Theater epiphanies and Adventures with Tommy Wiseau by Sarah Nagel 4/16/23

As a runner, a walker, a hiker, and a skipper, I enjoy connecting dots and making connections of all things to running things. No matter the space I find myself in or the person I’m chatting with, it seems to always come back to being a runner and how every interaction or experience I have can instill in me a lesson that will ultimately make me a better one.

 This was my mindset on a stormy Friday night at Cinema 21 in NW Portland where I was lucky enough to attend a showing of the beautifully crafted, “The Room”, with Tommy Wiseau in attendance. With a pair of Tommy Wiseau boxer briefs squeezed on over my pants as a means of showing my immense appreciation for the neurotic Tommy in all of his glory during a well anticipated photo op, I found myself standing next to a giant plastic box with Tommy inside.

 Not sure whether I should simply stand and smile, awkwardly wrap my arm around said plastic box, or get a little saucy and wrap a leg around it as well, I took that moment to really focus on what was happening. Here was this man- this legend- who was still rockin’ it; who was still celebrating a vision and the product of his creativity decades after it was realized. With his Danzig-esque long black hair, dark sunglasses, and a studded belt fastened below his butt, he was spending time celebrating what made him happy.

 Now, we all can debate the merits or absurdity of “The Room” and the mysterious Tommy Wiseau until we’re all out of breath but I’d suggest taking a deeper look- to “peel the onion” as it were- and realize that what it comes down to is the celebration of one’s life and one’s accomplishments, no matter what they look like to others; to simply not care how others think because in that plastic box, Tommy didn’t give a hoot. He was simply celebrating his life and darn it, if that wasn’t an extremely amazing sight to behold and reminder that we should all be so lucky to love life in that way.

So, here I am, coming full circle, connecting that night back to running, as a reminder to myself to keep celebrating running however it looks in my life: on the trails, down the street, or at a heart palpitating sprint to catch a flight; whether it’s incorporating hiking or walking, or even a bit of skipping, I’ll think of Tommy and keep celebrating that which brings me joy: older men with long black hair? Possibly… but also running.

This One’s For the Runners by Melanie Guthrie

For my people

Who chase the elusive high

That can only come after pushing through

And past

And far down the road

From the wall that was meant to block them.

For my people who wake up before the sun

And gather in small groups

Bending and stretching

In the fog

Before our morning coffee has even been brewed.

For my people

Who grab a tiny cup of water

Held at arms length

“You’re looking great!” and “Keep pushing!”

And savor each drop as if it were the 

Only thing that could save them.

For my one more mile,

One more checkpoint,

One more foot in front of the other

Kind of people

For my badass mother runners

My “Tell me I run like a girl

And I’ll leave you in the dust” sisters

For my people who pull their dainty tutus

Over running tights and tall socks

In order to perform supernatural feats. 

For my people with a closet full of race shirts

And neon clothing

Who still show up in a hodgepodge of colors and styles

To create a demented fashion show

For my people who retire a pair of beloved shoes 

After hundreds of miles together

And feel as if there should have been 

A graveside service to say goodbye.

For my people who really live

Who see life more closely than those

Whizzing by in their cars

And glued to their cellphone screens.

For my people who endure

Ice baths

KT tape

Bottle after bottle of ibuprofen

And torture devices like “the stick” and foam roller

Who know how it hurts in a good way;

A phrase that only someone who has pushed

Past the breaking point could appreciate

To my people who get emotional

As soon as that huge banner

Finish

Comes into view

Who grit their teeth and beg their body

Just a few more feet, please!

And raise their arms to the sky

And tip their head back

And feel the tears welling up as they 

Hear the roaring cheers 

That penetrate their soul

And echo there for years to come.

This was written Melanie Guthrie with her Freshman English class for their Slam Poetry unit. For those interested, all Portland high school students compete in the Verslandia Poetry Slam at the Schnitz every year , and it's open to the public.

