St. Patrick's Day

We spent St. Patrick's Day in Portland, where I was signed up to run a 15K with my cousin Emily.

The "Shamrock Run" went alright.  Not great.  I was in no way prepared for the hill that looked like this:

It's a good thing I wasn't, because I may not have left the starting line.

I can't find a picture of the terrifying sight that I beheld as I turned the corner and saw a line of green runners moving their way up 30 degree incline with no end in sight.  The hill, or mountain, went on for what my cousin said was 1.5 miles, but in my opinion was at least 3 miles.   Here is a view from the SKYRIDE that you can take to OHSU (Oregon Health and Science University) at the top, I assume because cars are liable to stall out trying to make it up.  You can kind of see the road, but trust me, when running it is not nearly as flat as it appears in this picture. 

Running on Long Island and in Manhattan did not prepare me for this.

After the race, Emily and I celebrated St. Patrick's day by resting on the couch while the non-runners (Ken and cousin Alex) got their hair cut.  After this, we willed our legs to move in order to go buy Guinness.  I also suggested we get Irish soda bread, but our Portland cousins had never heard of it.  Alex asked if I was talking about a dog.  He heard "Irish S... (incoherent garble)" and his mind led him to "Irish Setter".  Close, but not as tasty.

Ken and I were a little shocked that they didn't know what Irish soda bread was, but we described it and they were willing to try it.  There was a bakery nearby, and Ken and I were sure they would have it in stock on the most Irish day of the year.

Wrong!  When Ken asked if they carried it, the girl at the counter looked at him as if he'd spoken another language.  Gaelic, for example.  This was exactly how our cousins had reacted. 

I was beginning to think that Irish Soda Bread might be an east coast thing, but the fancy grocery store, New Seasons, did carry it and our St. Patrick's Day celebration was saved.

Back in Seattle that evening, the streets were dead.  In Portland, there were plenty of drunk, green-clad revelers on both Saturday and Sunday afternoons, probably half of whom were not familiar with soda bread, but Seattle was a ghost town.  And not even an Irish ghost town.  I was a little disappointed, but I guess that's what you get for leaving the east and their higher Irish populations.