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.

LEAVE 'EM WANTING MORE (or something like that)

Last summer, I stumbled upon a Meetup link on the internet. I discovered that people weren’t waiting anymore for their spouses and friends to commit to a “dreaded” art gallery visit or fondue tasting adventure. Shockingly, your partner or BFF doesn’t share your interest in a creamy vegan cheese fondue party. Seems opposites do attract.

You can go online for anything. Casual, momentary connections? Twitter. Peeping updates from old high school friends? Facebook. Potential dates? Take your pick of sites (and don’t take any advice from me). Turns out you can create any club you want online and you don’t even need to get the Chemistry teacher to be your sponsor.

I joined a Vancouver screenwriters Meetup group and I have attended a couple of worthwhile events. Have I truly connected with anyone? No. Perhaps because this cluster of people was birthed from technology, everyone turns to texting or playing Angry Birds or checking Pinterest during breaks. Still, I sit in a room, take in information from a speaker and marvel at the fact I’m not the only one hanging on to a Hollywood dream without moving to L.A. (Heck, if my writing’s that good, they’ll move Jay, Gloria and the rest of the Modern Family cast and crew to Vancouver, right? Or maybe CSI: Miami. The viewers will never know the difference.)

I also found a Meetup group of adults that met on Saturday afternoons to play tag in various parks. That made me laugh. And make no mistake, if I didn’t have to come over on a ferry, I’d be right in on it, quick to yell “Not it” at the outset and shouting “Time out, time out” every time someone got close to tagging me. (I have NO idea why the kids back in Hamilton forbade me from neighborhood tag all those years ago. Lifetime bans mean nothing when you cross provincial lines.)

About two months ago, I joined a gay Meetup group, started by someone who may be creatively challenged. The founder called the group “Nice Intelligent, Successful Vancouver Gay Men”. Sure, that’s the kind of people you want to attract, but I think he should have consulted a drag queen for something cheeky or at least a tad sparkly. No need to worry about scaring off a few guys. The self-consciously butch gays wouldn’t give up a night of “Ice Road Truckers” or inventorying Phillips screwdrivers anyway.

This group plans quite a few events, one or two each week, things like attending an Oscars house party, going to see a gay-themed play or snowshoeing on the North Shore mountains.  The problem (for me, at least) is that all activities are scheduled for weekends. It takes an awful lot to get me back on a ferry on a Saturday after my grueling weekday commute. Perpetual isolation is not enough.

Finally, someone posted an announcement for a weekday event, a 6 p.m. social at a club called The Junction in Vancouver’s West End. I did not RSVP until the morning of since attending would mean I’d have to take a later ferry home and, after hobbling around work in my boot cast all day, I usually want to get the commute over with as soon as possible. I was the fourteenth person to commit to the event so I figured I could have a few quick conversations before dashing—er, limping—out at 6:30 to catch the 7:25 sailing. Being a shy guy, thirty minutes of socializing with strangers would be a fine first effort. Best to leave before people spot the pit stains.

This Meetup group is not meant to be a dating pool. It merely offers an opportunity for gay men to socialize, to create a few connections in a city that is gaining a reputation for being disconnected. I looked forward to an opportunity to mingle and to be reminded that I am not the only gay man on the planet. (And if some guy happened to be single, attractive and “nice, intelligent [and] successful” as advertised, well,...bonus!)

By the time I found parking a few blocks away and limped to the meeting site, it was 6:10. At the door, I talked myself out of entering. Why feel so rushed in making it to the ferry terminal? For once, I ignored that nagging inner voice, pulled the handle and walked in.

The place was empty. Well, almost. Two women sat at a nearby table and, in the darkened cave at the back of the place, a few men gathered around a two-top. I headed toward the bar and figured there was no harm in ordering a club soda before hitting the road. They always load the glass with ice anyway. Besides, my cuticles were overdue for an inspection.

I asked the bartender if a Meetup group was gathering here and he pointed to the cave dwellers. I took my drink and approached. The five guys introduced themselves and, as I pulled over another chair to squeeze in, I realized none of the names registered. Oh, yes, this is what social awkwardness is all about. Funny how long bouts of isolation don’t miraculously improve my social skills.

After introductions, Guy Number One resumed telling a long story about a charity fundraiser he’d just done. Or maybe he was talking about a trip to the dentist. Or giving his opinion about what it will take for Lindsay Lohan to reconnect with that persona we all loved in “Freaky Friday”. I can never follow conversations that begin in the middle. Taking the cue of others, I simply smiled and nodded along. My understanding was wholly unnecessary. Guy Number One had come with a monologue and, dammit, he had to tell it.

Ten minutes later, there was a pause and I realized he’d finished. The fundraiser had been a success or he had no cavities. Or something like that. He smiled and sipped his beer.

The Meetup host had done his homework and knew that I traveled by ferry so the focus shifted to me for ninety seconds before Guy Number Seven arrived and I got another shot of ascribing names to people. Matthew, Mark, Luke, John. Or something like that. I did learn that Seven was actually named Lucien (George Costanza would be relieved), a transplant from Quebec, also attending his first Nice, Intelligent, Successful Vancouver Gay Men Meetup. He openly shared that he’d lost most of his Vancouver connections in the past year—a breakup, a dog dying, friends retreating to Montreal, a couple moving to the (relatively) affordable suburbs. All unfortunate, but I was thrilled that I retained something—ears and mind still worked after all.

Another person arrived and I hoped that the group could finally break off into smaller conversations. Larger group talks always lead to a few big talkers and a passive audience. There were others who’d been limited to silent gesturing and stating their name. As wallpaper, I had company. Alas, I glanced at the time, announced that I had a ferry to catch and departed. I hobbled back to the car, fretting that some may have thought my hasty exit arose from boredom, a perfectly plausible deduction. I’d made no impression and neither had most of the other guys. I’ve had Twitter exchanges—a couple of 140-character back-and-forths—that revealed more.

Still, it’s a small step. The next event is on a Friday night, a movie at someone’s home. I cannot attend as I would have to miss the last ferry home. (Yes, all ties with civilization are controlled by BC Ferries. Last time I Googled helicopters, they were out of my price range.)

I’ll keep my eye out for another opportunity. Fondue at five? Heck, yeah! As long as I live where I live, it cannot be about the event. If it fits with my commute, I’ll be there.