally on our way.

I got into Kristopher’s car.

“I feel like I’m going to throw up,” I said, hand on belly.  He looked at me nervously.  “Don’t worry, I’m just excited,” I told him.  It’s true – I get the same feeling before every kickball game.  I love it.

Pulling into PIR, we parked among a smattering of cars and people suiting up.  It occurred to me that it would be unwise to attempt photography while running such a muddy race.  Maybe I should just shoot from the sidelines, I thought.  But seeing them thoroughly hose down the course with a fresh layer of wetness made me want to be mucking around in it even more.  Kristopher wanted to run it no matter what.

The crowd clearly wasn’t big enough to preserve our anonymity as bandits – we started having a mild guilt trip about it.  In the end, my buddy coughed up some change to get us dialed in (Thanks Kristopher!).  Totally legit, it was ON.

The course was a massive mess: a winding 5k loop that included obstacles (forcing us to crawl through mud on our bellies) and 2 huge slip’n’slides (into giant mud puddles of course).  And get this!  They traditionally start the race with the previous Dirty Birdy winners, both male and female, wearing bright yellow Dirty Birdy jerseys, giving them a 30 second head start.  The dude was there, but the previous female winner was nowhere on site.  So Devin, the Oregon Active guy who put the event together, got on the horn and asked the crowd which chick would like to be the honorary Dirty Birdy and NO ONE spoke up.  Can you believe that?!

Cutting the silence, guess who volunteered.

Lo and behold, the Dirty Birdy jersey went perfectly with my golden legs.  And none of it was gold for very long.  About 30 seconds into the race I got clothes-lined in the obstacle course.  After that, I spent a good deal of time crawling through pits of muck.  Early in the second lap, my shorts filled with mud and fell completely off.  Heck – they were slowing me down anyway.

It was such a treat!  I hadn’t felt like that much of a kid since waaaaaay back in October during the Naked Pumpkin Run.  There’s just something about slogging around in the mud that’s good for the soul…

At the end of the race, Kristopher and I enjoyed a few beers at the bonfire, admiring the mud splatters among our cohorts.  It was only a small crowd, but given the circumstances, I’d say we were surrounded by some of the coolest people in P-Town.  If you’re down to get muddy, you’re rad.

All of a sudden, I felt a tickle in my nose.  On came a fit of sneezes – musta been at least 5 or 6 in a row.  But it was no big deal.  Sneezing is fun!  I shook it off.  We finished our beers and Kris brought me home.  By the time we got there, I was officially sick.

It seemed like the fastest moving cold I’d ever had.  At bed time, I was a wreck, but in the morning, I was better again!  Wow, I thought, I must be some sort of super-human.  I proceeded about my weekly routine of working out, working on projects, and hanging with family & friends in the evenings.

A few days later, the damn cold came back.  So much for that super-human idea…  But it did the exact same thing: hit me around noon, rapidly running its full course by the next morning.  I didn’t even have to adjust my schedule!

Fast forward through another fun weekend of hilarity (see Perpetual Nonsensical Greatness), where without a doubt, we were on a roll.  Vinny and I got a bunch more footage for the movie (not like we needed it – there’s plenty) and had a blast while doing.  Everything was peachy-keen until Monday night.

It felt like there were razorblades in my throat.  I could hardly sleep.  When I got up Tuesday morning, it was even worse.  I was sicker than I’ve been in as long as I can remember.  How was this possible?

Turns out, it’s H1N1 – the dreaded swine flu.  Then the pieces started falling together.  One of the symptoms is what seems like a false-starting cold.  Oh shit.  Then I remembered that Vinny had practically been on is death bed the week before.  I must have gotten it from him!

I’m not mad.  Okay – I’m a little ticked to be sick, but as long as Vinny keeps his distance till I’m feeling better, I’ll let him live.  Meantime, at least everyone’s well-occupied during recovery.  See you soon, friends.

HAVE A GREAT THANKSGIVING!!!

Perpetual Nonsensical Greatness

I had a feeling it was going to be a good weekend.  (It was FANTABULOUS!)  When Friday night rolled around, I found myself quiet and alone.  In those eerie moments – the silence before the storm – a familiar sensation was percolating deep within me: elation.

But solo, I faced a dilemma.  Go it alone or call Vinny?  There were several stops to make across town, live music here, party there and who-knows-what-else along the way.  I’d told Vinny that we were moving on to Phase 2 of the video project, so we weren’t going to be filming anymore.  Funny how things change.

He came over right away.  We started with some serious conversation about our project and terms of collaboration (for example: no more driving like a maniac and I’m the boss, dammit), over salad and a martini at Observatory.  Delicious.

The night was a whistle-stop tour of parties and events around the industrial SE area.  We got killer footage and I ran into a bunch of wonderful friends.  I could tell Vinny was happy to be out with me again by the dopey grin that never left his face.  By the time he brought me home, I was too drunk to care that he ran most of the red lights along the way.  (Don’t worry – I lectured at him about it the next day.)

Saturday, it continued.  The evening kicked off with a break-dancing competition at a community center near my place.  It seemed like an ideal opportunity to show Violet what it was all about, so I called my buddy Rene (who loves dancing), because I knew he’d be going too.

“I’d appreciate it if you did NOT bring Vinny to this,” he said.

“I’m sure Vinny will track me down sooner or later,” I replied.

You just have to expect it at this point.  If there’s something happening, we’re gonna go shoot the hell out of it.  Vinny showed up just in time to catch the last few rounds of the battle.  Then we made what was supposed to be a brief stop back at my place.  We regrouped, cracked a beer, stepped out the front door and found…no car.

Where did it go?

