The High Life…

I resolved to make the most out of Jolly ole Portland before my time here expires. Accordingly, I’ve been venturing out to Forest Park a few mornings a week over the past month. Forest Park is the Portland attraction I read about in National Geographic, but have never actually visited in my three and a half years of living in PDX proper.

I park my grossly out of place, ten year old Honda in need of body work alongside the late model SUV’s and Subaru Foresters. Never have I seen a greater concentration of Mini Coopers parked in any one neighborhood (including the Pearl).

On several mornings, I’ve run past a place on Aspen street where there’s a man, dressed in the most immaculate coveralls I’ve ever seen, working on some antique sports car in his, residential, hillside-stilt supported, private garage. I wouldn’t think much of it except a neon sign, that reads “Route 66 Garage” adorns it overhead. Every time I pass he looks up at me with either a bemused, or suspicious gaze. (I’m always across the street so I can’t really tell. What I can tell is that it’s not friendly or welcoming) “Having fun with your toys, you pretentious fuck? Was that sign a Christmas present from wifey? Can I bring MY car into Route 66 Garage for a tune up? What, you never seen a jogger before dillhole? Oh did I cause you to make a spotty-pooh on your coveralls ” are my collection of thought comebacks.

Other than the trust-funded health nuts that are out “humpin’ the trails” every morning, there seems to be a fair number of West Hills housewives sweating to keep their six figure husbands interested. Incidentally, many of these housewives pass me on the trails as if I were standing still — just to keep my pride in check. (If you’ve ever seen the movie Spanglish, each occasion re-enacts, at least at some level, militant Tia Leone’s “…on your left!”.)

I now know why FINDING the trailheads to largest urban park in the nation seems to have been deliberately made difficult (i.e. NW Thurman is the ONLY straight shot from the Alphabet district to the closest trailhead) : to keep out MY KIND OF PEOPLE. Too bad. I say this to the prevailing enjoyers of Forest Park, “keep a tight grip on your REI graphite/composite walking sticks and nifty camelback watering bags ‘cuz there’s a Thug in the park mothrafuchers.”