THE SPORTING LIFE

Getting connected was a top priority after moving back to Vancouver. Regrettably, after ten years away and seven years before that in a relationship, many of my friendships had faded to black. It’s not a completely new beginning, but it’s close.

If I’d told thirteen-year-old me that the plan to connect involved getting involved in sports, teen me would have scoffed, frowned and gone back to listening to Fleetwood Mac’s “Rumours”. By that age, my identity as benchwarmer/scorekeeper/injury faker had long been established. It’s freaky how much early perceptions—by self and by every other youth I encountered—hang over us.

I’m aware enough of the past to never consider the gay softball league. I totally fit the Gays Can’t Catch stereotype and my throwing skills are even worse. It would have to be par three for me to throw from the outfield to any infielder.

My closest friend here speaks almost rhapsodically about curling and keeps trying to get me to join that group. I’ve curled twice in life and it gets dangerously boring. Curling leads to boredom which leads to twirling. It’s an odd spectacle, one that should never go public (more than twice).

Instead, my sports program looks to running, tennis and volleyball. This is the time when teen me would skip the record needle ahead to “I Don’t Want to Know” and turn up the volume. Three sports? Ambitious. Lofty. Delusional.

Ah, but it is doable. I must conquer—or at least not stumble—one sport at a time. First up, running. I’ve dropped in with gay Frontrunners groups in Ottawa, Seattle and Los Angeles with mixed results. The L.A. folks are the friendliest while the Ottawa group left me wondering why I’d driven an hour to jog alone.

I first tried to run with the Vancouver contingent in June last year. There was a large group of about sixty and everyone seemed to talk pre-run in established cliques. The social dynamics proved too intimidating. I did my stretches and headed off for a solo run.

Now that I am living in Vancouver again, I have a greater interest in making a go of it. Last night was my third run with them. The “with” is a generous preposition. On the first two runs, the leader of that day’s run greeted me and ran the route by my side. No doubt, he sensed social fear in my eyes.

The third time was not so lucky. I always seem to be running late—literally—to make the starting time. This time I blame an overstock of overripe tomatoes. I’d gone to a farmers’ market on Sunday and bought far more fresh produce than one man can consume. Before the run, I was madly chopping veggies so that I’d have a well marinated pico do gallo as an oven-free summer dinner upon my return.

I ran from the condo to the gathering place. I was already feeling the heat. Things only worsened as I had to stand around waiting through announcements and the circle round where everyone says their names (and I remember none of them). All that standing around allowed the perspiration to soak into my sky blue shirt. I was a sweaty mess, the wet mass spreading as I became more and more self-conscious. Despite the huge age difference, I have failed to create much distance between myself and teen me.

At last, we ran. I could have fallen into a comfortable pace with the friendly leader but my customary jog is slightly faster. Early on, I made the decision to break from the pack and join three guys out front. But I didn’t technically join them. I lingered behind. For the first twenty minutes, I stayed with them, able to hear their conversation while not having to participate. It was just as well. The sea air had gotten into my nasal cavity and I had to regularly sniff back a stream of mucus.

Maybe it’s the disgusting sniffing noises that made the threesome pull ahead, but it was more likely that I was fading in the heat, delicate, sweaty, snotty soul that I am. They got a block ahead, then two and finally they were out of view. (Hey, the seawall was crowded.)

The run apparently ends after one crosses over a bridge because there was the trio, interrupting their stretches to give me the high five. I accepted the gesture and ran on. So much for socially connecting. I’m very much a work in progress.

Ideally, I would have squeezed in chat time during the run. Alas, I was in nowhere land between Too Fast and Too Slow. Alas, there never seems to be anyone in what I define as Just Right.

I realize that, having failed to do any connecting other than a couple of hand slaps, I should have stopped running, joined in the stretching and offered some insightful comments.

“Whew. What a run!”

“Lots of people on the seawall tonight.”

