We ran.

With about 2.1 million people in the Portland metropolitan area, there are much bigger races than Run Like Hell. For instance, the Portland Marathon, a Boston Qualifier, has nearly 8,000 finishers. The Run Like Hell Half had just over 1,000.

I’m really just making excuses for my lack of conditioning, but I think I had more fun than I would have as a marathoner. I liked the looks of the crowd: Everything from serious runners to runners in costume to serious runners in costume (a personal favorite—nothing got me going this time like seeing Julius Caesar and a goddess sprinting the last half-mile). This race also had the advantage of being held during my fall break. Kismet.

The worst part of the race, by far, was the wait for the start. After dropping husband and T-shirt off at the hotel, I walked the quarter mile back to the start line and waited in my long sleeves and shorts for thirty F-ing frigid minutes. DH’s 5k (along with the Run Like Heck fun run for kids) didn’t start for another hour and fifteen minutes after my race, so I urged him to wait in bed with a Sunday paper until closer to his start time. I was gleeful when the gun went off. Let's get it over with!

Once I got going and warmed up enough to have actual thoughts, I had a little bit of trouble telling what mile I was on. (note to self: bring watch!) The miles were not marked, that I could see, until mile 6, by which point I did not care to think about such things. I focused on one foot in front of the other, and the mantra of “run like hell” proved effective. After I ran through a short tunnel around mile 9, I saw the lead runners coming in the other direction, booking it. It was a quite inspirational sight. After we passed the river, we continued on a slight incline for about 3 miles, probably the toughest part mentally. I thought I would never reach the turnaround. After I did, I just let my body relax and remembered the pace from all those treadmill sessions. I picked someone to follow (Hail, Caesar!), and zoned out until I started hearing the crowd again.

When our pack joined up with the 5k runners, and we rounded the bend toward the finish, I felt exhilarated. I didn’t have much left, but I kicked it and dodged slower 5k-ers to the finish.

I had the best feeling as I dreamily ambled through the slow crowd to give up my chip. I got a little choked up. Months of hard work, boring speed sessions, long Saturday runs, leaving school before the work was done to hit the gym, all for this. The only thing I wanted to do was to see my husband and give him a hug. I was handed a medal, and I walked back and waited for him to cross. Arm in arm, we went to get a beer with our drink tickets (a hoppy Red Hook offering) and shivered together as we talked excitedly about our performances. DH had a PR day, and, of course, so did I.

Tacoma and a Happy Ending: PIZZA

Saturday morning we summoned our rental car and headed up north to Tacoma to visit some of DH’s family there. On our way out of town, we hit up St. Honore Bakery for a pastry and a cup of coffee. I found my almond croissant to be fully adequate, yet not nearly as moist and delicious as the still-warm specimen I had at Pearl Bakery during the walking tour the day before.

Ne’ertheless, we enjoyed our trip up I-5, within squinting distance of Mt. Rainier. DH’s uncle took us on a tour of Tacoma, a charming city south of Seattle at the southern end of Puget Sound. I know it sounds corny, but I found it exciting to see a ship loaded up with containers on its way north and into the Pacific. I don’t go coastal much.

After good times, good stories, and lots of visiting, we headed back south in search of dinner. Nah, not searching. We knew exactly where we were going.

Apizza Scholls
4741 SE Hawthorne
Portland, OR 97215

Though it was Saturday night and we had heard tales of insane waits on weekends, we found parking a few blocks away and decided to go for it. We did not really know what to expect—Is it a nice place to sit down and eat? Can you grab a beer while you wait? The restaurant itself is really two spaces with two entrances on the street—it is not possible to cross from one to the other without going outside. Only one side has a public restroom. In spite of these quirks, A Pizza Scholls does not compare to any pizza restaurant we have eaten at in our travels.