Link to Verslandia : https://www.portland5.com/arlene-schnitzer-concert-hall/events/verselandia-youth-poetry-slam-championship

What a FoPo Runner Says, What They Really Mean by Karl Meiner

What they say: “God it’s so fucking gross out…I can’t believe we’re doing this!”

Translation: “I secretly like punishing myself, and this is how I do it.”

What they say: “We’re meeting at what time? I want to, but that’s so early.”

Translation: “I’m getting royally fucked up the night before, so this is going to suck.”

What they say: “Guys, I can’t carpool after the trail this weekend! Sorry! I have to pick

someone up right after!”

Translation: “I am going to cry alone in my car for fifteen minutes after the run.”

What they say: “Congratulations! Oh god, no way, I can’t believe you pr’d again!”

Translation: “I love you, but I hope you fucking get Covid.”

What they say: “Oh yeah! At the Christmas Party, right? Totally, I remember that!”

Translation: “I do not remember that night at all.”

What they say: “I am going to shit myself.”

Translation: “I am going to shit myself.”

What they say: “I was so good this week. Like, I just fucking nailed my training.”

Translation: “I am slowly losing all sense of joy and feel only the unrelenting pain of endless

miles of road.”

What they say: “There’s a FoPo needlecraft group now? Fun!”

Translation: “I’ve joined a cult, haven’t I?”

A dog’s choice by Steve Audette

People find running at all sorts of stages of their life. I didn't know I had become a runner until it was already well too late.

Unlike many of us who came to running after not being particularly athletic at school, I had no wake up moment driven by health or some shocking realization.  Nor was I driven by a new year's resolution or some sort of motivational kick in the ass that made me lace up ugly shoes to sweat and curse regularly. It was all a horrible misunderstanding that got me involved.

Running wasn't my choice. It was my dog's choice.

Dante had been my steady companion for years, a good natured dog who loved hiking and napping and eating bacon. In other words, he was like me and I was like him. But for the first time in his young life, he only had me to live with, and I had to leave for work for many hours of the day. So, Dante deserved a companion to keep him busy at home. And boy did we get that and then some.

A dog at the local animal shelter, known by the name "Willa" seemed a perfect fit for his new canine pal. They played and had a good time at introduction, and she seemed like the sort of dog who would keep him entertained. Right out of the gate, this spritely dog didn't seem a "Willa". The youthful energy she displayed(and her coppery coat) made "Penny" a more appropriate name.

You'd think that would be a good name, but she sure didn't respond to Penny, Willa or any name on the first night she came home, where she immediately darted out the door, eager to explore the wide world outside of the shelter's bounds. I ran two whole blocks chasing her before my body declared that my allotment of running was done for the month, totally unsure what name to use-not realizing that there was no name she'd respond to anyway. Either way, my lungs weren't ready for all the running I had to do to catch her.

Months of frustrating for me/exciting for her chases became our routine as she'd slip out doors, jump over fences, tunnel under barricades and otherwise teleport beyond the property line. It wasn't til I understood that this was a dog who needed a lot of exercise that I started to get it. So, that's what we did. Every day, we'd take a trip to the nearby park, with its expansive trail network. She'd run the circuit, and I and Dante would dutifully follow behind her, panting and struggling to keep up til we got to each stream where she'd mercifully stop to re-hydrate. She was still a ball of barely contained energy, but the park trips helped.

One Saturday we arrived at the park, and as we pulled into the parking lot it was unusually full. There were banners, and a giant inflatable arch-not something that normally appear there. Not being able to find a parking spot, I sadly had to find somewhere else to go for Penny's usual exorcism, but not before at least seeing what the fuss was about. Some local running company had taken over the park for the morning for one of their annual races. This was a place for people to chase after dogs, not just run *for no reason at all*! After my initial indignation faded, morbid curiosity forced me to look them up. As I reviewed the website of these interlopers, I saw that they stole *our* park for their 10 kilometer race. When I dug further, I realized that their course, all TEN THOUSAND meters of it, was what Dante, Penny and I did pretty much every day. (They far more than I, since it usually involved running circles around me)

Determined not to consider myself a runner, I became a (mental) gymnast instead. I definitely wasn't running-running requires going fast. You also can't stop at the stream while dogs are drinking-that's not what runners do. And besides, I wasn't some lithe gazelle/human hybrid, bounding effortlessly over trails-I was, nay am, some kind of plodding lumbering galoot.

