Pierogies and holubtsi and dancing girls in native garb, all at the Ukrainian Festival in Sellwood...
Saturday, September 22, 2007
Friday, September 14, 2007
Generational Lament
Received this morning: "J has been going downtown since Wednesday. He got a summons for jury duty. He thinks they will have a full jury today and he will be released. He has sat on six juries and enjoys doing it. I asked him if he met any interesting people. When they have breaks they all are attached to a phone or other type of gaget. No talking to each other, like it used to be. What would these people do with out their phones? The world sure has changed."
Received this morning: "J has been going downtown since Wednesday. He got a summons for jury duty. He thinks they will have a full jury today and he will be released. He has sat on six juries and enjoys doing it. I asked him if he met any interesting people. When they have breaks they all are attached to a phone or other type of gaget. No talking to each other, like it used to be. What would these people do with out their phones? The world sure has changed."
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
'You be good. See you tomorrow. I love you.'
Last words of a very smart African gray parrot, who died late last week at 31.
Last words of a very smart African gray parrot, who died late last week at 31.
Sunday, September 09, 2007
Sunday, September 02, 2007
Hometown Race
My assessment of the Oregon Trout City of Portland Triathlon is swayed considerably by the fact that I was able to drive to the start in 10 minutes and park maybe 50 yards from T1/2 and the finish. How cool is that? The contrast with, say, Vineman, with its far-flung transitions, mile-away parking, and dismal school-bus shuttles had me wiping tears from my eyes.
Or maybe that was just muck from the Willamette.
Yes, we swam in Oregon's superfund toilet of a river.
It wasn't bad, actually. Well, my swim was bad, but conditions weren't. Under water you couldn’t see past your fingers, but that was as anticipated. It was long—literally long, I think, maybe closer to 1.0 miles than 0.9, although that hardly explains my pathetic time. That was a product of my generally weak form, and also the strange neck/shoulder/arm ailment that befell me soon after the Pacific Crest half back in late-June. Speaking to the latter point, I just haven't been able to swim much and, being a mediocre swimmer at best, had totally lost my edge. Instead of swimming my usual three or four days a week, I've been in the pool maybe a half-dozen or so times in the past nine weeks. Not good. And when I do swim, I have almost no strength to pull with my left stroke.
OK, so my swim was 37:48, 111th out of the 137 dudes who started the race. I was just happy to have it out of the way.
I then had my typical stupendously slow transition, despite the fact that I got my wetsuit off much quicker than usual. How'd I accomplish that? I cut it off! That's right, I used a pair of scissors and sliced right down each leg and just stepped out. This wasn't as crazy as it sounds, actually, as the suit, after six years of use, had recently suffered several tears and was landfill-bound. Oops, I mean recycling center-bound (this was a "sustainable" triathlon, after all). I almost bought a new one before the race but thought it would be fun to usher out the old one in dramatic fashion. It was a first-generation Zoot two-piece and a gold-medal winning gymnast didn't have the flexibility to wiggle out of that bottom piece with ease. Still, the thing did carry me through dozens of races, including several in frigid waters. I think of Millerton on the edge of the Sierra in April, and Wickiup in the Cascades at Pacific Crest—pretty chilly stuff.
Onto the bike. Riding my old (2001) Lemond roadie among all the sleek, super-light tri bikes is getting ridiculous. I'm springing for a new bike soon, very soon. A tri bike. That's right, aero bars and everything. So this might have been it for the bike, too, though I did not cut it up or even crash it to celebrate the occasion. I just rode it. Not particularly quickly, but on an odd, straight-line, six-lap course, my bike was better than my swim. Up the river parkway for two miles, a U-turn, back down it for two miles, a U-turn, again and again.
One way was into the wind and up a slight grade, the other way—that's right: with the wind and down a slight grade (funny how that worked out). Highlight of the race came on lap six when I saw racer 510 weaving between people on his passes. Passing on the right is against the rules—and it's a good rule, a safety thing, limiting just a bit the possibility of mishap amid riders of varying abilities, fitness levels and powers of concentration. A decently marshaled race would have resulted in a penalty for racer 510—one Luke Reyes, of Portland—but all it earned him today was a gentle (I swear) few words from me when he passed me on the right: "Hey, bud, you gotta pass on the left, not the right." The classy Mr. Reyes flipped me the bird, good and long, without looking back.
Well, I kicked his ass on the run—48:18 vs. 1:00:46—despite the fact he was half my age.