Upon entering the right-hand side, we wrote our name at the end of a depressingly long list and asked for a beer for me and DH. We waited, content to people watch and think about our order. About an hour and fifteen minutes later, it was our turn. We accepted seats at the bar in the other dining room, which turned out to be the PERFECT spot for me. I could see clearly the pizzaiolo turning out the pies with hypnotic rhythm. I felt myself falling in love. We ordered a pie with sausage and goathorn peppers. When it finally arrived, we were awe-struck with its magnificence. Neither of us said much as we ate, not even to note the perfect chewy-crisp crust, the tangy sauce, and the overall balance of ingredients (sausage in every bite!). We consumed all of it, and we understood why we saw every table of four ordering two pies. It’s that damn good.

And I wasn't about to take time for a photo-op. That's what web sites are for. Brian (the bearded guy with glasses) was the man throwing the dough when I was watching, and if you scroll down, you can see what the sausage pizza looks like.

Somehow, unlike when we get pizza in Nashville, we were satisfied but not overly stuffed after the meal. We walked back to our car in a dreamlike state, stopped off at a Whole Foods on the way home (really, about the only kind of grocery store I saw there—there are three in Portland!) to get some pre-race fuel for the next day. Besides the pizza, I mean.

Next up: I freeze my butt off, then run my legs off, and DH does the same.

Higgins

Higgins Restaurant
1239 SW Broadway
Portland, OR 97205

Feeling rather blah after a day spent nibbling our way around Portland (you don’t want to miss a Portland Walking Tour—it's the real deal), we emerged from our hotel after a much-needed nap and wandered over to Higgins.

This is truly a restaurant for the locals. Beloved by all, it has an inventive menu with fresh, local ingredients. The bar was packed for happy hour, and we decided to see if we could luck into a table given the early hour (before 7). The hostess kindly seated us immediately, with the caveat that they’d need the table back in an hour and a half. No problem!

Not to be tempted given our state of satiety, we each had a glass of wine and an entrée. In spite of what my gut was telling me, I had the whole pig plate, with house-made sausage, kielbasa, burnt ends, etc., over polenta and greens. It was bit more than I needed, though all tasted fantastic. DH had a mélange of seafood: prawns, mussels, calamari, and halibut over fingerling potatoes and baby leeks. So fortified, we headed into the evening to check out some brewpubs.

Like many of the places we visited on the trip, this is the kind of place we wish we could go back to, so that we could try everything. Alas!

On to more brewpubs:

For some reason, the TV was playing some PBS doc about baby animals that I saw when I was a kid.

Tugboat – Great atmosphere, live jazz, a roaming pooch.

Rockin'!

Deschutes – Such great beer and ambience, we went back a second time (of which more, later).

Voodoo Doughnut

Voodoo Doughnut
22 SW 3rd Ave
Portland, OR 97204

Voodoo. The only doughnut shop with a “Cruller Chandelier of Life.”

Our bodies still on central time, we went early on a Friday morning, soon after my last easy 4-mile run around town. No problem – the place is open 24 hours. As early as the hour was, we still had to wait in line for about 15 minutes for our fix.

As we waited , we watched a glassed-in rotating case, as for jewelry, display the doughnuts on offer. There, the famous maple bacon bar. The voodoo doughnut, complete with pretzel “needle.” A large assortment of vegan doughnuts. A willowy woman behind the counter took our order. Many before us had asked for the Voodoo Dozen, where the doughnut mistress picks out a dozen for you and packs them into a hot pink box. We opted for three, paid with cash (no credit cards accepted), and stepped outside into the balmy, misty morning.

DH got the Triple Chocolate Penetration, a chocolate cake doughnut with chocolate glaze dipped in cocoa puffs. For dessert, he opted for the Old Dirty Bastard, a plain yeast-risen doughnut with crushed Oreo and peanut butter.

I was seduced by the looks of the peach fritter, the largest item in the rotating case. Studded with chunks of fresh peaches and covered with a thick layer of cream cheese, it was calling my name. The longer I waited in line, the more I knew I had to have it. I was rewarded with a 10-12 ounce mound of fried goodness. Perhaps a little too good – of course, the frosting was way out of proportion to the rest of the pastry. The fritter itself was fried to perfection and had plenty of peachy goodness. Good thing trash cans are everywhere on the streets of Portland.