“My car just got stolen?!”  Vinny was beside himself.  “The camera was in there!”  That was even worse than losing the wheels.  It made me feel sick.

We looked around.  Right then, a police car passed by – not a typical occurrence in this residential area, but whatev.  Vinny ran after it and flagged the cop down.

“I think my car was just stolen,” he told the officer, at which point the officer gestured to a car not-so-neatly parked in a neighbors’ front yard.

“That car?”

“What the…?”  Vinny was still a little confused, but soon the fog lifted and we realized what had happened.  He’d left the e-brake off and the car had rolled down our street, across Stark and on down the hill to the neighbors’ front yard where it knocked down some hedges as it stopped, popping both left tires in the process.  HA!

Fortunately, another friend was in the neighborhood, so he swooped us up and the night proceeded according to plan.

The end…for now.

Is Happiness a Solitary Pursuit? Robert Biswas-Diener Answers

Is Happiness a Solitary Pursuit? Robert Biswas-Diener Answers.

Many people have such a natural, intuitive knack for pursuing their own happiness that they rarely stop to question whether it should be a solitary pursuit. The short answer is yes, it should be; but also no, it does not have to be.

At the most basic level, happiness is a personal feeling, experienced subjectively within the individual. Who better to work with the causes and construals of happiness, then, than the individual. Interestingly, science has also shown happiness to confer a number of benefits to the individual, including better immune functioning, more curiosity and creativity, and more sociability. And it is here, on that note—sociability—that we have to turn to non-solitary pursuits of happiness.

Humans are, after all, primates and, as such, are social creatures. Studies show that even introverts report more happiness when they are in group settings, and intimate relationships have been linked to greater happiness. In fact, studies also show benefits of happiness for groups: Happy people have better relationships, volunteer more, and are more likely to help a co-worker. In the end, the pursuit of happiness is an individual endeavor with far-reaching social consequences. It is sensible for individuals to shepherd their own happiness, but equally logical to understand that it is relationships that serve both as a route to happiness and a target for happiness.

Robert Biswas-Diener is a positive psychologist, certified mentor coach, and co-founder of The Strengths Project.

Quickie

Hey Gang,

All is well in Audreality – not that you were worried of course.  Facebook decided to have me back (*swoon*) since I promised never to post naked pics there ever ever again.  On a related note, we’ve moved on to the next phase of the video project, so I’m no longer being stalked by a cameraman.  Anyway, wanted to let y’all know about some of the fun coming up this weekend:

Friday from 6-9pm Local 35 is having a birthday party, complete with keg, music, goody bags (for the early birds), special deals AND Voodoo Donuts.  YUM!

Saturday is the Dirty Birdy, sure to be one of the better mud mucking events of the season.  Participate (for 25 bucks) or just stand by and watch ‘em get sloppy.  Water-balloon throwing is encouraged.  I plan to observe from the sidelines, but I may be overwhelmed by temptations to dive on in.  Don’t try to stop me.

Later Saturday evening, bop on over to the annual open studios event at 17 SE 3rd & Ankeny, where every artist in the building has a party!

Facebook’s a Cockblocker!

I’ve had an online presence for about a decade.  I’ll even admit it: I was on HotorNot.  Friendster.  FacetheJury.  They got old.  These days it’s on to Facebook, Myspace, Twitter and a blog.  Well, it was Facebook.  But as of this morning, they’re mad at me.  So, rather than throw up a half-assed new one, I’m dipping out.

It’s almost like God is giving me a bunch of extra time to work on my projects.  Funny thought though, because the farther you go down that road, the more you’ll find it leading back to you.  I posted those pictures.  I pushed the line.  This was all coming, all in due time.

That’s how I feel about this crazy video project too.  It’s something we had to do.

Saturday started with the Annual Zombie Walk.  Of course Vinny and I went, camera’s rolling.  We shot the hell out of it!  The day before, I’d put an ad on Craigslist to help entice zombie killers to show up.  They came in a huge black bus with fake riot gear, gas masks and guns, but their imaginary ammo was no match for thousands of zombies marching and groaning through downtown Portland.  At the end, the zombies convened in Pioneer Square, where they performed their rendition of Michael Jackson’s Thriller video.  It was incredible!

As if that wasn’t enough fun for one day, Vinny and I headed home to clean the blood splatters off and have a quick wardrobe change: him into his usual suit and tie, me into my usual jeans, tank top with a sweater and running shoes.  Then we rolled down to the Annual Distiller’s Festival at Bossanova.  We opted to go in the main entrance.

“Lets do this the old fashioned way,” I said.  “We’ll ask nicely.”

The lady in the booth at the door was happy to let us in.  We went upstairs, then Vinny and I split up to do our thing.  We managed to taste everything in the room: bacon vodka, chili-pepper vodka, absinthe, lots of bourbon and more.  But I had a half-marathon to run in the morning, so I had to take it easy.

I pulled out my list.  There was still so much to do!  And it was early.  We decided to push through.  Next stop was the 350 climate change awareness party.

Beer was free and entertainment was top notch.  The Sprockettes performed a few of their choreographed dance routines to local indie rock music, complete with tiny bikes!  I was telling them we should make a pro-bike video…  Naturally, I volunteered Vinny as cameraman.

It was right about then that an adorable little chick caught my eye, with a magnificent paper blossom on her head.  Her name was Gwen.  I just had to photograph her!

Gwen told us about how she made the accessory that I so admired.  It was modified from a Chinese lantern.  What a creative lady!  She explained that she recently moved to Portland to work as a PA in the film industry and she’d love an opportunity to be a part of our project.  (Isn’t that cute?!  She must not realize how low/no budget it is.)  Moments later, Vinny announced that he’d just got word of a bus full of naked people preparing to streak around Portland with pumpkins on their heads.  It was leaving in ten minutes.