The run course was excellent, over the Hawthorne to the east side of the river, north up the Esplanade, back to the west side on the Steel, then south to where we started. Do this 3.1-mile loop twice and there's your 10K, triathlon fans.
Mile 6 on the run was my best and fastest, coming in around 6:50 as a little peroneal tendonitis in my right leg finally loosened up. Always nice to finish strong and, moreover, always nice to finish.
Crowds were super—more fans than racers (300+), I think. Weather was perfect, calm for the swim, keeping the river smooth, and then sunny and comfortable, in the 60s heading into the 70s by the mid-morning finish.
To Jeff Henderson, who brought this inaugural triathlon to downtown Portland, a big thank you. It was a very well run event. Strictly on organizational terms, one of the best I've ever been involved in. And I'm not just saying that because of the killer parking spot I got.
The final data:
Swim---37:48---111/137
T1---5:14---114/137
Bike---1:23:51---85/137
T2---1:19---74/137
Run---48:18---48/137
Overall---2:56:32---90/137
PS: Oregon Trout, the title sponsor of today's race, is a great organization!
My assessment of the Oregon Trout City of Portland Triathlon is swayed considerably by the fact that I was able to drive to the start in 10 minutes and park maybe 50 yards from T1/2 and the finish. How cool is that? The contrast with, say, Vineman, with its far-flung transitions, mile-away parking, and dismal school-bus shuttles had me wiping tears from my eyes.
Or maybe that was just muck from the Willamette.
Yes, we swam in Oregon's superfund toilet of a river.
It wasn't bad, actually. Well, my swim was bad, but conditions weren't. Under water you couldn’t see past your fingers, but that was as anticipated. It was long—literally long, I think, maybe closer to 1.0 miles than 0.9, although that hardly explains my pathetic time. That was a product of my generally weak form, and also the strange neck/shoulder/arm ailment that befell me soon after the Pacific Crest half back in late-June. Speaking to the latter point, I just haven't been able to swim much and, being a mediocre swimmer at best, had totally lost my edge. Instead of swimming my usual three or four days a week, I've been in the pool maybe a half-dozen or so times in the past nine weeks. Not good. And when I do swim, I have almost no strength to pull with my left stroke.
OK, so my swim was 37:48, 111th out of the 137 dudes who started the race. I was just happy to have it out of the way.
I then had my typical stupendously slow transition, despite the fact that I got my wetsuit off much quicker than usual. How'd I accomplish that? I cut it off! That's right, I used a pair of scissors and sliced right down each leg and just stepped out. This wasn't as crazy as it sounds, actually, as the suit, after six years of use, had recently suffered several tears and was landfill-bound. Oops, I mean recycling center-bound (this was a "sustainable" triathlon, after all). I almost bought a new one before the race but thought it would be fun to usher out the old one in dramatic fashion. It was a first-generation Zoot two-piece and a gold-medal winning gymnast didn't have the flexibility to wiggle out of that bottom piece with ease. Still, the thing did carry me through dozens of races, including several in frigid waters. I think of Millerton on the edge of the Sierra in April, and Wickiup in the Cascades at Pacific Crest—pretty chilly stuff.
Onto the bike. Riding my old (2001) Lemond roadie among all the sleek, super-light tri bikes is getting ridiculous. I'm springing for a new bike soon, very soon. A tri bike. That's right, aero bars and everything. So this might have been it for the bike, too, though I did not cut it up or even crash it to celebrate the occasion. I just rode it. Not particularly quickly, but on an odd, straight-line, six-lap course, my bike was better than my swim. Up the river parkway for two miles, a U-turn, back down it for two miles, a U-turn, again and again.
One way was into the wind and up a slight grade, the other way—that's right: with the wind and down a slight grade (funny how that worked out). Highlight of the race came on lap six when I saw racer 510 weaving between people on his passes. Passing on the right is against the rules—and it's a good rule, a safety thing, limiting just a bit the possibility of mishap amid riders of varying abilities, fitness levels and powers of concentration. A decently marshaled race would have resulted in a penalty for racer 510—one Luke Reyes, of Portland—but all it earned him today was a gentle (I swear) few words from me when he passed me on the right: "Hey, bud, you gotta pass on the left, not the right." The classy Mr. Reyes flipped me the bird, good and long, without looking back.
Well, I kicked his ass on the run—48:18 vs. 1:00:46—despite the fact he was half my age.