“Man, it’s hot, eh?” (Notice the carefully placed “eh”. It invites a response or, if ignored, can be shrugged off as a well-accepted Canadian quirk.)

But I was still a twenty-minute jog from home. (What running group doesn’t go full circle?!) I was too sweaty and wallet-less to join the gang for dinner. Pico de gallo called. And I still hadn’t gotten control of that runny mucus situation.

This group running thing remains a work in progress. Small steps. I’m not moving anytime soon. And I’ve got a rediscovered Fleetwood Mac classic to help pass the time.

LONE WOLF

The whole point of going to a running group is being with the pack. Carry on a conversation while trying to regulate gasps of breath. Act as though it’s nothing to sound like a heavy-breathing asthmatic as you talk about, oh, let’s say Seattle rain.

I could have run at 7 a.m. when my alarm went off. I’d looked out the window and the pavement was dry. With rain in the forecast for the entire weekend, this was an opportunity.

Run for it! I told myself. Forget Frontrunners. They don’t know you. You don’t know them.

And yet in my mind I felt I’d made a commitment. It was the only definite part of my Seattle weekend itinerary. 9 a.m., Green Lake Community Center, rain or shine. I am not the flake that all those other single gay men seem to be.

Thirty minutes later, I heard the sound of car tires swishing through puddles. I looked out my hotel window to confirm that my hearing remains entirely adequate. No hearing aids just yet—a silver lining.

By 8:30, I began my walk to Green Lake. The half-hour stroll provided the opportunity for a pep talk. Smile. Be friendly. Listen more than you talk. You don’t like talking while gasping anyway.

My legs were sore from a couple of weight workouts this week and a swim session in which I swam the last thirty minutes with intense quad and toe cramps. It had been foolish. Afterward, I awkwardly limped to the hot tub as the keen new lifeguard chirped, “Great swim!” She had the good sense to look away as I hugged the rail while bent over as leg spasms failed to relent to the misinformed self-therapeutic prescription of hot, bubbly water.

I tacked on a pep talk addendum. Don’t try to be first. Go easy on your legs. Stay with the pack. This is about being social.

But not too social. I paced myself so I would arrive just in time for the group circle wherein everyone says their names. Thankfully, I didn’t have to stand around ahead of time, listening to idle chitchat about, oh, Seattle rain. Wouldn’t want to run out of topics before, “Go!”

I adhered to the pep talk. I smiled. I said my name several decibels above my family’s default mumble. I even said “Hello” and laughed. To someone’s black lab but it counts. That lab was on a leash held by an actual person in the circle. Alas, the dog turned away, resuming squirrel patrol.

Within two minutes of my joining the circle, we dispersed. Having run with this group three weeks ago, I knew which way to begin for the four- or six-mile option. I recognized none of the runners, but I settled into the back of the pack, following someone else’s pace and pretending that jogging in the rain is pure joy. Or mildly tolerable. That’s as upbeat as I could muster after I sloshed right through sidewalk water that I dubbed Wolf Lake.

Yes, that’s it. Stay with the pack. Your pack.

The woman beside me said nothing. I could have introduced myself and asked the only non-weather icebreaker I could think of: “Are you running four or six miles?” But after three hundred yards of silence, the moment had passed.

One guy broke away, setting a faster pace, one that I wanted to go. No! Be social. You run alone all the time back home.

ALL the time.

The men immediately in front of me talked about Halloween plans. They seemed engrossed. One looked over his shoulder briefly, perhaps annoyed that the woman and the new guy were on his heels.

By the time we’d gone half a mile, the cracks in my pep talk became unsightly. They’re not going to include you. Their backs are boring. Stop listening. They’re not talking to you.

I could have imposed myself. I’d given up a few miles of dry running for this. I should make the sogginess mean something.

But I knew I was done. The fast guy was getting away from us and I could not recall the zigzagging route through streets and park trails. I needed to make a quick decision: stare silently at these backs for the next fifty minutes or catch the lead rabbit.