After many sugary bites, I scraped much of the frosting into the trash and ate about ¾ of the fritter itself. Mmmm… All Voodoo needs is some excellent coffee. For our post-doughnut fix, we headed up the road to Stumptown. We felt so spoiled.

23Hoyt

We got a dose of culture at the Portland Art Museum, definitely worth a visit.

23Hoyt

529 NW Twenty-third at Hoyt

Portland, Oregon 97210

Thursday evening, we opted to sample the cuisine of the Pacific Northwest. We arrived at 23Hoyt, in the Pearl District, a ritzy area with lots of boutique shopping and fine dining restaurants. The east-west roads in this part of Portland are in alphabetical order as you travel north. Many fans of the Simpsons will recognize Burnside (Mr. Burns), Flanders, and Lovejoy, names appropriated by Matt Groening, who grew up here.

Just inside the door at 23Hoyt, all you see is a heavy curtain before you that must be shoved aside before entering the dimly-lit dining area. The décor is striking: the artwork is from the owner’s personal collection, and this person must have a taste for the macabre. Paintings with interesting subject matter line the walls, and a chandelier made from antlers is the centerpiece of the main room.

Glancing around, the clientele was fairly diverse, ranging from middle-aged locals to young couples who were tourists like us. Service was unobtrusive and informative. The food, however, was not at all what I was expecting.

To start with, I had a cauliflower soup with ginger and apples, which was so delicious it tempted me to lick the bowl. It comes with the garnishes for the soup in the bottom of the bowl, and the server pours the soup into the bowl from a hot carafe. I have experienced this before, but for some reason I was caught off guard this time when the white bowl came with these tiny diced apples in the bottom, and nothing else. I’m so silly!

Both of us were committed to getting fish. DH chose roasted trout with baby octopus. The trout came with its head on, and the texture was unlike anything we were used to, having never had roast fish. DH liked the octopus’ flavor and chew. Here's looking at you, Mr. Trout.

I hope you don't mind that I suffer from restaurant flash photography shyness (RFPS).

I selected the halibut with Thai spices in a coconut broth. It was mighty tasty. We broke protocol and split dessert, a pumpkin cheesecake that was to die for.

All in all, the only problem we had with 23Hoyt was that it was not what we were expecting. It felt just a tad too… advanced for our taste. I’m sure it’s a fine restaurant, but we shied away from trendy spots (and had a definite slant toward brewpubs) for the rest of the trip.

The wine? Oh, an Oregon pinot (he noir, I blanc), natch.

Laurelwood Pub House and Brewery

Laurelwood Public House & Brewery
5115 NE Sandy Blvd
Portland, OR 97213

Laurelwood prints on its menu:

All Laurelwood restaurants support local, sustainable & organic products whenever possible.

Turns out, it's hard to find a restaurant without this addendum.

We stopped here for lunch around noon on a weekday on our way from the airport to our hotel downtown. It was a wonderful introduction to Portland-style hopped beer and socially-conscious eateries.

Laurelwood Brewing Co. owns several restaurants in Portland, each with its own menu of sandwiches and/or pizza. Our outpost was pleasantly decorated, though we missed the vibe of a busier time of day. The service was friendly and accommodating. The food was satisfying and of a high quality. The beer was mighty tasty, too.

One of many pictures of my beloved husband taken by me on this trip

Naturally, we went for the sampler, although I’m tired of beer samplers. I know enough to know which beer I will prefer with my meal, and I hardly ever am in the mood for a red, a stout, or a porter with lunch. DH is of the opinion that since we’ll probably not come back again anytime soon, we ought to try all the beer on offer. Point taken.

After the frustration of the sampler, DH ordered a Space Stout, and I the Hooligan, one of the least hoppy of them all. Oh, how much we have learned.

On to the food. DH got the Kobe beef burger and subbed garlic fries for his chips. The garlic fries were well done, but a little intense. According to him, the garlic taste lasted through another meal and a toothbrushing. I didn’t get close enough to verify. The burger... was a good burger.

