Runner’s Diary: Portland Marathon
The alarms, yes, I set multiple alarms, began at 5 am. I should point out that that is an everyday occurrence—three alarms is the reg for me. There’s the wake-up, the “You better have your shit together,” and “Your ass better be heading out the door” alarms. It works.
Oatmeal was McGuyvered with the hotel coffee pot 123 minutes from start.
I was assigned starting corral F. “F is for fucker,” I reminded my cheering section after I was asked several times. I know my cheering section might not always appreciate my mouth, but I DID help them remember my starting corral. I visited with a cool chick named Anna, who was from Seattle, and a wacky mother-daughter team of half marathoners from California. Note: Portland runs a marathon and a half marathon simultaneously and the first 11 miles are run together. If you are considering the race, go for the marathon. All the best views are after 14.
Mile .25: Some poor lady went down like a ton of bricks a few people in front of me. Of course, the folks around her helped her up and checked on her. I hope the next 26 miles went better.
Mile Three: A ginger held open the door to the porta-john for me. They do have souls.
Mile Seven: Cheer groups ahead, fun. I wonder what they… oh Christ, they are dressed like pirates. Why do adults enjoy dressing like pirates?
Mile Eight: Someone yelled, “BARF!” Hundreds of eyes scanned the ground. We were all starting to stink at that point, so the potential stank was not a worry.
Miles Seven through 11: This industrial park sucks and it is really hot. Railroad tracks everywhere. I thought Portland was beautiful. Holy Jesus, that lady with the walking poles is taking up a lot of space. I will not trip on the poles, I will not trip on the poles.
Mile 10: Solo trumpeter plays “Eye of the Tiger” on repeat. I am sad for him. I pit stop to remove my bib from my shirt and attach it to my shorts. The shirt has got to go and I have zero pride left. Don’t like the jiggle, don’t look. I ate a lot to get this sexy. Plus, at least I am not soloing Survivor. Holy nuts, he is wearing a beret like the video. Sadness has turned to reverence.
Mile 11: Fuck, the pirates again. Now they are singing. I miss the trumpeter.
Somewhere between 14 and 20: Holy shit it smells like weed. Oh look, a Mile 420 sign. Yep, they gots all the weed there. Contact high. Why isn’t Cypress Hill playing right now? Ghost of Steve Jobs, don’t let me down now…
Mile 15: Tall, hot, bearded Portlander walks his bike (vintage 10 speed) against the marathon traffic. He smiled. I smiled. There wasn't time to ask if he wanted a salty motorboat. #missedconnections
Mile 17: St. John's Bridge. Holy. Beautiful. The 45 degree (okay, it felt that steep, but I haven’t done the trig to figure out if that is legit), 3/4 mile to get there was forgiven. I stopped to stretch with several others and enjoy the view. "I only thought about jumping for a second," I deadpanned. The man in the orange shirt appreciated the joke more than the Japanese couple.
Mile 19: A man walked down the street with a black cat perched on his shoulder. Awkward eye contact with the cat ensued. Those things are so weird. A dog would never look at me like it wants to eat my soul.
Mile 19.5: I had enough sass left to yell at a group of people grilling and hanging out in their yard, "You guys are pretty quiet!" The crowd erupted.
Mile 20: Angelic young boy proudly holding sign that says, "Make Mile 20 Your Bitch!" I stop, look him right in the eye, and say, "I don't know who your parents are, but I like them."
Mile 21: The solo trumpeter returned. I think. I may have just imagined him because it was fun.
Miles 22 & 23: Lots of people. Some check my bib and cheer, “Go Schooly.” I’ve taken to winking at them because who doesn’t want to cheer for a flirty, shirtless, stinky girl?
Mile 24: “We are on Winning Way, how can we lose?” I commented to a middle-aged dude. “How CAN we lose?” he replied. It would have been a perfect moment for a slow clap, but who the fuck as the energy for that bullshit at this point?
Mile 24.5: Puking blond runner being comforted by the Greek God of the Portland Fire Department. I considered shoving a finger down my throat.
Mile 25: I eyed a man wearing a "Team Beef" shirt. I was slightly scared after the homophobic incident in Beresford, but inquired where his home was. "Idaho." I ran faster.
25.5: The oldest homeless fella in Portland screams, “Get your bitch asses out of my city!” Unsure as to whether the “city” to which he was referring was the sleeping bag, the block, or Portland, I trudged onward.
In all seriousness, there are so many homeless people in Portland. I realize there is a culture within the homeless population and that some people prefer the life, but what really struck me was how young the homeless population there was. READ THIS.
Runner's Diary Mile 26: ODB hit the Shuffle for my final song of the race. The ODB was my favorite doughnut at Voodoo Doughnuts. Remind me to tell you the Cock and Balls story from Voodoo sometime. #circleoflife
Mile 26.2: I smiled like a dorkus as I crossed the finish line and marched right up to a blond lady who was handing out medals and said, “I’ll take that.” No crying like in Chicago. A young man handed me a rose and said, “Congratulations!"
I wandered around the finisher area and ate all the food. Seriously, I had orange juice, chocolate milk, grapes, yogurt, potato chips, and mini candy bars in my guts within moments. After the Sioux Falls marathon, my body was like, “SUGAR!!” and I downed a Coke. After the TC Marathon, my body was like, “SALT!!” and I sucked down lots of chicken broth. The past two years, my body has been like, “JUST SHOVE CALORIES IN ME, YOU DUTCH BEAST!!”
In other news, I smelled like the ass of death and you could have salted a pretzel with my jawline.
Mile 28: Wearing finisher's shirt and medal. Lady rolls by slow and yells, "Hercules! Hercules! Hercules!" at me.
All the miles after: ALL. THE. FOOD.
I adored Portland and will return. My sole/soul desire to return to Great Plains was my Bitches, and not just because they snore far less than my travel companions. Alli and Joey make my world. They would like Portland.
Runner's Diary Plane Ride: Arm’s length from three screaming babies and I never swung. #growth
Runner's Diary Dog Pick-Up: Alli did laps, Joey jumped like Tigger, and I smiled like a fool. The signature on my receipt would not hold up in court. The gal who helped me load up the Bitches commented on what a nice dog Joey is: "She is so nice to humans and other dogs." I beamed. My little asshole is growing up. They were super chill the rest of the day, so they must have done their own little doggie marathon out at the farm.
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