And so I bolted. Social experiment over. I knew the lead guy wasn’t social either. That’s why he’d set off on his own. I caught up but then gave him a five-yard gap. I’d get lost if I passed and I didn’t crave another round of awkward silence.

But he cut off for the four-mile run and I veered to the right and uphill for the six-miler. The rest of the pack was out of sight behind me. I’d have to wing it. Run what I could recall of the route, take a fateful wrong turn, wind up hopelessly lost and then stop and ask a police officer or a kindly homeless man for directions once my shoes became intolerably drenched or my feet returned to their painfully blistered state of being.

A heretofore untapped sense of direction kicked in. I continued to jog familiar terrain—the street with roadside cement barriers that resembled mini tombstones, the museum that I surmised was loaded with hokey dioramas, the University of Washington’s big fountain and the forest trail that paralleled a highway. I even made the correct meander choices through the ravine trail, jogging under bridges I recognized.

And then when I knew I was back on the leg of the run that was a retread from the start, I turned back in the direction of the hotel. I’d pushed myself to a better than expected pace and I’d successfully navigated a route that I could have sworn I would never be able to do solo. Still, I knew I’d failed.

Specifically, I’d failed to register. At all.

Let them forget me. Let us start again next time I’m in Seattle. I’ll refine the pep talk. I’ll get my teeth whitened. Superficial confidence! Maybe someone will include me from the start, posing his own safe introductory question: “Are you new here?” Yes, I’d say.

Maybe Miley or Lindsay or Britney or Justin will do something incredibly stupid again, providing more innocuous fodder than the weather. I’ll find a way to fit.

Or maybe I’ll bravely set off on my own trail, get lost and finally meet an incredibly cute police officer or homeless man. As long as it’s in the future, anything remains possible.

I'M LATE

I hear many gay men talking about being late bloomers. High school? No way. Twenty-two, twenty-six.

How about forty-nine?

On Monday evening, I drove to West Hollywood to join the gay Frontrunners group for a run on Santa Monica Boulevard into Beverly Hills. It’s a small group—on this particular night a mere half dozen of us and none of the people I knew from last year. A tall, pretty young guy immediately started to chat me up.

What?!

This is not supposed to happen in West Hollywood.

Tall, pretty, young gays pretend old fags like me do not exist. It’s the WeHo way. Nondescript telephone poles are more interesting. As we were waved over to the rest of the teeny group, I realized he was just chatty in general. He immediately introduced me to the others, repeating everything I’d told him about myself. I’ve never had my own spokesperson. Not sure I liked it.

Once we began the run, I expected everyone to spread out. Without the familiar faces from last year, I prepared to run solo. Not a problem. It’s fun to roam through the 90210 zip code, even without a helpful Star Map.

The tall, pretty, young gay guy ran by my side. “Feel free to run ahead,” he said. “I’m by far the slowest.” His words reminded me of my own self-promotion in my early twenties. Perhaps it was sympathy more than flattery that made me keep his pace. The other four weren’t exactly making a break.

Was I interested? No. Was he? Of course not. He mentioned his boyfriend a few blocks into the run. I was simply intrigued that he gave me the time of day.

Eventually, I could sense him struggling to keep up. “Go on ahead,” he said. And so I did. I passed the others and fell into a better pace. A stoplight held me and the others caught up. With the green, I pulled away again, but another tall, pretty, young gay guy picked up his pace to join me.

What the—?!

Is the First Monday now Golden Oldies Day in West Hollywood? Must have missed the flyer on one of those fascinating telephone poles. Still, we ran side by side, chatting about my summer stay and his move from Kansas City. Typical of a young guy, he spoke at length about a recent falling out with his one L.A.-based girl friend from Kansas and talked with pie-eyed enthusiasm about his impressions of West Hollywood.

Anything in common? Of course not. Besides, I am not looking. I’d like to think there is something promising back in Vancouver. The fact that I registered at all with another young gay proved astonishing.