But the idea never let go in my head. Morbid curiosity stuck with me and I thought "but, if that's 10k, what if I ran a 10k race? Surely I would be last place, but I could at least get cool medal, right?" After each trip to the park I put a little more effort into my outings-not my runs. Definitely not runs. Jogs would be a better term, but even that's too fancy. These were definitely accelerated hikes. And I was only doing it for Penny-not for me.

And then I went back to that company's website and saw another 10k. And before I could convince myself what a terrible, stupid, not-at-all-for-me notion it was, I put in my payment information and was registered. I was finally ready. Not ready to run a real race mind you, but ready to wake up early in the morning, decide that I was sick or injured or otherwise too unwell and then roll over and pull the covers over me to ward off the embarassment of shambling around like an idiot in the woods while all these athletes passed me by shaking their heads and thinking "what is this oaf even *doing* here?"

That was my decided on plan all the way until the morning of the race, when inexplicably I did the exact opposite. I got up, and as if possessed by some demonic entity put on my shorts and my shoes and drove in the pre-dawn hours out to a remote wilderness park. All the while, I cursed whatever foul entity controlled me and begged for it would make me vomit pea soup, crawl on the ceiling and twist my head around 360 degrees like a merciful demon, but alas-this was a crueler spirit.

Waiting for the race to start, I knew no one and had no idea what to even talk about. As I feared, everyone was tall and skinny and probably could make a standing leap 10 feet horizontally--double or half that depending on the current wind's speed and direction. As I took my place at the very back when they called for runners to start, I knew I'd never see these people again. They'd likely be packed up and gone by the time I finished. And before I completed that thought, we were off.

For those who expect some great unexpected surprise here, I am pleased to tell you that I still was very slow. Not embarrassingly so, since numerous people got lost, or suffered grievous injury, or were abducted by aliens and all that led to them finishing after me. But I finished and it wasn't at all unusual. I expected people looking at their watches, waiting for a finish so they could finally go home-but it was instead cheers all the way in for the final stretch. And not even sarcastic ones!

Done with the ordeal, I reflected on how I'd fooled at least a few in the running community. I now had a medal for running, which I could then show off to say that somehow I'd run ten kilometers. When I returned home, Penny who had long known of my fraudulence expressed her disdain with a spirited escape around the neighborhood to show me what a real runner looks like.

Amazingly, the race director never sent me an email afterwards saying "We have reviewed the events of this race and decided that you must send this medal back. Please do so within 10 days lest we issue a warrant to reclaim your fraudulently obtained credentials." Despite neither I nor the dogs believing me to be a *Real Runner*, someone out there was willing to let the clumsy illusion slide. It would be years before *I* accepted it, but this first weird validation is the first time anyone considered me a runner and offered me a token to prove it.

When Hustle Culture Goes Bad by Laura Mayfield

When Bandy Shane* first joined his local running club, his greatest hope was to get some exercise and maybe work up the courage to talk to another runner. Fast forward two years later, and now Bandy, a self-described “popular boy,” is on trial by Oregon state officials for false friendship and profit share fraud. Bandy maintains his innocence and still continues to claim that people bought $100 beanies “under no duress or false promises.” Oregon prosecutors say they have dozens of witness testimonies that prove that is not true. 

 According to officials, Bandy deliberately sold merchandise under false premises. Some of those  include shamelessly flirting with other members of the group in order to sell his wares, offering beanies at wildly overpriced amounts, and in one egregious case, offering “kudos for cash.”Assistant to the District Attorney, Mike Power said, “This is one of the biggest cases I’ve ever worked on.” Power continued, saying, “Other states like New York and California have let running club merch fraud slide, but Oregon is setting an example to all the scammers who come into our state, to show that you can’t fool us twice.” 