My sandwich was a house-made vegan patty with spinach, roasted red peppers, cheese, and tomato on excellent focaccia, with some sort of herbed butter spread on it. I’m still a dedicated carnivore, but you just can’t get house-made vegan patties at a brewpub in Nashville that I am aware of. I was fascinated and rewarded with the most satisfying sandwich of the trip.

I subbed a salad on the side, in what would be my last display of virtue of the weekend.

The best part: There's one in the airport. Portland Airport is the nicest I have ever visited, and indeed it is award-winning. Downing a pint before our flight home was the perfect way to say goodbye to the Pacific Northwest.

The bathroom of an award-winning airport.

Bridgetown

Sunrise from the plane, a.k.a., you picked a too-early flight.

I ate it, and I liked it. Oh, and go vote.

One magazine, one newspaper, one layover, Skymall, and several abortive crossword puzzles later, we arrived in Portland to grey skies and temps in the low fifties: exactly as expected.

I learned a lot:

Never has it been as clear to me how much careful urban planning can create a beautiful, livable landscape.

Beer infused with fresh hops can be a wonderful thing.

Portland IS hilly, no matter what the race director says (24th out of 172 in my division! woo! I'm officially hooked).

F.L.O.S.S. makes food taste OH SO MUCH better. Even donuts. Especially donuts.

I’ll describe what we did and ate over the next couple of posts, but first, a picture of challenging pants:

Garish paint in a Barnes and Noble bathroom. It ain't (entirely) my fault I don't match.

Wear not said pants before going brewpub-hopping.

(By the way, this self-portrait is the only image taken of myself on this entire vacation. I brought this up to my husband in the airport last night at 9 p.m. as we waited on our delayed flight. Of course, he tried to take a picture of my worn-out, frazzled, unmade-up self right then and there. He failed.)

Roasted Sweet Potatoes

Mmmm. Sweet potatoes. Nothing here that hasn't been done before, but golly, it's good.

Roasted Sweet Potatoes with Balsamic Vinegar for two
1 gigantic sweet potato, peeled and diced into 1-inch pieces
2 tbsp balsamic vinegar
1 tsp brown sugar
1 tbsp butter
1/2 tsp salt
pepper to taste

Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Melt sugar into vinegar in a large skillet over medium heat. Let thicken a bit, then add butter and salt and stir until butter is melted. Remove from heat and add potatoes; shake pan to coat well. Dump potatoes onto a foil-lined sheet pan, grind some pepper over it, and roast for 40 minutes or until caramelized.

Portland Ho

Will post next after a trip to Portland, OR to visit family in nearby Seattle, run in a race, and soak up the atmosphere.

Which just happens to be laden with EXCELLENT food and drink.

So I hear.

Details to come.

Perhaps they have an outpost of my husband's favorite little New York pizzeria

Mens Sana

I'm FRUSTRATED.

I haven't run a fast 5k since I started running long. Subconsciously, I have given myself a license to run however slowly I want to, as long as I get the miles in. Some tough treadmill sessions this fall, along with lackluster finishes at my last two 5ks (though today's Bier run was better), have shown me the light. I need to PUSH it.

However, the body is tired and the mind is weak. Tomorrow is my last long run before the Run Like Hell half in Portland in a week and a day. I ran the distance last week, and I'm running it plus one mile tomorrow, so no worries about finishing. This winter, after maybe a month's break, I'm going to commit to running one treadmill session a week. And phoning in my daily runs? No more of that. I'm going to wake up five minutes later to scare myself into running faster. Ha HA!

My diet has suffered these last couple of weeks, too. My mother-in-law got me the Three Rivers Cookbook from Pittsburgh, and I've been cooking from it. Let's just say that those who live in a temperate climate don't NEED the hibernatory layer of fat that I've gained from pretzels, pierogies, and kielbasa. (Interestingly, since this cookbook is from the 1970s, there's a Ferdinand Metz recipe from his days working for Heinz. It's a sufficiently complicated and heavy dish.)