“I don’t believe it,” I said, “but if it’s true, we have to get on that bus.”

Vinny agreed enthusiastically, “we have to get on that bus!”

Suddenly my hopes of running a half-marathon the next morning were dashed.  (Needless to say, the sacrifice was worth it.)

Vinny looked around frantically for a pumpkin, Gwen and I observing.  Was this really happening?  Vinny spotted a big one on a nearby shelf.

“Maybe I should steal it,” he wondered aloud, “the pumpkin is mandatory.”

“Well,” said Gwen, “I carved it.  How about I just let you have it?”

“That works!”  Vinny grabbed the pumpkin, quickly cut a hole in the bottom and ran for the bus.  I was already there.

According to the rules, everyone except for camera people had to have a pumpkin for their head and be completely naked.  (Turns out, the definition of “completely” does vary, depending on accessories.)  We’d be hitting several populated areas around Portland, streaking through a bunch of bars along the way.  What a hoot!

Before too long, the line between photographer and participant disappeared.  The other camera man and myself found our clothes being removed.  A lovely lady wearing only purple paint took care of my top.  My pants stayed on.

Predictably, the police showed up.  The naked people weren’t even the problem – it was the flaming pumpkin on top of the bus.  Go figure.  I threw my shirt back on to film the lecture.

“This is purely an artistic endeavor,” explained our nearly naked leader, Gustav, “We know there’s a fine line between nude and lewd and we intend not to cross it.”  We do love pushing boundaries, don’t we?

The police man, visibly straining to contain his amusement, pulled out his notepad, asking our comrade’s name.

“Here, let me give you my card,” Gus said, one-upping.  (Where he had cards stashed remains a mystery.)  He reassured the police officer that no one was being sexual in any way.  Without further delay, the fire truck pulled away and the cops returned to duty.  Back on the bus, Gus shouted a warning:

“They’re letting us continue as long as we remain decent.  No jiggling your junk at anybody!”

“Vinny,” I said accusingly, “that means you.”

It was getting late.  The tour ended back where it began and everyone migrated inside to party.  Dudes were hilarious.

“I work for a member of congress,” said one of my fellow naked bus-riders, “Guess which one.”  I refused to guess – I didn’t care which!  My internal homing beacon began firing.  It was time to go.

I left the party on foot.  Within a minute or two, I heard someone following me.  He was trashed.

“Are you trying to give me a ride?”  I asked, “Because you look too drunk to drive.”  I laughed at myself.  “Which one of us is being more creepy right now?!”  He was so wasted – he couldn’t even reply.  “Give me your keys,” I said.  “I’ll drive.”

Poor guy.

He let me drive myself home, despite the fact that I couldn’t bring him inside.  I had to be up in two hours to take Mom to the airport.  Plus, Dad would flip.  The guy said he’d just sleep in his car.  Fine by me!  I went to bed.

At 4am, I was up again, still feeling buzzed on our way to the airport.  Mom asked me about the night, so I told her everything.  I was relieved that she laughed – considering her current situation (on her way to Memphis to see her ailing mother) she needed a laugh.

Back home, I returned to bed.  I woke up later with a phone full of messages, including a devastating one from Vinny:  The camera is gone.

WHAT?!

Vinny lost the camera.  I was going to kill him!  My heart palpitated a little while I wondered, “Is this how it ends?”  I instinctively readied myself for a quick reconnaissance mission.  I was going to find that damn thing.

Fortunately, Vinny beat me to it.  He went back to the party venue, where people were still chillin’ and sure enough, the camera had been found.

There was no time to spare.  I immediately switched gears, showered and got laced up for double-header kickball games.  Mud Muckers won ‘em both!  I was ecstatic.  By the end of the night I’d put 75 colorful pics from the weekend on Facebook in an album titled: ONE CRAZY ASS DAY.

They were awesome pics!  Yeah, so there were a few penises in there.  There were also lots of boobies!  No harm in that… Right?

Wrong!

When I got home from fitness conditioning today, my Facebook page was gone.  My account has been disabled.  Who knows if it’s permanent or for how long?  Oh well.  In the meantime, I’ll get lots of work done.

Stay tuned for the movie!

Dodging the Raindrops

Portland’ s even beautiful when it rains.  It’s one of those days where you drink tea and stay cozy.  I’m taking tonight off.

Lately I’ve had a video guy (most evenings each weekend) catching footage of a variety of the fun things going on around P-town.  I literally ran into him during the Portland Marathon a couple weeks ago (while I was running it), filming his special gal friend who was close to my pace.  He managed to get four clips of me at different points throughout the marathon, including the end, where I spotted him and excitedly announced that I’d just gotten my Boston qualifier.  I wanted that footage…

SO despite our dodgy history, I decided to have Vinny and his camera come hang out.  I got back in touch.  It’s been a while, because I periodically cut him off when his behavior gets intolerable.  He loves to test his limits.  Not with me – I generally manage to steer around or ignore it.  And we’ve never been romantic.  We’ve never had and never will have a physical relationship.  (I shudder to think of it!)

Vinny doesn’t weirdly come on to anyone, but he has non-sexual ways of making some people uncomfortable, causing a certain social awkwardness.  I’ve had friends get seriously pissed at me for bringing him around.  Then again, some people are uptight.  Keeping things under relative control is a delicate balance.  But I may be getting the hang of it.