One anonymous runner said that Bandy would often make false promises in order to get runners to buy his running club branded merch. The anonymous woman said, in between tears, “Bandy said he would give me Kudos on all my Strava runs if I would just buy one of his branded sweatshirts, “Now I’m out $65 dollars, and he hasn’t even liked my morning run yet! It’s been 3 hours!” It is interesting to note  it appeared over Zoom that the woman was wearing the hand-crafted sweatshirt despite being distraught over its purchase. 

According to the run club leader, Natalie Beerwagen, no one could have seen this coming, and she has removed herself from any legal responsibilities. “Yeah, I mean I did put Bandy in charge of the merch, but what he did after that is up to him. He said he was a buyer from a very popular luxury car company, and so of course, we all trusted him.” After some research, WRD has found that the extent of Bandy’s “buying” was limited to repeatedly trying to haggle for discounted fries at the local Arby’s. A HR representative from the car company claims to have never hired him and “would definitely not hire him in the future.” WRD found the only evidence of Bandy ever holding a job was as a mascot for semi-pro volleyball games. He appeared as an unlicensed “Wilson” volleyball inspired by the smash 2000 hit Castaway. 

Bandy gave Work Retire Die an exclusive interview from under house arrest at his Burnside apartment. He was bald, and he sported Nike sandals and an Adidas tracksuit. Later this reporter learned that mixing athletic brands is a big ‘no-no’ in the fashion industry.

 “Hey, if I was on trial for being ridiculously good looking, then guilty as charged, right? But people wanted merch, so I gave them merch. Who cares if it was mainly Sharpie-applied logos? ” admitted Bandy. In a separate conversation, Bandy tried to claim ‘inflation’ was to blame for overcharging his fellow runners. It is important to note that most of the run club branded clothing and accessories appeared to be Bandy’s own clothes, which he altered with extremely toxic-smelling paint and off-brand Sharpies. 

Though the court case is still in session, the jury is out as to whether Bandy is guilty or not. Most of the jurors were literally out because they thought it was too rainy to drive out to the courtroom. Experts say the verdict of the case has the potential to put arduous regulations on all running clubs in the country. Silver Medalist Meb Keflezighi weighed in and said that if his local run club was more regulated, then he wouldn’t be where he is today. Meb chuckled and said, “I made more money off those bastards than I did in the Olympics.” Members of Meb’s training club in New York declined to be interviewed for this article. 

Regardless of the verdict, all Oregon runners should be cautious giving  a running club their hard earned money, especially when they only semi-attend regularly anyway. Look into the run club leader’s backgrounds, and don’t be swayed by flashy promises. If a deal seems too good to be true, it probably is a scam. 

*Names have not been changed as our outlet participates in the NameandShame™ program established in 2020. 

Green Mile by Karl Meiner

I was aware of the shrieking wind outside my window before I was even awake. It was one of those eastern, Gorge-fueled blasts of air that chafes your eyes. “Fuck fuck fuck FUCK!” It was seven fifteen, my bedroom was frigid, and I think the cat puked again somewhere. Early morning hours in Portland just before Christmas are dark.  Like cold, dead Stygian blackness. And I willingly signed up to do a trail run just after sun-up.

Maybe I can tell the group I got in a car accident on the way there, I mused as I lay in my comfy, warm bed. Or I could just puncture one of my tires and crawl back under the covers. The downy, downy covers.

The immediate problem was that I also promised to give two other runners a ride, and I can’t really like…talk…before nine.

Coffee. Just one big cup of coffee. The kitchen counter felt like the surface of Hoth as I groped around for a filter. That’s when I found the cat puke. Judgy Garland, my cat, barfed just under the kitchen sink where she generally leaves one of her ducky toys. “That fucking bitch,” I thought as I grabbed half a roll of paper towels.  