As we reached the iconic fountain at Santa Monica and Wilshire, I said goodbye. Everyone else planned to turn back, but I wanted a longer run. I set off toward Sunset Boulevard. On my own, I took in the palm trees that lined the road and the well-manicured gardens of succulents and bougainvillea. But then it registered that a black open-top Jeep was driving unusually slowly beside me. A young, tanned muscular college student in a baseball cap pivoted his head and stared at me. He looked ahead, looked back, looked ahead, looked back. As a rule, I am clueless about cruising, but this was blatant. A Mercedes approached with aggressive-driver urgency. Jeep dude drove on and I jogged on.

Late bloomer, indeed. Guys like this did not notice me in my twenties, my thirties or, up until now, my forties. Maybe it is the sense that I consider myself to be unavailable that is suddenly getting me noticed. I doubt that. I’ve had years of being in relationships (long, long ago) and I was always easy to ignore. It was effortless.

I am much more confident, sure. My protective wall is thinner—balsa wood instead of concrete. I even appear to be in great shape (though more on that in an upcoming blog post).

I suppose I should appreciate this blip without overanalyzing it. Perhaps I just needed another dose of California sun to finally bloom. Despite slathering up with sunblock, a few rays seem to be sinking in.

Forty-nine and hitting my stride. At last.

EXERCISE OR SOCIALIZE?

Last time I ran with a group—or, at least, that was the idea—I was in Ottawa a few years ago. As that Frontrunners experience turned out to be perplexingly negative, I had low expectations for the Santa Monica run with L.A. Frontrunners.

But I also had some hope. I’d run with the group for my last few months in L.A. before moving to Vancouver. They were a bit nerdy and not so good about reciprocal conversation, but nice enough. I even made friends with one of them though we lost touch after he wanted more than friendship and I just wasn’t feeling it. People say, “Okay, sure. Let’s just be friends”, but it rarely works.

Decent memories from L.A. Frontrunners nonetheless. Hadn’t been for a run with the group in nineteen years, but it was comforting to know they still met on the same weeknight at 6:30 in the same spot in the park along Ocean Avenue with the same ocean view.

Still, I wasn’t sure anyone else show up. The website had references to 2011 so maybe the whole group had gone kaput. Maybe everyone had switched to yoga. Or bootcamp in one of the canyons. Or—I’m not making this up--Prancercise. (Sadly, it has nothing to do with everyone putting on reindeer antlers.) Maybe I’d appear at another Frontrunners session just to be jogging solo again.

There are a lot worse places to jog.

As I approached the meeting site—the Millennial Plaque which, okay, wasn’t there back in ’94—I noticed three men standing around in jogging gear. One immediately stepped up and introduced himself. Something in my walk, my clothing or my look apparently screamed “GAY!”

Thank goodness. (After eight years of rural life, you never know!)

Immediately, they were friendlier than the Ottawa folks. Having had his say, Greeter Guy stood back, intently doing calf stretches, but the other two brought me into their chitchat and one shared a lovely story about a guy’s vomit mutating into some sort of being. From a novel, I think. Although it did remind me of that urban myth about that rescued dog at sea that turns out to be an oversized rat. Surprisingly, I let my mind drift off, gazing at the sea, the succulent flora adorning the park and the homeless man passed out ten feet away from us on the grass. (I noticed signs of breathing, thank goodness.)

When my mind drifted back to Frontrunners, the group had doubled and a few more approached. By the time we were ready to run, there 15-20. The leader gathered us in a circle, asked for announcements and had us each say our name—the same routine from all those years ago. The name share is always rapid fire. I must have heard about five names, remembering three. Would they have run with those stickie nametags had I bought a pack? But then, you can’t read what is under “Hello my name is” if everyone leaves you in the wake.

