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.

EXCUSES, EXCUSES

It was Pride weekend in New York, Toronto, San Francisco, Seattle and in many other metropolitan areas. But I did not have to book a flight to The Big Apple to walk around with a water bottle and plastic rainbow bead necklaces this weekend. They celebrated in my isolated region as well.

Friday night featured a lesbian film I’ve never heard of, screening at the local playhouse. On Saturday night there was a Stonewall Dance at a community hall in a former hippie enclave, now facing gentrification as retirees and Albertans wanting waterfront summer homes attempt a takeover.

I passed on the movie and the dance. That’s right, I bemoan my single status in post after post on this blog and then, when opportunity knocks, I hide under the bed. (My dog and I think it’s quite nice there.)

You have every right to give up on me and to go back to spending your online time reading Gwyneth’s goop or scanning Lady Gaga’s tweets.

Skipping the movie was a no-brainer. I didn’t have my car Friday night as I had to leave it at the ferry terminal on the other side. Besides, I knew I’d feel self-conscious being the only guy in the audience.

I still feel shame over the dance pass. Could’ve, should’ve, didn’t.

Since you’re still reading, I assume you are up to date on Gaga and goop. Allow me to share my So I Think I Can’t Dance excuses.

I ‘d left my dog alone all day while dashing into Vancouver to see a local production of Avenue Q. I’d gone with a couple of gay friends, there were other gays in the theatre,...surely, this country boy exceeded his gay quotient for the day (heck, the week,...even the month). My dog’s sad eyes demanded I stay in. Besides, I needed to recover from my first exposure to naked puppet sex. (Since when did puppets start getting luckier than me?!)

It was a hot evening. I’d been in that community hall on a hot night before. No air circulation. I hate meeting new people as sweat clings to my forehead and creates broad pit stains in what is supposed to be an eye-catching fashion-forward shirt. Damn you, summer heat. (But please stay.)

I’d gone before. Two years in a row, years ago.

The first time, I lasted twenty minutes. I was forty-one and a guy immediately started talking to me. It had been a perfectly normal, superficial first conversation until he said, “So, are you retired?” Just how old did I look? Crushed, I casually excused myself, fled to the car and zipped home to stare desperately in the mirror, contemplating Botox, plastic surgery and the miraculous effects of Oil of Olay.

The second year, I dragged a friend from the city to come along. Amongst the tiny cluster of gay men, he was the star attraction. I didn’t get my feelings hurt. Not that much anyway. They all started smoking pot and, being as I’ve always found all kinds of smoke extremely unappealing, I grabbed my friend and insisted on leaving. Still, I left feeling like I’d grown. Staying forty minutes, I’d doubled my time. For some reason, my friend has refused to come again for future dances.

 The LGBT events I have been to—there is the occasional potluck as well—are always heavy on the L, lite on the G. (No idea if the Bs and Ts have a presence at all, but it is imperative that we’re inclusive, even if in name only.) Past dances have had about a hundred people in attendance—85 women, 15 men. I knew the odds were stacked against me meeting someone special, even having a conversation beyond, “I’ll have a Diet Coke with lime, please.” Why should I have to launder another shirt? Why set myself up for a miserable drive home, fighting to keep the disappointment in check. Besides, there are enough risks with night driving here. I’d never forgive myself if I hit a deer.

The last Saturday of June is when I look my absolute worst all year. Schools in British Columbia remain in session until the last possible day of June. As a principal, things do not die down. The May and June calendars are loaded each year with more and more celebratory events that require loads of planning and result in regular crises that I must manage. (No, I didn’t realize the school carnival’s co-coordinator was sleeping with your husband. Can’t you two settle this in the dunk tank?) Add the work happenings to ten months of a five-hour daily commute and I look and feel ragged by the time Alice Cooper tells me it’s all over.

Why hadn’t Stonewall come at a more convenient time? How about mid-July when I’m rested and I’ve worked off the few pounds that always show up during the final months of the school year? (I tried to have donuts banned from the staff room, but that whole apple-for-the-teacher thing didn’t go over well.)

If I’d gone to the dance and actually met Mr. Right, the timing would be all off. In a week, I’m off to West Hollywood for the summer. I’ve done the “Let’s go for a date six weeks from now” thing before—twice, in fact. It doesn’t work—too much anticipation, a certain letdown.  

Excuses, excuses.

It all comes down to how painfully awkward I am when surrounded by strangers. The confidence gets harder to find as the years go by and I remain single. I realize that nothing can possibly happen when I don’t even show up. Still, I need some rejuvenation. Maybe the trip to West Hollywood will help. Maybe a guy will give me that look. That’s exactly what I need—a little affirmation, a sign that perhaps I can fall in love a fourth time. Maybe with the right guy even.

I am not proud of opting out of Pride weekend. Let’s hope I don’t have to wait until next June to put on a brave face and step out again!