The run course was excellent, over the Hawthorne to the east side of the river, north up the Esplanade, back to the west side on the Steel, then south to where we started. Do this 3.1-mile loop twice and there's your 10K, triathlon fans.
Mile 6 on the run was my best and fastest, coming in around 6:50 as a little peroneal tendonitis in my right leg finally loosened up. Always nice to finish strong and, moreover, always nice to finish.
Crowds were super—more fans than racers (300+), I think. Weather was perfect, calm for the swim, keeping the river smooth, and then sunny and comfortable, in the 60s heading into the 70s by the mid-morning finish.
To Jeff Henderson, who brought this inaugural triathlon to downtown Portland, a big thank you. It was a very well run event. Strictly on organizational terms, one of the best I've ever been involved in. And I'm not just saying that because of the killer parking spot I got.
The final data:
Swim---37:48---111/137
T1---5:14---114/137
Bike---1:23:51---85/137
T2---1:19---74/137
Run---48:18---48/137
Overall---2:56:32---90/137
PS: Oregon Trout, the title sponsor of today's race, is a great organization!
Monday, August 20, 2007
Danno
There was standing water on the roads, here and there, and maybe a little drizzle, around and about, so I pondered passing on my ride this evening. Then I thought about Dan, riding Paris-Brest-Paris, the ridiculous French rando thing, over in France, in Europe of all place, and amongst the French, no less. Apparently Portland isn't the only drippy place come summer, and there was precip in the air over there. So there's Dan, off riding 1200 kilometers through the day and the night and whatever the weather gods bring ... and there I am mulling a 20-miler in a little drizzle. Yeesh. Just ride, dude. So I rode.
Got a flat. Put on replacement tube #1. Got another flat. Put on replacement tube #2, then heeded a very important personal rule: When you have no more tubes or patches, proceed directly home. I did. It was 16.4 miles. I tried. Dan would be proud, if he were reading this and not, instead, wondering when his little hellish adventure would end.
Now I'm following Dan's progress. You may do so as well. He's #4752. Do wish him a safe journey.
There was standing water on the roads, here and there, and maybe a little drizzle, around and about, so I pondered passing on my ride this evening. Then I thought about Dan, riding Paris-Brest-Paris, the ridiculous French rando thing, over in France, in Europe of all place, and amongst the French, no less. Apparently Portland isn't the only drippy place come summer, and there was precip in the air over there. So there's Dan, off riding 1200 kilometers through the day and the night and whatever the weather gods bring ... and there I am mulling a 20-miler in a little drizzle. Yeesh. Just ride, dude. So I rode.
Got a flat. Put on replacement tube #1. Got another flat. Put on replacement tube #2, then heeded a very important personal rule: When you have no more tubes or patches, proceed directly home. I did. It was 16.4 miles. I tried. Dan would be proud, if he were reading this and not, instead, wondering when his little hellish adventure would end.
Now I'm following Dan's progress. You may do so as well. He's #4752. Do wish him a safe journey.
Saturday, August 18, 2007
Rocky Butte
Portland, land of extinct volcanoes. Conquered another one this afternoon, Rocky Butte. I had a plan but ended up following the hand-lettered cardboard signs directing cyclists to ride to the top of the butte this morning as part of a neighborhood protest against some giant store that wants to move into the area somewhere. "Think Outside the Big Box," say the placards on many lawns in the neighborhood. I guess I'm on their side, though I -- and I would guess, many of them -- have indeed shopped at a big box store.
Amazing views from the top. Downtown and the hills beyond to the west; the Columbia, Mount Hood, blah, blah. Very cool. Nice run. Niners-Raiders exhibition on in the background now, only because I'm curious about Alex Smith's progress. And something in the background is nice.
Portland, land of extinct volcanoes. Conquered another one this afternoon, Rocky Butte. I had a plan but ended up following the hand-lettered cardboard signs directing cyclists to ride to the top of the butte this morning as part of a neighborhood protest against some giant store that wants to move into the area somewhere. "Think Outside the Big Box," say the placards on many lawns in the neighborhood. I guess I'm on their side, though I -- and I would guess, many of them -- have indeed shopped at a big box store.
Amazing views from the top. Downtown and the hills beyond to the west; the Columbia, Mount Hood, blah, blah. Very cool. Nice run. Niners-Raiders exhibition on in the background now, only because I'm curious about Alex Smith's progress. And something in the background is nice.