It’s important to poop before any long run; this is triple true heading onto the trail. And nothing fires up the bowels like a dark roast, a pre-sunrise wake-up call, and run anxiety. By seven forty-five I felt like I was going to shit out a continent.  Because I wanted to be sure, I lingered on Strava for an extra minute or two before calling it good.

My gear was laid out on the couch with military precision. No way I was getting caught out there in the cold, wet clutches of Forest Park without every piece on hand. New waterproof socks, that were really water-resistant, probably offered more emotional protection than rain protection, but they felt fluffy and soothing as I strapped them over my ankle braces. Yeah, braces. Two on the right and one on the left. I once sprained my ankle at Powell Butte before mile one. Fuuuckkkkkk that.  Not today.

I grabbed one extra protein bar, silently cursed myself again, and stepped into the biting cold. I let the windows defrost while I thanked the universe I had heated seats; I also contemplated one last time just fucking calling it there. “They’ll understand. Maybe they want an out too. Nobody wants to run in this shit,” my mind was racing faster than I would be able to move my legs.  I put the car in reverse, and kind of wept a little.

Both runners were ready much to my chagrin, and their gear bags also suggested they packed some emotional buffering as well.  One had the foresight to bring a bright puffy jacket for our post-run brunch. “Shit.  That’s a good call.  Remind me to bring mine next time,” I babbled. Runner one laughed too loudly for this time of the morning at this time of the year. But it was the first hint of enjoyment I’d experienced this morning, so my mood shifted, ever so subtly, towards calm.

Parking at the Leif gate can suck dick; you get there too late and you’re walking a quarter mile uphill in the dark. Naturally, we were on the late side as we parked. “We’re here, I guess…” No one moved. We sat there looking, each of us, like we were holding back tears.  

We were jolted awake by a cacophony of fists pounding on my hood.  “Let’s go, pussies,” one of our run crew shouted through my fogged windows.

“Fucking Greg,” I muttered. My riders responded in unison, “fucking Greg!”

Greg is the club douche. He’s fast as an ice-skating rabbit on crack, and he loves for you to know this. 

“You ready for these hills, Karl?  Huh?  HUH?”  

“God, this fucking guy…,” I thought to myself. Fortunately, one of my co-riders and our group’s founding member, lets no shit slide.

“Jesus, cover up your leggings with shorts next time, Greg!  Your wang is poking out like a chapstick tube!”

It was rewarding to see his face melt a little as he turned and bolted up the hill.

There were in the vicinity of twenty runners milling about, and their frosty breath created a haze which blurred their features.  Even so, I recognized most of their ghostly silhouettes almost immediately. There were enough of us experiencing a varying degree of being hungover that people were sharing trade secrets.

“I swear to God!  Pedialyte mixed with Emergen-C and a little Gatorade.  Swear to God.”

“Dude.  Takis and Dr. Pepper.  Sounds gross, right? It is, actually. Real fucking gross. But knocks the hangover on its ass.”

They were all wrong. The absolute best fucking way to slay that hangover dragon is edibles. I mean, to  be honest I’m on a first name basis with the entire staff of three local dispensaries.  I had, in fact, eaten two gummies and one quarter of a 1:1 thc to cbd chocolate bar. That shit was just settling in, so just as we were all gearing up to trot off…I could do little more than giggle and grin like a circus chimp.

This meant that I had to focus hard on the ground. Like, I’m fairly prone towards tripping, stumbling, or falling when I’m as straight as an accountant on tax day. High like this? I could go splat all too easily!

Fortunately, this was a relatively short and easy day. Straight up Leif five miles, turn back.  That’s it.  As far as trail running in Forest Park goes, that’s a fairly vanilla trot.

We grouped together like a school of Gortex-clad fish heading upstream. But as people broke into their pace groups, I slowly began to find myself alone. 

By itself, this fact was not terribly concerning; I was pretty square in the middle of the herd. Plenty of folk behind to find my prone carcass if I managed to slip downhill.