Not knowing what the end result will be, we’ve got a growing pile of hilarious footage.  It’s all local events: parties/party crashing, kickball, live music, stand-up comedy (and random funny people in the street), sneaking into fashion shows, beer tastings, a cider party, an awesome slap in the face and much more.  Tomorrow we’re going as a newscaster and her camera man to the 5th Annual Zombie Walk downtown.  It will fit in perfectly.  The only theme is Portland life…and me.  Audreality?

Like so many of the best things, this project has basically manifested itself.  It’s – at the very least – a great ride.  Vinny has the technology, paired with a necessary ability to use it…  There must be some reason I am here.  Who knows why?  But neither of us could make whatever-it-is possible without the other.  And it’s completely no-budget.  We’ll see what happens.

Ciao for now,

~Aud.

Going the Distance

Sow and Reap

It was October 2006 when I found myself blabbing at the Blue Hour about how much I loved to run.  “I broke a record in my first 800 meter race,” I must have said.  (Even though I was no more than fourteen for that event – yes, sometimes I blab it drunkenly.)  Surrounded by traveling race directors and other members of the marathon circuit, I was digging it.  Who wouldn’t?!  A whole gaggle of visitors, new to town (mostly men) and all of them affiliated with running!  Delight!

One of them, Silinski, took a particular liking to me.  He’s much older and shorter, so romance was never an option.  He was more like a father figure.  “Talented runner, are you?”  He said, “I’ll show you running.”

That weekend was full of organized events for the race directors and the rest of the marathon gang.  There was a dinner party at the Pittock Mansion, another dinner party at the MAC Club and of course lots of drinking.  I met some of the best distance runners in the world.  On Sunday morning, I got dropped off at the VIP tent in time to see the first place female finish the Portland Marathon.  That’s when it dawned.  She’s just like me!

Capital Discovery

Two weeks later, I was in DC for the Army 10-Miler.  My new friend had flown me out to run!  I was tiredly grumpy the night I landed, and it was late, but he insisted on taking me to see the sights…with the top down.  (It was freezing!)  Abe Lincoln stared from his enormous perch and life-sized, fully armed soldiers stood eerily, almost glowing in the dark, as if frozen into stone mid-fight.

The next day we went shopping.  My friend wanted me to have a black dress for the evening’s affair.  We’d be schmoozing with some of the top in command of our US Armed Forces.  No one could figure out why I was there.  Neither could I!  But I was absolutely along for the ride.

Finally, the last morning came and it was time to run.  I was brought to the VIP area where we watched the opening ceremonies.  Lining up with the runners behind the starting line, I peeled off my top layer and scanned the scene for my friend.  He was nowhere in sight.  There was someone I recognized though!  So I threw it.  Silinski yelled at me about that later.  That guy was a Colonel of the US Army.  Apparently no one throws anything at him.

It was a great race.  Naturally, my favorite part was flirting with the men in uniform.  Seeing the monuments wasn’t bad either.  Soon the trip came to an end and I found myself back in Portland.  But Silinski already had another adventure in mind: a few days later we were in Canada.

Getting Touchy

The Toronto trip didn’t go as smoothly as it could have.  There was a man who lived there that I’d met online, back when the internet was new and exciting.  We used to chat for hours!  In my mind, he was Godlike.  His accent was delectable, his story, profound.  From his pictures it was clear he was one of the better-looking men I’d seen.  No one believed he was real.  I was determined to find out.

So, we met.  And he was absolutely handsome.  But even after all those years of chatting online, there was undeniable awkwardness.  What now?  We had a few drinks and went back to his place, where we made out heavily.  We stopped short of having sex.  Turned out, he not only smoked cigarettes but he was a professional con – not exactly turn-ons.  The flawless image was broken.  The next morning, he sent me off in a cab and I never saw him again.

Silinski wasn’t thrilled about me going off on my own, but stifled it.  There were events to attend and elbows to rub.  He introduced me to Katherine Switzer, the first woman to ever run the Boston Marathon.  I met Bart Yasso, editor of Runners World, one of the most famous distance runners.  Bart’s wife, Laura, wasn’t there though – my friend warned me to stay away from him.

Then Bart asked me to dinner.  I was hungry!  So I went.  I had the most delicious steak and greens.  We talked about running.  It was completely proper…but Silinski was livid.  Later, getting ready for the evenings festivities, I screwed up again.

In figuring out what to wear, I quipped, “I’m cold!”

“Here,” said Silinski, “Take my sweater.”  He handed it to me and immediately, a noxious wave of old man smell filled my nose.  Oh no.  That would never do.

“No thanks,” I replied, scanning the room for a sweater of my own.  He was confused, “Why not?”

Without hesitation I said, “Because it smells like you.”

If I could’ve pulled the words out of the air, I would have.  But they hung there for an instant, while his heart broke a little.  I felt terrible.  “Everyone has their own smell,” I said, trying to make it better.  “I smell like me, you smell like you…”  It was hopeless.  The damage was done.

Somehow we made it through the rest of the trip.  The night before my big run, Katherine Switzer gave a speech about women who run marathons.  She told her story about the race where she made history.

Switzer Inspires

Back in 1967, there was no place on the Boston Marathon registration forms to indicate the runners’ sex.  It had only been men.  So she signed up as one of them, K. Switzer.  Her boyfriend at the time was a football player.  He planned to start with her, run for a while then meet her at the end.  Turned out, it was a good thing he was there.

The race director flipped when he heard there was a woman in the race.  He jumped in and physically tried to remove her, at which point Katherine’s beefy boyfriend acted in her defense like any good linebacker would, blocking.  He yelled, “Run!”  And run she did.  By the time she crossed the finish line, Katherine’s feat was already front page news.  She was a hero!  But the race director wasn’t having it.  He expelled her from the race and banned her from running any marathon ever again.  (Obviously, that didn’t hold.)