Friday, August 03, 2007
Hometown Tri
Portland has never had a triathlon right in town, which isn't unusual, I guess; I don't know if I've heard of too many downtown triathlons. But some guy has organized one this year, to be held September 2. I'm entered. It's all very Portland. I mean, the goal is a "sustainable and organic" event, and even the finish arch is green. But what about the water? Whenever I mention to locals that the swim is in the Willamette (rhymes with dammit), they say, "ooh, yuck!" But, hey, as long as there's no rain in the 48 hours before the race, we'll probably be OK. Heck, e. coli results have been low all summer!
Portland has never had a triathlon right in town, which isn't unusual, I guess; I don't know if I've heard of too many downtown triathlons. But some guy has organized one this year, to be held September 2. I'm entered. It's all very Portland. I mean, the goal is a "sustainable and organic" event, and even the finish arch is green. But what about the water? Whenever I mention to locals that the swim is in the Willamette (rhymes with dammit), they say, "ooh, yuck!" But, hey, as long as there's no rain in the 48 hours before the race, we'll probably be OK. Heck, e. coli results have been low all summer!
Saturday, June 30, 2007
Going Yard
Hired a couple of kids to mow the small lawn I've got in front of my house. These are guys I saw tooling around the neighborhood on their bikes the day I arrived—in fact, they offered their lawn-care services right then and there. I told them I'd get back to them. Today, I saw them riding by and I yelled out that I thought my lawn needed a trimming. The lanky one of the two said, "Yeah, I'd say it's beginning to look a bit tropical."
That was Josh, maybe 13. His sidekick is Brandon, whom I'm guessing checks in at 10. Befitting his elder status, Josh is the "manager of the lawn mower," except when it comes time to push it across the lawn, at which time Brandon is called to the fore. But if the little guy runs into a gnarly, knobby spot, Josh jumps in. I offered them five bucks for the job, which took them all of 15 minutes (including 5 minutes to get the mower over here). Turned out I didn't have 5-even on me, so I gave them a 20 and contracted for three more mows, every two weeks or so. I like stoking the fires of young entrepreneurs. I'll just assume the money isn't going for beer or tobacco.
A word about Portland lawns: I don't get them. They all suck. I'm wondering if this is a nature thing and just the way lawns grow up here, or if there's a law, or if it's by informal agreement or peer pressure (among the citizenry, not the blades of grass). In my short time in town I've walked and run through the tending-toward-hoity neighborhood of Laurelhurst, as well as the nice, dependable neighborhood Mount Tabor and several, shall we say, more mixed areas, including my humble 'hood. I've driven about a bit. I have seen exactly one well-trimmed, wholly green lawn of the sort that is standard-issue in California, the so-called Golden State. (I'm not talking about the less common but still plentiful lush, rich, deeply green spreads that suck up an acre-foot of water every summer month. Just your standard decent lawn.) Here, they're mostly brown and scruffy; you find some splotches of green, particularly around the edges, but even a cursory examination reveals that's just weeds. Dandelions abound. This doesn't bother me, mind you. In fact, it's great—it'll be no problem keeping my lawn looking just as "nice" as the neighbors'. Heck, after Josh and Brandon's work, I'm probably the shining star on this stretch of Hoyt Street. Anyway, we'll see how it goes. In the end, this might be the answer.
Hired a couple of kids to mow the small lawn I've got in front of my house. These are guys I saw tooling around the neighborhood on their bikes the day I arrived—in fact, they offered their lawn-care services right then and there. I told them I'd get back to them. Today, I saw them riding by and I yelled out that I thought my lawn needed a trimming. The lanky one of the two said, "Yeah, I'd say it's beginning to look a bit tropical."
That was Josh, maybe 13. His sidekick is Brandon, whom I'm guessing checks in at 10. Befitting his elder status, Josh is the "manager of the lawn mower," except when it comes time to push it across the lawn, at which time Brandon is called to the fore. But if the little guy runs into a gnarly, knobby spot, Josh jumps in. I offered them five bucks for the job, which took them all of 15 minutes (including 5 minutes to get the mower over here). Turned out I didn't have 5-even on me, so I gave them a 20 and contracted for three more mows, every two weeks or so. I like stoking the fires of young entrepreneurs. I'll just assume the money isn't going for beer or tobacco.