Having broken my foot back in February, the recovery has been maddeningly slow. I finally had my first successful (albeit abbreviated) run just two weeks ago and managed another short run doing laps around the Silver Lake Reservoir on my second night in L.A. So this was Run No. 3. Would I be able to keep up? Would the left foot give out? What if I reinjured it? (I failed to purchase traveler’s medical insurance before leaving Canada.)

We started and people immediately paired up, with me running on my own.

Impose yourself into a pairing, my inner voice said. Oh, how I hate that voice. It always sounds like my mother, always harkening me back to adolescence when I’d waste away hundred-degree summer days watching “The Price Is Right” inside, my Showcase Showdown bidding plan interrupted by my mother urging me to go knock on the neighbor’s door,...the high school quarterback’s house. Yeah, right. My thoughts of winning a boat, a trip to Cancun and a lifetime supply of Rice-A-Roni were far more grounded in reality.

As always, I ignored that inner voice.

And so I jogged bravely onward. Solo, just like back home, only a little more relaxed without having to watch for bears or cougars. Or highly scratchy blackberry bushes.

But then a friendly voice over my shoulder asked, “How long are you visiting?” A friendly man, the oldest in the group, in good shape for sixty-five. We jogged together as others passed. Eventually another man joined us. It was pleasant conversation that petered out as sweat started to stream down our faces and, now on the winding beach path, we had to focus on dodging cyclists, roller bladers and the ever-oblivious walkers who stretched across the entire width of the path, cameras capturing every moment.

In the obstacle course, I got a little ahead of my jogging mates and I could hear them carry on their conversation. It had been nice to be included, but I wasn’t essential. The pace had been too slow and felt unnatural for me. Like driving with the emergency brake on. I took the moment to pick up the pace and jog on my own, eyeing a couple members of the group ahead in the distance.

I passed them and spotted another pair up further.

Reached and passed.

Yes, I can get a little competitive when I run. I like to pass. It breaks the monotony of a run when there are moving targets ahead.

My left foot felt great, the pace seemed right. How exhilarating to really jog again! For months, I wondered if I’d ever run again.

I stopped the passing when I reached Greeter Guy. His pace was decent and, as we were approaching the final incline back to Ocean Avenue, I had no desire to pass him and then be passed again with me huffing and puffing, a wolf who finally meets his brick house.

Sensing that Greeter wasn’t a gifted conversationalist, I took the lead and asked a series of questions about himself. No reciprocity, but no ill intent either. Just like old times. 

A potluck followed the run and, not knowing this, I’d brought nothing. The guy with the vomit tale had said I was more than welcome to attend, but as a quirky vegetarian with eating issues, I’m not a potluck fan.

For a moment, I faced a dilemma. I could wait around and socialize with what I sensed was a friendly group. Isn’t that why I came to L.A.? To connect with people? But the run had only been four miles. My standard run has always been 6-7 miles. I still felt energized. This was my first chance since the fainting episode to reach my standard.

I politely said goodbye to the few runners that were waiting around and then continued on, jogging up my favorite road in Santa Monica, San Vicente Boulevard, with the gorgeous tree-lined island splitting east and westbound traffic. It was part of my old jogging route and on my bucket list of things to do again while in L.A.

Pretty sure I exceeded my regular running distance and due to the old tree roots jutting out along the path, I was beginning to feel discomfort in my foot (and both knees) as I returned to Ocean Avenue. Still, nothing could pierce my joy bubble. I did it. Sure, exercising trumped socializing, but I was elated.

So elated in fact that I walked back to the picnic tables where the potluck was underway. I politely declined gnawing on a roasted chicken carcass, forgot about my shyness and casually chatted for the next hour with a group of genuinely nice people. I tossed aside my need to be critical, smiling politely as more than one guy said, “Oh, you’re from Canada! I love Canada. I was in Toronto last year.” Yep, Vancouver, Toronto,...same thing. (The critic tends to resurface when I write and the endorphins settle down.)

Smile on.