Katherine went on to describe her foundation, one that supports women who run worldwide.  She spoke of women in Africa who have won marathons, bringing electricity to entire villages with the prize.  Heavy stuff!  By the end of her speech, tears were streaming down my face.  Now I HAD to run marathons!  I’d do it for every woman in the entire human race!

The next morning, we got up early, boarded the shuttles and headed to the start of the Toronto Half Marathon.  The air was crisp and bright.  Runners paced with pre-race jitters.  I was nervous, excited, and inspired.  When it was time to go, we got running.  My face hurt from smiling at the crowds along the way.  Katherine was among them.  When I spotted her, she cheered, “Go Audrey!”  It was great.

But it was nothing.  Indeed, running 13.1 miles in under two hours is a helluva workout, but it’s no marathon.  I flew home elated, vowing to run a full marathon at the first chance I got…  It would be a while.

Killing Time like it’s the Enemy

Silinski became distant.  As quickly as our friendship began, it seemed to end.  I went on with my life in Portland and he his.  After all, there was plenty going on around here and he lived half a continent away.  2006 came to a close with fashion shows, making movies and (of course) lots of partying.

Much the same, ’07 rolled on through.  There was no shortage of drama that year (stories for another day) and going to college full time gave me a perfect excuse not to work.  I loved it.  I studied whatever psychology, sociology and political science courses sounded interesting at the time: Evolutionary Psychology, Globalization, Youth Subcultures, Crime & Delinquency, the Presidency and more.

Moving Right Along

Hood 2 Coast happened in August like always, always an adventure.  My strategy, born the previous year, was (and still is) to find a team at the last minute that’s looking for subs on Craigslist.  The closer it gets to race day, the more desperate they get.  Desperate is good, because they don’t ask for money.

That year, it was a bunch of Hopkins alums who had been on the x-country team.  Perk-wise, it was a mixed bag: they were fast, but they were total squares.  Officially a men’s team (since there was only one female besides myself), we got 9^th place in our division.  It seemed only logical to celebrate at the end.  But they had flights to catch.  Much to my dismay, they wanted to head back to Portland immediately after hitting the beach.  I grabbed my backpack and sleeping bag and said goodbye to the team, making my way to the beer garden to get my flirt on.

As the night progressed, people migrated to the bars.  I found an especially hot guy and recruited him to drive me back home the next day, but he was already with a girl, so I’d have to call him in the morning to meet up.  Starting to get sleepy, I found myself thinking the booth at the bar might just be my home for the night.  Fortunately, some random runner spotted me and brought me back to his room, where, exhausted, I went right to bed.  In the morning I got up, showered quickly, gathered my stuff, thanked the guy and stepped out.

I looked around.  Where was I?  None of it was familiar.  I couldn’t see the ocean, so I didn’t know what direction to go.  Some people saw me looking confused.

“Are you ok?”

“I think so,” I said. “I’m trying to get downtown.  Do you know how close it is?”  The answer was: not very.  But they were more than willing to give me a ride.  They dropped me off exactly where I wanted to be, at the Pig’n’Blanket.

I had some more time to kill before my ride said he’d pick me up, so I walked to the beach, where a lone swing hung motionless.  I did what any logical person would do and got swinging.  Pretty soon, the ride picked me up and I was homeward bound.  I admired his hotness the entire way.

Full Circle

Then October came.  That meant it was marathon season and Silinski would be back, so I re-initiated communication.  Time had gone a long way towards healing his wounds and he was happy to hear from me.  I spent the weekend leading up to the marathon with him and his buddies in the race circuit.  We were a hit at the events.  Everyone loves Silinski.

Two nights before the Portland Marathon, I decided to run.  Silinski had the race director give me a hand-written permission slip that instructed the administrators to let me into the race for free.  Everyone thought I was insane to attempt it without serious training.  Jeff Galloway gave me his famous run/walk advice; instructions to run for five minutes and walk for one during the entire first half.  Bart and Laura Yasso were there.  She was going to run too.

Laura has done over 100 marathons.  Most notably, she ran one marathon in one city and then ran to the start of another marathon (which she also ran) in another city.  The woman is amazing.  She said she’d be taking it easy this time around and welcomed me to try running with her.

Was that even possible?

No one thought it could be done.  I remember blisters setting in around mile nine and feeling like the hill at sixteen might never end.  I had my phone with me and called my mom with a progress update from the St. Johns Bridge.  It was a gorgeous view.  We plodded along for the next five miles or so, steadily passing people as they hit the wall.  That was encouraging!  Coming over the Steel Bridge into downtown, Laura started feeling taxed.

“You go on ahead,” she said, seeing that I was still strong.  I made a quick call to the VIP tent to let them know I was getting close.  Then I picked it up a few notches, with a big kick at the finish.  I ran that marathon in just over four hours.  Laura came in a few minutes later and we headed up to her room at the Hilton for showers.  I rolled a huge joint and burnt it, end to end.  It was glorious.

I immediately began eying the next logical goal.  Every marathoner wants to run Boston.  I just had to qualify.  For women in my age bracket, the time required is three hours, forty minutes.  That’s a fairly swift 8.3 minute per mile pace.  No sweat!

In the months that followed, I started running more regularly, but not so much that it cut into partying.  My lifestyle consistently included no less than five drinking days per week.  Yeah, I was popular – still not optimally fit.

Palm Springs Fling

One night at a bar, I met a dude named Chris, who was lamenting that he didn’t have anyone to run the Palm Springs Half Marathon with.  He already had his ticket and everything, but his friends had bailed and it was only a few days till the event.

“I’ll go,” I said.  “Take me!”

