One of the main reasons for my relocating to Portland, Oregon from Dallas, Texas six years ago (and there were many, many reasons) was the vitality of its downtown. You can tell a lot about the consciousness and soul of a city by its downtown sector. In Dallas, people go to work then they go home. It's not a place you really want to walk around. Or drive around for that matter. The suburbs are so large that no one needs to leave, there's no reason to go to Dallas unless you're called for jury duty.
Downtown Portland is busy, constantly busy but in that casual northwest way, where no one is in a hurry to get anywhere, there's no place to be but walking around and people watching, like the people who are watching you walk. Cafes, shopping, sushi, the parks outside City Hall and Portland State University, free concerts in Pioneer Square -- I am most at home when I am in the center of things.
That is why I am ecstatic to finally be moving to downtown Portland. It's taken me six years to be in the right place at the right time but it's finally here. As hard (unspeakably hard, I won't even try to express it) as 2003 was for me, all of that has turned around in amazing fashion in 2004. New job (more money), new bureau, completing the marathon and now moving to a seventh floor highrise with Mt. Hood filling my living room window and Mt. St. Helens claiming a corner of it for her bad self.
As long as I am in this city, there is nowhere else I want to be. As much as I have loved Hawthorne Boulevard, with its extinct volcano Mt. Tabor in the background (a beautiful place to walk) and its wall to wall carpeting of pubs, hipsters and protests, I am so anxious to be downtown...
Walking to work...
Walking to the farmers market...
Walking to the Saturday Market...
Walking to one of three movie theaters...
Within stone's throw of the opera hall...
I will definitely be cranking the Petula Clark...
The worst part of being single, and not just being single but also living without a roommate for the first time in...well...ever actually, is grocery shopping. It's the most mundane activity and is the absolute worst enterprise to do solo. I can take holidays alone, evenings, even movies -- no problem. Nothing hits home that you're really on your own like buying food.
(The same applies for eating alone at a restaurant, though cafes are exempt from the rule as it's not completely out of the ordinary or horribly rude if you pull out a laptop. Do that at Fernando's Hideaway and expect to get some odd looks.)
There is just no escaping the fact that you are Without Partner when you're cruising the produce section. One onion. One bunch of asparagus. One head of broccoli. On the plus side, it is cheaper, but that's a scant consolation.
I never liked grocery shopping that much to start with, but now I long for the days I was merely annoyed by everyone pushing carts against the stream, wandering around aimlessly or cutting in line. I find I meander much more now, looking at items without really seeing them, unable to make up my mind on even the most simple decision of what brand of bread to buy, and yet I have already cast my vote for the leader of the most powerful free nation in the world without issue.
No matter how one fills one's life, with sports or other activities, writing, reading, being social, when one shops alone one stares straight into the face of the reality of being alone.
Maybe I should do my grocery shopping in costume, make it more interesting for everyone involved. Independence shouldn't be drudgery. There has to be some way to make it less excrutiating without having to hire a male escort to go grocery shopping with me.
Although, come to think of it, that's not a bad business idea. Call it Tea for Two or Bread and Butter Incorporated...
When I was asked to write about my marathon experiences as a first-timer, my response was a quick and as simple as my initial reactions to having completed the race: sure, no problem.
But as I began considering how I would begin to convey my experiences, I realized that much of what occurred has already blurred. In fact, I'm not sure it was meant to ever crystallize in a singular moment of significance. There are just the images of moments like photographs.
The start was a mass of nine-thousand hopefuls, veterans, novices, runners and walkers crowded in together on fourth avenue, singing the anthem. My body subconsciously lurched forward whenever the streetlight I was standing under turned green.
The start was the sound of the horn, and the waiting that followed it before it was my turn to move. It was the moment I took most for myself. The race had the whole of my attention.
The middle of the race was a swirl of pompoms, cups littering the road, sunlight in my face, and road-side M*A*S*H unit blister-repair. I think I gave permission for a film crew from Chicago to film my foot repair somewhere along the long turnaround point. I won't make a pun about footage. I just hope it's not on the Internet somewhere.
The sunlight and warmth, and the blisters they no doubt helped to inspire, began to conspire against my personal-best pace. In the end, speed was of no consequence. I am one of the slower walkers; I was already committed to the reality of a seven-hour plus event. It didn't matter to me when I finished -- but that I finished, and how.
Although I never hit The Wall, for a brief moment I did catch the course chuckling a little. Who knew that Interstate was the interminable highway? It never felt that long on the bus. There were signs reading 'You're almost there! Mile 24 Ahead!' for what had to be four miles.
But there was no stopping -- in fact, stopping hurts far more than simply walking your feet off of your body, I have learned. I wanted to see the Steel Bridge. I didn't care how many miles were packed into Mile 24.
I had one personal goal for the marathon. I wanted to come to the finish strong, and I finished like I wanted to finish. To the tune of 'Gotta Fly Now' from Rocky, I was up and over the Steel Bridge. I moved through Saturday Market to the Olympic Theme, and I closed the race with the theme to the 'Chariots of Fire' and to the sight of my friends waiting for me. It just doesn't get any better than that.
So, what am I taking from this experience?
I trained with Portland Fit to prove to myself that with work and commitment I could do whatever I set out to do, a 10-mile walk, a half-marathon, a complete marathon. Prior to my training, I had never walked more than four miles in a single outing. I was a treadmill walker. But I've now convinced my body that it was natural to walk 26.2 miles in a single afternoon, and not only was it natural but it was desirable to do so.
Hey, Mile 24 -- who's laughing now?
I was asked to write a short article about my marathon experiences for the next edition of 'Walk About' magazine. 'Walk About' magazine is focused, of course, on The Walker and has all sorts of nifty info. It's also published by two of the walking coaches from Portland Fit (www.portlandfit.com).
So! The rough draft is done. I'm posting it up here for my journal entry on the whole experience. It really is a blur.
Hungry now. Off for lunch.
Alright, that's enough of the blank screen...
Poetry output has been minimal since marathon training began back in March. I have a few scribbled on post-its and stuck in my variety of cute purses. I should really get a secretary...
Marathon training. I started in March with 1 mile. I just completed a 21-mile stint and the Portland Marathon is this Sunday. An amazing program (www.portlandfit.com). It has really been life-altering.
I went to the Marathon Expo today to get my number (5252!) and a bunch of freebies. I was also asked to write about my experiences for the Walk About Magazine, which is edited by two of the coaches. I may volunteer my editorial and publishing skills to them next year. Maybe all that work with health magazines won't have been in vain after all!
My off-season will consist of continued walking with a few of my newfound friends and a return to fencing. I expect to love the sport so much that I'm already planning for next year. Las Vegas in late January is a possibility.
That rumor that marathoning is addictive? Totally true. I want to be the woman who is running her upteenth marathon at the age of 76, who doesn't look a day over 40. She's in our group. She's amazing.
I've also decided to add a new topic to this site ('Journal'), which I'll use to do these more typical blog-like entries. The work on the new novel is proceeding on schedule. I'm in the process of making my winter reading list, with an anticipated writing start date in 2005. I will be sure to update on its progress. Not sure yet whether I will post bits and pieces of it here or not. It has undergone some major reorganization of structure since I last talked about it.
I think the marathon has been a surprising help in the creative process as well, come to think of it...