As it got dark—an hour earlier than in Vancouver—I remembered my little dog waiting back in our little bungalow with no lights on and I excused myself again.

“You coming back next week?” I was asked several times.

Absolutely.

YOU LOST ME AT HELLO

Okay, to be honest, there wasn’t even a hello.

Ever show up for something and realize in a split second you’ve made a mistake? Wonder how to get out of it ASAP?

I gave the Saturday morning session of Frontrunners a try, figuring it would be a larger group than the Tuesday night cluster. More social, too, with brunch following the run. I set my alarm for 6:40, only a half hour earlier than my usual awakening but still ungodly for a weekend. After walking the dogs in a chilly 45˚F, I shaved, showered and tried on a couple of warmer jogging outfits. Always important to make the best first impression. I made it into Ottawa in under an hour, slathered on some sunblock and strode over to the group of runners outside city hall.

My reception was the equivalent to a doggy snub: a quick sniff and turn. No need to smile unless one of these guys had eyes in the back of his head. Good thing I still needed to stretch. I needed something to do as filler after The Great Snub. Thinking about alternate breakfast plans also helped time crawl by. Coffee to go or should I have a seat and wait once more for that movie moment when Mr. Good Looking Sane and Single (and Too Fit to Bother with a Running Group) needs to share my table for some contrived, yet charming reason?

When it came time for announcements, I learned that today was going to be a 2K run. Two kilometers?! For a group of avid runners?! What was the point? I drove an hour to get an instant brush-off and to run a piddly 2K?! Apparently there was a marathon/half marathon the next day so no one wanted to overexert. Now I would never consider running either of the race distances so hats off to them, but, if you’re a marathoner—that’s 42K and some change—isn’t 2K just a warm-up? Wouldn’t sleeping in have been a better way to rest up?

Ah, what do I know?

When the group dispersed, I was on my own. I may sound snarky, but I think that’s warranted after schlepping to the city to run solo in a running group. I kept pace behind four men who were oblivious to my existence and I felt relieved after they all turned back, leaving me to officially run on my own along Ottawa’s picturesque Rideau Canal. Thank goodness for the gorgeous backdrop. In my forty plus years of visiting Ottawa almost annually, I’d never taken in the canal on foot. A silver lining, cool yet shimmering in the sun.

When I finally got to driving home—oh, I sipped that coffee in a café, but Prince Charming must have gotten his to go—there was no way to block out the feeling of rejection. Why do I feel like I’m back in high school when I’m in a new gay scenario? That moment of instant ostracism was brutal. What happened to adults making new folks feel welcome? I’d like to think I haven’t done that to others, but I’m sure there were times when I didn’t care to make the effort to include an outsider. Sometimes I’ve shown up for a group just to mix with the few I’m most familiar with. There’s comfort and safety in that. Still, I know there have been many times I’ve spotted the loner and struck up a conversation. Not as a pickup, but as the decent thing to do. If I can do that as a painfully shy and self-conscious person, I should expect at least one of a gay pack to do the same when I’m the odd man out.

I won’t go back to the running group. If I want to run along the canal, I can do that once again on my own. I’ll just pick a time that works for me. The next round of rejection will have to come from another source.

LONG DRIVE, SHORT JOG

I’ve enjoyed my first month at the family cottage. For the most part, it’s just the dogs and me. And a chipmunk that loves to scamper across the deck and ruffle the dogs. My exercise regime has been excellent as I rotate my workouts through going to the gym in town, swimming, cycling and jogging.

As a jogger, I go for consistency. I’ve never tried interval training, speed drills or other structured sessions. When I go for a run, it’s always the same: ten kilometers—no more, no less.

Last night, I did something completely different. For starters, I picked a different venue. I drove into downtown Ottawa (about an hour’s drive), parked the car and met a group of Frontrunners, a gay running group, outside city hall. That’s a huge change. I’m not a social person when I exercise. While some may get hot and bothered over guys working up a sweat, I just think people in a sweaty, stinky state should be left alone. (Of course, there is an exception for shirtless hunks, but they’re the ones who think I should be left alone in any state.)

