A Mysterious Boring Run (part two)(part 1 below)

Yes, there is a town in Oregon named Boring. But I not even going "there" with this narrative because we're talking about running. I had spent much of the bus ride trying to perfect, in my mind, which pace group to run with. The silver lining to not having a companion for this run is that I only needed to consider my own needs. But what pace would that be? Should I try to improve on my 8'45" pace I had done on my own the week before? Or stay at that same known pace?

The girls in red shirts were back, minus the clipboards, and were announced as our pace-keeping group leaders. When the 8'45" group was formed, very early on, and three extremely fit, highly muscular studs with wrap around shades and multi-colored spandex emerged from our big group--I froze. Forget the numbers that had been shifting back and forth in my head, these can not be my peeps. Time to reassess -- and quickly. Okay, let's forget the math and the training history. Put away the slide rule, the laptop and the calculator. Let's just take a more folksy approach to this. "I've got it! I'll just hang back until I see people form a group who look like me!" Done!

The road back to Portland would be different than that taken by the buses and we wasted no time hitting the trail. No introductions or last minute safety tips. Like most runners, these people were very direct and to the point. We could chat during next 3 hours. We hadn't trotted more than a few hundred feet when I began to wonder about my group choice. Were we just warming up at this trot or was the plan to do this all the way back Willamette Park? I snaked my way up to the red shirt girl, took a position off her starboard side for a few minutes and then when the moment felt as though it would improve no more sheepishly asked her about the pace. She looked down at her Garmin Forerunner and then nodded while contorting her mouth into that shape which is full of self-assuredness. "We might pick it up a little but this is pretty much it" she said. "Okay, thanks" I said and started going a little bit faster to catch the faster pace group which was about 100 yards just ahead.

Note to self: don't ever use the "now these look like my peeps" system of picking my pace group for a run again.

The path we were on is known as the "Springwater Corridor" trail. It's what you call your multi-use trail, which is to say you might get run over by a bike or step in some horse shit before the day is over. It follows the route of a century old railroad right-a-way which means that the course was relatively straight and very flat. Before long the crunching of gravel generated by about 40 running shoes gave way to pavement and the trail eventually even had a yellow line down the center of it in some sections. It was good running and the weather was perfect.

There was a girl running in front of me who was holding her right side and listing in that direction too. An older guy, he appeared very fit and I read as an experienced runner, availed himself upon her as impromptu coach, sports doc and overall sports guru. There interaction was pretty entertaining and they became quite the couple for the remainder of the run.

I eventually fell in with two very nice blokes who were tall and middle-aged like myself. We chatted about each others jobs, our summer vacations and of course our running exploits. We pretty much took up a position near the rear of the pack. There are some advantages to running near the back, especially for a guy like myself who eats oatmeal laced with a heaping tablespoon of ground flax seeds every morning for breakfast. It's all about consideration for my fellow runners if you catch my drift. (oh what the hell--the pun was intended)

Rest stops with paper cup covered card tables and some bowls of treats were nicely spaced every 4 miles. The volunteers there were wonderful and my words of thanks seemed inadequate and cliche despite my earnestness. What wonderful folks! I took a small handful of gummy bears at each stop and some half-strength Glucose. The bulk of my hydration came from my water bottle. I had also brought along two gels and a power bar but I had unwrapped the bar and placed it in a zip-lock sandwich bag with the gels for ease of opening but by the time I went to eat it, they had melted all together into a big brown lump with gold foil sticking out.

Note to self: don't pre-unwrap power bars when it's hot outside.

As the trail got closer to the heart of the Portland area it crossed some very impressive new arch bridges that span some of the larger thoroughfares (one is pictured above). Later near the end of the run we re-crossed the Sellwood Bridge, single file and this time under our own power. We turned north and the girl in the red shirt lead us to a path that took us the short distance back to Willamette Park. Elapsed time for the training run: 4 hours. Exactly one hour slower than the week before, but I reminded myself that long runs need not be fast and all the benefits need not be all about training. This was a group run and so it turned out perfectly.

The park was buzzing with activity now. Several kids teams were playing soccer, the playground and picnic areas were hopping, diesel pick-ups with boats waited their turn for use of the boat ramp, and faster pace groups welcomed us back while holding plates of food and drink. I ate a little food, said goodbye to my new friends and looked one last time at all the people around me--playing. I got in my truck, closed the door and headed for the freeway.

A Mysterious Boring Run (part one)

The three school buses that lined one side of the expansive parking lot at Willamette Park waited in colorful contrast to the subdued early morning light and offered the only indication that the day would get more lively. Runners, some taking last sips of coffee or sports drinks before locking their cars, intrepidly made their way toward the buses where girls with red shirts and clip boards collected tickets and answered the same questions over and over.

"Is it okay for two cars to park in a large space reserved only for a car with a boat trailer?" The girls did not know. "Does it matter which bus I ride?" The girls said that it did not, but coyly added that the bus they were riding was going to be the most fun. I got on.

The one question that nobody dared ask was the destination of the small cadre of buses. Not only would it spoil part of the fun but the question would surely be deflected with a raised eyebrow. After all, this was billed as a "Mystery Run and Brunch" for those training for the Portland Marathon which was almost exactly one month later. For a mere $10, participants would be driven 20 miles from the park and enjoy a light brunch on the shores of the Willamette River at the completion.

The bus door swooshed closed and conversations turned to speculation and in some cases, wagering over the the direction of the next turn of the steering wheel. Some folks asked each other if school bus seats had always been so munched together so tightly or if their perception had changed since their last ride. We turned to the left and crossed the Sellwood bridge (pictured above) pointing east. The driver lowered her sun visor and squirmed higher in her seat to get above the glare of the sun now blaring through the windshield.

I sat by myself on the ride, just occasionally making small talk with the runner in front of me and the one across the aisle. My second and unused ticket for this run was tucked into the small zippered packet on the back of my black running shorts. I had made several calls during the last two days trying to find someone to take the ticket I had bought the week before for my friend Randy. The odds of finding some ticket deficient runner soliciting in front of the buses that morning was about as pathetic as my phones the day before. "I see. You don't feel like going for a 20 mile run from an undisclosed location tomorrow with less than 24 hours notice huh? I understand. Can you think of anyone else that might want to go? No, huh? Did I mention the brunch afterwards? I did. Okay, thanks."

So with a purple ticket as a souvenir stuck in my shorts we continued east. The bus left the suburbs, crossed over the I-205 freeway and took another gear. I looked up when I heard this and gazed around as we picked up more speed. We had come so far already it seemed. We went through an area of warehouses. I saw a cow in a large field. The scenery turned more lush and still we drove on with our little yellow convoy.

I felt some comfort that no one else seemed to be worried. But was everyone else here some brand of super elite mutant runner capable of ultra distances and I had somehow made a mistake? Had I gotten on the wrong group of buses? Had I misread the flyer and this was a 40 mile run? Damn! I had not brought my cell phone so I couldn't call my wife to come and fetch me. Maybe I could find a phone to use like in the old days. But I had no money. "Okay just relax. I ran the same distance last week. This just looks farther."

We passed through the burg of Damascus and kept going. It wasn't until we got to the next town, Boring, that we pulled into a gravel parking lot. All I had to do now was run all the way back to Portland.

To be continued...