Much to my surprise, he did.  We slept in the same bed, but he was a total gentleman.  He realized I wasn’t going to put out early on.  My weed-smoking didn’t exactly impress him either.  Needless to say, he kept his hands to himself, something I appreciated greatly.

Once back in Portland, life continued as usual.  My girlfriends and I were total boat-whores during the summer.  (We’d go on almost anyone’s boat if they had one.)  We frequented the local fashion shows and art hops.  I was building a major entourage.  It was a traveling circus, a roving party, a parade.

It started taking a toll.  Hangovers are no fun for a run!  Plus, they make you clumsy.  Sometime after Hood 2 Coast that year, I sprained my ankle.  I wrestled with the thought of getting my Boston qualifier, right up until the night before the big race.  Silinski was back in town, so was the rest of the marathon gang, just like old times.  Everyone agreed that running on such an injury is deemed unwise.

Getting Present

This year, things have changed.  My desire to party has slowly begun to evaporate, dissolving into time’s passing breeze.  I quit dabbling with chemicals that make even the doldrums seem fun.  Enjoying quiet time, I’ve learned to love being alone, something I’ve classically avoided.  I’ve learned to turn off the phone.  I’ve learned that being healthy means being complete on my own.  I don’t want secrets – I’ve nothing to hide.  My errors are an open book.  I release them!  I’ve made strides.

That’s not to say I’ve quit having fun.  Au contraire, it’s like this year the real fun’s just begun!  I was taken to Vegas, by a wonderful new friend.  I tagged along to Hawaii with some other buddies.  I participated in Portland’s Urban Iditarod with a team of Angry Chefs, where we terrorized participants and onlookers alike with flour-bombs!  I took my daughter camping at the coast and started a kick-ass kickball team, the Mud Muckers (of whom I often love to boast).  Looking back, it’s been the best year yet.

All this time, I’ve had Boston tugging at my mind.  I’ve been working out, doing power yoga and lots of fitness conditioning – thanks to an amazing female mentor in the fitness field.  It’s been a wild success.  I felt ready.  When marathon season came around again, I sent a message to Silinski with my intentions to qualify.  He said he wouldn’t make it to Portland this year…  He wasn’t coming?

How was I going to get in?!

Armed with a few words of encouragement, I hatched out my plan.  I was going to have to approach the race director, solo.  With a little detective work, I figured out where I’d find him: the annual race director’s conference awards ceremony.  It took place every year at the MAC Club, the Friday before the big race.

I wore black pants, a dark purple tank-top with a black sweater and my new running shoes.  I pulled my hair back into a high pony tail.  I borrowed Mom’s car, informing her of the mission at hand and was on my way.

Making my entrance, I was greeted by lots of familiar faces.  I had Silinski in my pocket, texting me instructions of who to give his hellos to.  For anyone who asked why I was there, I told them, “I’m here to get into the marathon.”  When I felt like I had a chance to hit up the race director Les, I made my approach.  At which point, he basically laughed in my face.

“No, I don’t give anyone free entries,” he scoffed.

“Please,” I begged, “I’ll work for it.”

“I have no job for you.”

“Pleeeeeeeeease?!”

“I’ll think about it,” he said after a long pause, me making my best pouty face.  He moved on to talk to more important people.  Meantime, I worked the angles.

Within a few hours, I had a handful of his most respected cohorts on my side.  I’d caught up with Jeff Galloway, who actually remembered me, and gave me a regurgitated version of his same run/walk advice.  I met Guy, current race director of the Boston Marathon and told him Silinski said hi.  I told him assuredly that I’d be getting my qualifier that Sunday; that Silinski promised to meet me in Boston, if I did.  I caught up with another good friend of Silinski, named Julian, a South Carolina Casanova who despite his age is remarkably handsome.  In the end, it was Les’ wife who sealed the deal.  We hit it off, so she told Les right then to let me in.

I locked down a time to pick up my permission slip the following afternoon.  In somewhat of a daze, I returned to the MAC, where one of Les’ support staff greeted me and retrieved the note.  There it was, in chicken-scratched ink:  “Give Audrey Rose Goldfarb one entry for the marathon.”

With slip of paper in hand, I proceeded to the registration table at the marathon expo, where I exchanged it for another piece of paper that I had to fill in.  I looked at the boxes indicating check or money order, eyes boggling at the $150 fee.  (Thankfully, that part didn’t apply to me.)  I collected my race packet and bought an adorable new sweat-proof purple tank top for the run.  All that was left to do was carb-load and sleep.

I did just that.  Later that afternoon, my buddy Eric brought my daughter and I to Greek Fest, where we ate a little (or a lot) of almost everything.  Most notable were the glazed cake balls, which were basically doughnut holes.  I consumed at least 15, guilt free.  Afterward Eric dropped us off, promising to be there to cheer for me at the race.  I got my stuff ready, set my alarm, did some Sudoku puzzles.  My ex, Gunnar, came by to give me a good luck hug (and screw with my head).  Then I went to bed.

It was before dawn when I got up again.  I made a quick pot of coffee and ate granola and yogurt with a banana.  It was a perfect recipe to make a number two (crucial before a big race).  Mom got up to drive me downtown.  Peaches came for the ride.

Jumping out of the car at the foot of the Hawthorne Bridge, I made a mad dash to the VIP tent were I stashed my stuff under a table.  Then a quick photo op, before I found my place in the crowd.  It seemed logical to position myself between the 8:30 and 8:40 pacers.  The marathon started at 7am.

I was pumped.  Early on, I passed the 8:30 pace-keeper, maintaining a slightly quicker clip for most of the first thirteen miles.  At about one hour and 45 minutes in I passed the halfway mark.  I hadn’t stopped to walk yet, figuring I’d buy myself some time to slack a bit at the end.  I needed it.