There were five people clustered near a side entrance when I arrived. The group leader immediately introduced himself and the woman by his side. I then said hello to a guy standing near them. He looked startled to be acknowledged, his eyes popping out like a deer in the headlights. (I’ve been told many times that I have a knack for portraying the same deer.) The other two guys, while aware of introductions, kept to themselves carrying on their own conversation. Even in a group of five a clique exists! Ten minutes went by and I awkwardly stretched and looked around while people chatted two by two. The deer stood on his own, our talk ending after about sixty seconds of in-depth dialogue.

My idea of getting “out there” to meet other gays was a bust. I was ready to bolt and do my own run. My complete lack of any sense of direction stopped me. Running along a country road is simple: run 5K one way and then turn around. In a city I don’t know very well, I would never be able to get back to “Go” on my own.

A few more people arrived, the leader facilitated introductions, shared some announcements and advised folks to look after the new people—myself and Bambi.

And then we were off. Immediately, I was on my own. Hello?! New person! Who’s looking out for me? People were running different distances and the route involved crossing over a series of bridges from Ottawa to Gatineau, Quebec. I followed a couple of guys in front of me as they ran and talked. I felt like I was eavesdropping or being an annoying shadow. Moreover, the pace was too slow.

I became bold. I ran ahead and joined Jean-Marc, a regular in the group who was running on his own. Perhaps I was intruding on his private workout, but I was desperate, already confused as to our starting point. Maybe Jean-Marc feared I was a stalker because in the first minute of our conversation, he threw out the “WE” twice, as in “We live near here”, as in I am taken so back off, horn dog!

Good to know. Not at all unexpected. If there is a group of gay guys, ninety-nine single and one taken, I always find Mr. Married. Call it an inner safety mechanism or a subconscious desire to flog myself. I didn’t expect to hook up with my future life partner based on one outing, but there’d been a faint hope. If it’s gonna happen, it has to start somewhere. Not here.

The run was terrific. It was a sunny evening and the temperature was comfortable for running. The pathways along waterways and the views from various bridges were spectacular. I absolutely loved it! As for exercise, things came up short. The pace was a tad slow and the course was only 7K. I put a positive spin on the fact that I want to go farther and faster. My fitness level is as good as it’s ever been.

The group met for coffee after the run. Normally, I’d zip home, shower and change first. Not an option when “home” is an hour away. So I sat there, sweaty and aware that my big hair was now frizzy, humongous hair. I tried to get into the conversation, but it’s tough when you don’t know anything about the group. Should be easy, shouldn’t it? A blank slate. Unfortunately, small talk has never been my thing.

Two guys talked about telephone technology for about five minutes. No point of entry there. The one guy’s phone tracked is distance and speed during the run and broke things down into intervals. I don’t even know how to initiate a text message. (I can reply; just can’t start it. Story of my life, really.) Then a guy started talking about sugar sculpting. What? Actually, it was interesting, but once again, I nothing to contribute. Posed a question or two at least.

When someone asked where I was staying and I named the local town, the reaction was typical. “Did you drive in just for the run?” Yes. Does that make me desperate? Somehow that’s how it felt. I see it as being pragmatic. A flock of gays isn’t going to land on my dock, ready for a tea party. I have to put myself out there, even if it requires a tank of gas.

I could feel myself getting antsy. Ready to return to my remote den with the dogs. Thankfully, conversation wound down and my exit coincided with the group’s full dispersal. It was dark on the drive home and I had no choice but to shift from any woe-is-me, forever-single thoughts to full attention to the road. I’ve seen too much roadkill since I’ve been here and the local skunks, raccoons and porcupines deserved my focus.

Will I drive in again for a short jog? Perhaps. I now know what to expect. And what not to expect.