Rejected Hood to Coast Names

The Hood to Coast relay - affectionately known as the mother of all relays - occurs at the end of August. The course is simple: run from Timberline Lodge to Seaside, OR (200 miles), relay style. Each participant runs three legs for a rough total of 16 miles. The annual relay event draws teams of twelve from across the globe.

Relay officials have capped this year's event at 1,250 teams. Creative names are used to differentiate these teams - everything from Team Nike to Geezers Running. My personal favorite remains Six Chicks and Their Disco Sticks.

The deadline for team name selection is fast approaching, but unfortunately all of my suggestions have been rejected by teammates. The following are a handful of gems from the blacklisted names:

Sweaty Third Leg - While the first and second legs are sweaty, by and far the third leg is the sweatiest. The third leg is the climax of the relay for any runner. Regardless of the length of your third leg, it is always exhausting. The variation Hard Third Leg was also rejected outright

Runny Mess - Some days I just get the runs - a sudden urge to stretch my muscles and really let loose. Adrenaline pumping and a tingle starting at my core and running down my legs is all the encouragement I need to get off my ass and really unclog my system. This team name was inspired by how I look after the runs - sweaty, haggard, and exhausted. Teammates rejected the name because it aroused painful memories of porta-potties.

Bringing Up the Rear - Admittedly we are not the most competitive team out on the course - last year we were DFL. We have a good time, but we are constantly bringing it up in the rear. This team name is a fair and accurate description of the team's style, but it was rejected because a gaggle of teammates mistakenly believed it was an innuendo for anal intercourse. I can assure you this team name is about everything but sex. The variation Rear Admirals was also rejected.

Swass Attack - Sweat during physical exertion is a natural and desired bodily function. Sweat down your ass crack during physical exertion is unholy and disgusting. This team name was imagined at about mile four. Teammates rejected the name because no one cares for a sweaty ass.

Hooded Warriors to Coast - Abraham didn't get all the skin. Despite the American population's barbaric ritual of Male Genital Mutilation, there are still those out there sporting 4skin. This name was crafted with the intention of showing solidarity towards those who avoided the knife. Teammates rejected this name because they fear the unknown.

The right team name is out there - it's a combination of innuendo, snark, and tongue-in-cheek humor. Our team knows we aren't the fastest - we aren't competitive - but I'll make damn well sure we have an inappropriate name so that other teams have something else to laugh at besides our splits and finish time.

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

CanvassSweeper

Walking the streets of Portland is like playing a life size game of minesweeper.

The ACLU. Green Peace. Red Cross. The ELF. Chances are, if an organization's name is an acrynom or the organization is attempting, in their opinion, to improve the world, they'll bother the unsuspecting pedestrian with "the systematic initiation of direct contact with a target group of individuals," or canvassing.

Over empathizing is not a character flaw I would list on my life resume; however, my empathy does rear its ugly head when it comes to Portland canvassers. So instead of passing by these canvassers and politely telling them to fuck off, I meander my way through Portland like a game of minesweeper.

This game takes a lot of skill, tact, and luck. Skill at dodging drone canvassers begins with early detection. Like a meerkat, I sense the presence of a predator long before they strike. Clip boards. I can see them two blocks out. Some canvassers have caught on and hide their propaganda, so I generally skip over any block that has an energetic, enthusiastic young person standing on the street corner. Old people don't canvass and young people don't hang out alone.

Overlooking a well disguised canvasser or turning a street corner only to find one dead ahead is the time to utilize Jedi mind tricks. Tactfully turn to your pedestrian pal and inform them in a loud voice, and with hand gestures, that you've taken them in the wrong direction and you must immediately cross the street or, better yet, turn back the way you came. Feigning directional impairment provides the illusion that you are dodging for a justifiable reason.

An ounce of luck doesn't hurt. Despite all training and skill, Lady Luck can create openings to avoid the awkward approach. Maybe another poor victim is harassed ahead of you. Perhaps the canvasser drops their clip board. Perchance a renegade bus steamrolls the canvasser.

Failure to avoid is inevitable. Your skill will not save you. Your tact is insufficient. Your luck will run out. The biggest fear is marooning on a street corner with one of these carnivores. Don't speak. Don't make eye contact. Don't move. They're like a T-rex.

More than likely you've been approached. More than likely you're not bothered by flippin' the bird and merrily going about your business. But for those with a conscience, I invite you to play CanvassSweeper.

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

Accidental Walking Stranger Stalking

There are people in this world with terrible spatial awareness.  They lack peripheral vision.  They are easily distracted.  They seem unconscious to the world.  And somehow, as a pedestrian, I constantly find these people milling about Portland.

Encounters with these day-walking, daydreamers normally ensue as follows: the oblivious one will be roughly a block ahead.  I'll continue walking at my normal click because this Helen Keller of the sidewalk hasn't been identified as such by yours truly.

Now, I'm no Olympic Ecuadorian speed walker.  No, my gait is not that of Jefferson Perez, but I generally walk with purpose.  My accidental stalking victims seem to be on a nonchalant stroll to nowhere.  The difference between us is one of intent - my feet are being used as a mode of transportation, but the vic (as they say on CSI) is out to enjoy themselves.  Out for a merry walk to exercise and daydream.

For some reason the snail finds it necessary to daydream down the center of the sidewalk, thus making any attempt to pass uncomfortable for both parties.  Comparable to camping in the fast lane of I5 while simultaneously star gazing out your sun roof.

Suddenly I realize that I'm too close.  I've caught up.  And worse yet, they haven't noticed my presence.  By the time I'm close enough to recognize I'm slightly stalking this person, it's too late.

Now I'm committed.

To avoid the awkward moment when the slow-walker realizes they're being followed at close range, the stalking must continue.  The stalking becomes premeditated and strategic.  I'm treading ever softer so my footsteps don't give me away. My breathing is calm and controlled.  Hands into my pockets so my clothes don't rustle and coinage doesn't jingle.  I turn my cell phone to silent.

The thinking here is that one of two things will happen prior to them becoming aware: either, A), I reach my destination and no longer have to follow, or B), the stalked turns in another direction.  However, as I continue to close the distance and neither of these two things have happened, I panic, thinking, "How in the hell can I let this moron know I'm behind them without startling the poor ignoramous?!"

Strategies to alert such a person include, but are not limited to:

• Slight cough - not too loud, not to soft, just enough to bring them out of their trance.
• Clearing of the throat - the only danger here...they might then expect you to say something.
• Dragging of the feet - a little scuff on your Pumas might help signify your presence.
• Produce keys from pocket and jingle like a bell - recently tried this method...while slightly unorthodox, it did the trick.

But you know what...screw 'em.  They're hogging the pedestrian thoroughfare.  There's no reason for me to feel socially awkward.  So confidently, boldly, eloquently, I gently clear my throat and say, in the snottiest, pompous, and most standoffish way possible, "Exxxxcuuuuuse me."

The shocked space cadet reacts with disbelief that some creeper is halfway up their pant leg attempting to pass them during their state of mental vacay.

Chest up, nose in the air, I arrogantly parade by the absent minded pedestrian - another stranger successfully stalked in the Rose City.

xoxo,

ShavedGolf