Yesterday I walked a 5K with friends, participating in the 33rd edition of the Shamrock Run. No running for me this time; I didn't adequately prepare (even though I kept saying I was going to train properly for the event, I instead thought about training really hard for weeks; no kidding, I put MAXIMUM effort into thinking about training, but it didn't help at all. So much for visualization!)
It was raining. It was cold. I slipped on a metal plate and fell down before I even got across the Hawthorne Bridge on the way to the event. It was great fun. That reads like sarcasm, but it really was great. Cheerful damp people in funny green hats and funny green clothing (except for me, having forgotten the whole Irish theme thing somehow, but I was safe; Portlanders, being very aware of personal space, are not pinchy folk). I most often avoid crowds whenever possible, but there was overall a very pleasant positive buzz and I never felt annoyed or uncomfortable.
My personal experience this year would have been nearly perfect had it not been for an attack of intestinal distress that had me wondering if I would finish without a hideous incident. Why my innards decided to twist and shout like a knot of earthworms in a hot tin can on that morning of all mornings is a mystery, but twist they did, and so I was rather more than ordinarily motivated to finish. Had the event started on time (rather than forty minutes late, forcing most of a crowd of 32,000 wet and frigid souls to stand huddled in the elements), I wouldn't have been quite so worried, but as it stands I was practically walking sitting down as I crossed the finish line if you can visualize such a thing (but why would you want to?).
Then, after finding my missus waiting for me nearby on the sidewalk, I discovered that downtown merchants, instead of taking advantage of the traffic trudging or scampering by, chose instead to CLOSE their establishments for the day. W, as they say, TF? No restrooms for blocks! We paused at Kettleman's to purchase a bulging bag of bagels so that I had something wet and disintegrating to clutch as we slogged along the sidewalks of downtown (yes, I do realize this makes little sense, and I have no defense other than my wife wanted bagels and I didn't want to argue and thus let my concentration wander from it's primary task, that being to keep from voiding on the pavement), and continued to search for an open ANYTHING that included a restroom available for patrons.
FINALLY we spied a Carl's Jr. I have actually been inside a Carl's Jr. one other time, and I'll say that the slippery burger I had really was pretty tasty, although the missus was less than impressed. Although at this point food was the very last thing on my mind, I thought we were going to have to buy something to eat in order to be allowed access to the restrooms, but apparently the staff really don't police that very well...
...and really, that is a pity, because little did I know that the downtown Carl's Jr. is favored by many members of the downtown addict community, one of which was entering the ONE stall as I bustled in.
Oh godz.
A word about this stall. It's obviously meant to facilitate physically challenged users. All well and good, I'd be dismayed to find any other style of accommodation. But this stall was large enough to facilitate a physically challenged couples' skate. They could have erected one perfectly spacious handicapped stall AND a standard-size stall side-by-side, but nay, they instead built ONE stall large enough to store your kayak while you conduct your business.
Not that the fellow in the stall didn't use all that space. No, he filled quite a bit of it as he shed four layers of clothing before settling in for a leisurely whatever. FanTAStic. Rather then hover in the otherwise small space, I walked back out and stood as casually clenched as I could manage and chatted with the missus. Every five minutes or so I walked back into the restroom, fiddled with the faucets, stood in front of the urinals, and then walked back out to fume as silently as I could while my wife muttered her sympathies.
After several more excruciating minutes I heard a flush from within, and fearing at this point that some other patron would beeline his way in ahead of me I trotted through the door and straight into the stall as the rather large individual made his way out (I don't have a description of him to relate, I was FOCUSED). Pausing only long enough to wish I were blind, I turned my face from the commode and adopted a squatting position, wishing that levitation was actually a possible phenomenon in our physics-shackled reality.
I'll pause now. Ponder fields of flowers. Idyllic meadows. Lambs going “baaa”.
Upon my exit, feeling once again hale and rosy-cheeked, my missus confirmed our suspicions about the fellow I'd followed. He had come out of the restroom barely ambulatory, swaying as he made his way to a garbage can where he fished out a used drink cup and then staggered his way to the soda dispensers for a “refill”. Blarg.
We found and boarded our bus soon after (who would drive downtown to an event like this? Seriously?), and made our way back to where the missus had parked the car. Fortunately the bag of bagels hadn't become a thoroughly sodden lump during our tramp through downtown, so after a shower we toasted a couple and munched to the television news before retiring for a short nap.
All things considered, I've had worse Sundays. I'm looking forward to next year's Shamrock event, and in the meantime I'll start looking for other vaguely athletic organized activities. Time to start training.
No, really.
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