I began to let my mind wander a bit. I had my earphones on now, and Prince Caspian by Phish began to echo loudly across my brain, and I really started getting into it.  You know when you just get absolutely lost in a song? Like you’re screaming the lyrics and shaking your head and just feeling it!  I was right there.

You should know that the average length of a Phish Caspian jam is seven minutes.  But this was the Commerce City, Colorado 2012 Caspian.  Eleven minutes fourteen seconds long.  Look it up.

By the time the song ended, I started to take stock of my surroundings a bit.  That feeling when it’s the minute before you realize you seriously don’t know where the fuck you are.  That’s suddenly where I found myself.

I was standing on a narrow trail arching slowly up into the dense overhang of Forest Park.  “This is not Leif,” was the first non-Phish related thought I’d had in some time.  “Oh shit.  Shiiiiiit.  Shit.” This was not ideal.  I certainly wasn’t under the grip of panic or anything. Yet.  I mean, it’s fucking Forest Park and not the Hood National Forest.

The problem was I had recently had an…incident…getting lost. The club had a relay race on Powell Butte.  Simple fucking loop.  Guess who took a wrong turn and landed in the middle of the fucking butte?  I somehow ended up finishing by coming back to the start from the exact opposite direction I should have. On a loop.

I wish I could say that this was the only time in recent memory I had been victim of absurdist circumstance while engaged in run club activities. Of late, the group has taken advantage of Portland’s lakes and rivers by forming a fleet of stand-up paddle boards and other water craft. I was so excited to join in that I got myself a Costco membership and purchased one of their inflatable two-seater canoes.

It worked well enough at first.  But slowly, inexorably, it became clear that the canoe was losing air. Eventually I could feel my butt sinking below the water level as I found myself fighting the wind in an increasingly vain effort to reach shore.  Most of the club were well out of ear-shot.  

Fortunately for me, one of our crew noticed me floundering with the grace of a drowning cow and hurried out to meet me. She shook her head with a mixture of amusement and pity.  “You need a tow.”  With that, she tossed me the ankle cord and began pulling me behind her SUP board.  It took us a long ass time to get to shore.

So here at the park, my biggest problem wasn’t dying of exposure there in the icy grips of early winter. It was the absolute metric ton of shit I was about to take. It was deserved, no doubt. But the sheer volume of stoner jokes I was about to experience had me face-palming myself.

I had no choice.  I was going to be late. There was still service.  Like a guilty teenager about to report that they crashed mom’s car, I pulled out my phone.  “Got lost. Be a little late,”  I texted the aforementioned club founder.

Adrenaline and a pounding heart sobered me rapidly. About a quarter-mile into retracing my steps, I heard the ping of a text come through my ear buds.

“You got lost.  On Leif.”

There was a heartbeat pause before the next text.

“Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha”

Yeah. It was going to be that kind of ride home.

Wind Goat - by Karl Meiner

Did I ever tell you, the story of the goat?  

In the backwoods of Forest Park,

A goat was running wild,

Near ten feet long and mean as death

A face just purely vile.

Now here he lived, 

and now here he sinned

This was the goat

Who could ride wind.

Up by a trailhead,

That’s safely concealed 

There runs the Wind Goat

So rarely revealed.

One powerful leap

And into the trees

Knocking down branches 

Every which way he please.

Nothing but danger.

Nothing but woe.

For all the wee runners

Passing below.

Such is his power.

Such is his plan.

To crush all the runners,

Whether woman or man.

He will not be reasoned

He will not be fair

He’ll hide all your Hokas

In his foul-smelling lair.

Like Grendel unleashed 

On your Gore-tex and Gu

The Wind Goat spares none

He will not spare you.

So if in the forest

On the trails you do run,

Look for his shadow

And pray you see none.

For should he find you, 

His fury and wrath

Unleashed with no limits

There on the path.

You may see yourself broken.

Beneath branches you’re pinned.

Helpless before

This goat of the wind.