The big hill came after mile 16.  By my calculations, I had several minutes to burn, so that’s when I started utilizing Galloway’s run/walk strategy.  There’s no shame in it!  I ran for several minutes, usually at least a mile then walked for about 30 seconds.  That, plus seriously striding out (picking up lots of speed) during the downhill portions, got me through the last few miles.  Somewhere after mile 25, an angel came up from behind.

Walking, I knew it was getting close to that time.  We were about three and a half hours into the run, so I had only a few minutes left to qualify for Boston.  It occurred to me that it might not be such a big deal if I didn’t make it.  That pissed me off.  Tormented by conflicting emotions, I grew weak.

“You can do it,” he said.  “Come on.”  I looked back and saw this wonderful handsome man running towards me, surrounded by a small crowd.  He was supporting everyone around.  “My goodness,” I thought, “he’s hot!”  That got me going again.

I didn’t let him catch up.  Pushing through, I came down Front Avenue and around the final bends.  It was a solid finish, with a time of 3:38:57.  I qualified for Boston!  Exhausted but thrilled, I went to the VIP tent to thank Les and retrieve my stuff.  Eric tracked me down, took me to lunch then dropped me off at home.  There was just enough time for a shower and a brief nap, before heading to the 3pm kickball game.  Yes, I played kickball after the marathon.  And we won.

Looking Ahead

In April, I’ll be heading to Boston.  Silinski said to bring a black dress, because we’re going to the Mayor’s Ball.  For now, I’m working on getting into grad school while getting into the best shape of my life.  Here’s to optimal fitness!

Coming Together at the Seams

Portland, I love you.  But I can’t blame you for wanting to see other people.  And I want to see them too!  Diversity, the spice of life, gives us an opportunity to realize how much we’re actually alike.  No matter what culture, from no matter what place, we have all common needs in the ultimate common space.

Might as well welcome growth!  All my life, they’ve been moving here in droves.  It’s a stunningly beautiful place.  Pity the fools who think we can stave off the flow of masses by grounding our heels in the sand.  Seas of change will wash over us, make it’s way across the land.  That’s why I say, “swim, surf, sail, coast, drift, float – just don’t fight the tide.”  Be my neighbor.  I’ll take it in stride.

Sure, Portland’s made some mistakes.  Tearing out the wonderful web of trolleys serving the area over 100 years ago is one of them.  Rumor has it we had one of the best streetcar systems in the world!  I bet we could be getting use out of our Shanghai Tunnels too.  We muddle through.

It’s modest.  You won’t get big city lights around here.  The night life’s often seen as lacking if they’re used to dense places like LA or New York.  There’s no big hurry, not everyone is slammed.  People make eye contact, they smile.  Some even shake your hand.

Our fashion scene might be quaint too.  I’ll leave that one up to you.  But first be sure you understand the fairy tale of life in this gorgeous land.  The trend is less for chasing bucks than being healthy, happy, with family, harvesting luck, living with just enough.

Last week, on the evening of 9.9.09 the producers of Portland’s fashion week made “the most anticipated announcement of the season,” revealing their hush-hushed Sauvie Island location for the fall shows.  It was a perfect excuse to party at the Nines Hotel downtown.  Familiar fashionably minded locals mingled amongst well-dressed mannequins as other patrons and guests of the hotel wondered what they had stumbled into.  Before long, the thin crowd piddled out.

Beam yourself across the river (and perhaps backwards through time) and you’ll find a whole other patch of the local fashion scene, flowering on the other side.  In Montavilla, the Portland Garment Factory threw open their doors just last week!  Founder Britt Howard has done us well with her creation, a local production outlet, complete with a bright showroom featuring a talented array of local designers.  Must…resist…feathery…earrings!

There’s no shortage of talk about Portland fashion (on being green, on DIY-style, and more).  Indie designers and various local coops have been popping up for years.  Here’s Kate Towers, one of my favorites.  Remember PFI?  While some sail, others flop and new crops come up to fill thier spots.  There’s some drama and animosity, but that’s dwarfed by the mutual support of a webby, inter-woven mesh of self-driven creatives, with no top.  What would we be without variety?

Sex, By Popular Request

Let’s get present.  It takes practice, but some of you undoubtedly know what this is.  It means stopping everything, letting go of your endlessly swirling thoughts, taking inventory of your surroundings, allowing yourself to just be.  There.

I imagine stepping into the rat race, realize it can’t be easy, and give thanks again that I’ve enjoyed a rare opportunity to live another way.  Take Life, day by day.  From dying beds, and shaking heads I’ve listened as you’ve had your say.  Here’s what I’ve gathered; correct me if I’ve gone astray.

We are examples of Success by Adaptation.  Life on Earth’s gotten to the point where we can not only read our DNA, but cut and paste it.  We’ve discovered the building blocks of Life scattered across the Universe.  However, with the good comes the bad; we’ve also inherited a disturbing ability to wipe out Life on Earth (as we know it).

Turns out, as grand as it is, Life is cheap.  So what if we are not alone in the Universe?  If we are going to survive, we’ll have to conquer our deadly aggressive impulses.  They served us well in earlier times, but our planet won’t tolerate explosive growth for long.  (In fact, we’re in the midst of a massive mass extinction.)  We will get past instinct-driven fear and hate, or die trying.  The capacity for adaptation must be enhanced and maintained.  Good thing we’ve landed in the Age of Information!  With current technological developments, we’re making leeway.

What am I trying to say?