A word about Portland lawns: I don't get them. They all suck. I'm wondering if this is a nature thing and just the way lawns grow up here, or if there's a law, or if it's by informal agreement or peer pressure (among the citizenry, not the blades of grass). In my short time in town I've walked and run through the tending-toward-hoity neighborhood of Laurelhurst, as well as the nice, dependable neighborhood Mount Tabor and several, shall we say, more mixed areas, including my humble 'hood. I've driven about a bit. I have seen exactly one well-trimmed, wholly green lawn of the sort that is standard-issue in California, the so-called Golden State. (I'm not talking about the less common but still plentiful lush, rich, deeply green spreads that suck up an acre-foot of water every summer month. Just your standard decent lawn.) Here, they're mostly brown and scruffy; you find some splotches of green, particularly around the edges, but even a cursory examination reveals that's just weeds. Dandelions abound. This doesn't bother me, mind you. In fact, it's great—it'll be no problem keeping my lawn looking just as "nice" as the neighbors'. Heck, after Josh and Brandon's work, I'm probably the shining star on this stretch of Hoyt Street. Anyway, we'll see how it goes. In the end, this might be the answer.
Go Blazers
I guess I need to rename this blog (in addition to reinvigorating it). But then again, Whine Country is nothing if it isn't a state of mind, right?
So, yeah, I moved to Portland, the Oregon version for those of you checking in from the Right Coast. I was a little disappointed not to receive any kind of official greeting, let alone a house-warming gift, from the city, especially after seeing the welcome that new kid from Ohio got. But I'll get over the hurt.
Portland is by declaration of pundits, magazine city-rankers, environmentalists, geeks, goofs and professors of urban planning the Coolest City in America. The other day, a fellow in the Wall Street Journal said it felt not so much like a major city, but an incredibly large college town. Or maybe that was the woman in the Atlanta Journal-Constitution. It's a good line. There are a few colleges around town, but Oregon's big universities are down the Willamette Valley, in Corvallis and Eugene. But Portland nevertheless seems overrun with youth, and it feels vibrant, idealistic and disheveled.
I don't know what all these twentysomethings and thirtysomethings-not-acting-their-age are doing here, beyond depressing wages. (I saw an ad on Craigslist for an editor with a college degree, 3-5 years' experience, a full range of technical knowledge and (of course) "the ability to think creatively and strategically." The salary for this exceptional package: $27,000. Maybe I've really moved to Bangalore.)
I like Portland, so far. Mount Tabor Park is a mile south of me. It's a weird and wonderful place, an extinct volcano and home to several strangely beautiful reservoirs. Plus, for my purposes, it's a great place to run. I found, too, an enjoyable, easy-to-navigate 20-mile bike loop right from my door. And the Montavilla Park Pool is a mile directly east on Glisan, with a lap lane that appears mostly not to be too crowded. So at hand that's good running, biking and swimming—almost everything a guy needs to stay sane.
I guess I need to rename this blog (in addition to reinvigorating it). But then again, Whine Country is nothing if it isn't a state of mind, right?
So, yeah, I moved to Portland, the Oregon version for those of you checking in from the Right Coast. I was a little disappointed not to receive any kind of official greeting, let alone a house-warming gift, from the city, especially after seeing the welcome that new kid from Ohio got. But I'll get over the hurt.
Portland is by declaration of pundits, magazine city-rankers, environmentalists, geeks, goofs and professors of urban planning the Coolest City in America. The other day, a fellow in the Wall Street Journal said it felt not so much like a major city, but an incredibly large college town. Or maybe that was the woman in the Atlanta Journal-Constitution. It's a good line. There are a few colleges around town, but Oregon's big universities are down the Willamette Valley, in Corvallis and Eugene. But Portland nevertheless seems overrun with youth, and it feels vibrant, idealistic and disheveled.
I don't know what all these twentysomethings and thirtysomethings-not-acting-their-age are doing here, beyond depressing wages. (I saw an ad on Craigslist for an editor with a college degree, 3-5 years' experience, a full range of technical knowledge and (of course) "the ability to think creatively and strategically." The salary for this exceptional package: $27,000. Maybe I've really moved to Bangalore.)
I like Portland, so far. Mount Tabor Park is a mile south of me. It's a weird and wonderful place, an extinct volcano and home to several strangely beautiful reservoirs. Plus, for my purposes, it's a great place to run. I found, too, an enjoyable, easy-to-navigate 20-mile bike loop right from my door. And the Montavilla Park Pool is a mile directly east on Glisan, with a lap lane that appears mostly not to be too crowded. So at hand that's good running, biking and swimming—almost everything a guy needs to stay sane.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