You wanted some juice on sex.  Thought my friends’ comment about being bored with his hot girlfriend was dark, did you?  I’ve learned to expect no less.  As Seed-Bearers for our fine species, heterosexual males are armed with an ability to spread their seed far and wide.  Meanwhile, females are the Gatekeepers.  Sex requires much more investment on our side.  Granted, technology has provided us with the wonders of contraception, but our biology hasn’t caught up to speed.  The Human Genome evolves, comparatively, at a much slower pace.

So, he’s bored with her.  It’s perfectly explicable.  Once he’s got his genes squared away (assuming their deeply sub-conscious goal is to mate), it serves his (genes’) best interest if he spreads more of that seed around.  This behavior has proven profoundly successful in human evolution, which is why it prevails today.  Female promiscuity has a different beneficial role; not just trading up, as far as providers are concerned, but also building support in her community.  Whether you call it serial monogamy or short-term mating, people are driven to test their options.

Don’t let it get to you.  The World is growing ever-more crowded and at the same time, walls are wearing thin.  Privacy doesn’t even exist anymore – the concept is a fossil of the past.  Social networking brings our neighbors from across the World to our fingertips, thus increasing our potential (mating) options to utterly unimaginable extents.  Who could settle for less?

I hear the cravings for companionship.  I hear fears of loneliness, of emptiness, abyss.  Hear this:

We will never be alone.  Besides, human ownership isn’t practical and it doesn’t work.  The moment we commit ourselves to one person entirely, there’s nothing left for everyone else!  That’s just selfish.  Instead, consider Compartmentalization.

In Compartmentalization, it’s understood that we share a unique part of ourselves with each person with whom we interact.  Our purpose is varied, often abstract.  There’s no reason our various, positive relationships ought not remain intact.  Try telling your spouse that!

In fleshing out this perspective, I’ve gained profound respect for sex.  It’s nothing to be toyed around with.  (Whether we can get away with it is another story.)  Over time, this philosophy has led me farther and farther from frivolous sex.  The dangers associated with Trivialization and Commodification of Sex are, indeed, something to stress.  Behavior modification ensues:  Success by Adaptation!

FALSEXPECTATIONSURPRISE!

The day after First Thursday is always a little anti-climatic.  This time it was backwards.  First Thurs itself covered it’s predicted grounds: a busy Pearl, the crowded bars, music & art in the streets.  But the vibes were off.  So went the night.

Friday snuck up on me.  It was almost dark before I even took a shower.  Then one of my adorable boy friends stopped by.  He’s tall, strong, and rather handsome, but oh-so-young and… among other things, he’s kind-of a man-whore.  (That doesn’t stop me from enjoying his company – I just keep him at an arms distance.)  We caught up a bit and I jumped in his jeep for a lift to Rontoms, where I had plans to meet an old friend.

Bracing for her late arrival, I imagined myself alone at the bar.  Would it be one of those nights?  I got myself some water and made the rounds – no cute boys.  *Sigh*

I bumped into a girl I’d gone to Catlin Gabel with, waiting in the bathroom line.  (Catlin is one of those schools where most everyone is financially well-to-do.  Unlike them, I was awarded a hefty scholarship to go there.)  Recently laid off from Nike, she commented about her modest new life unemployed.

“As long as you’re happy,” I said, “that’s what counts.”  Usually, I continue with my line that “time is a valuable thing, once you learn how to spend it,” but right about then I spotted some buddies at a nearby table.

I was thrilled to see them – an adorable couple (plus a friend of theirs, whom I hadn’t met).  I’ve known them both since long before they hooked up, but I’ve always been closer to the guy.  We had lots of catching up to do, however they were not who I was there to meet.  Then I noticed Auna and her boyfriend at the next table.

What a treat!  Bouncing between the two groups, I was delighted.  Auna’s new beau has dark hair and icy blue eyes, just like her.  They look so much alike they could be related.

I chatted with them until they got completely wrapped up in each other.  Back at the first table, I noticed my other friends looking much more disconnected.  The chick looked bored – I decided to investigate.

When she got up to go to the bathroom, I found myself talking to her man.  I said his girlfriend was hot.  Naturally, he wanted to know if I’d hook up with her.  Typical.

He got pensive.  “You know what Audrey?”

“What?”

“You show me any hot chick,” he said, “and I’ll show you a guy that’s tired of fuckin’ her.”  Wow, I thought, that’s deep.  I almost couldn’t get my head around it, but then I thought of so many married men I’ve known…

She came back and we had some laughs.  She was refreshingly frank about being promiscuous in high school, noting that most of the people she’d hooked up with are still good friends.  It reminded me of recent primate research purporting some of sex’s purpose beyond procreation: social adhesive!

Before long, everyone was leaving.  Auna and her boy took off, and my other friends were cashing out.  They mentioned something about the TBA (Time-Based Art) festival going on up the street.  I’d forgotten about that!  Taking place at the spooky old Washington Elementary School on SE 12th and Stark, it was sure to be at least somewhat interesting.  I had them drop me off there.

When I arrived, a line of people snaked outside along the walkway and down some stairs.  Skip that!  I headed around the building.  It’s a school, after all.  They MUST have another entrance.  Sure enough, I found an open door, guarded by an empty chair at an unmanned desk.  Without hesitation, I went inside.  *Cue Mission Impossible theme song.*

First I ducked into a bathroom.  It was stinky, but when you’ve gotta pee, you’ve gotta pee.  Besides, it was safe.  I gathered myself and listened to the thump and clank of who-knows-what-upstairs at the TBA party.  Allowing plenty of time for the crowd to make their way inside, I wandered the bowels of that graveyard of a school.  I studied a map of emergency exits and wedged open a few doors.  I found my way to the third floor, where people were milling about, checking out the installations.  I was in.