Attack of the Pigeon Lady
When my runs take me through the heart of the city (as opposed to quiet inner city residential 'hoods that are a plenty), I encounter an intense variety of sights, sounds, and scents. I've run into (almost literally) former co-workers, friends from the old ward in Beaverton, and lots of homeless men and women, and certain intersections, I swear, smell just like Japan (i.e., raw sewage is loose nearby); But today was different. Today I was attacked by a dead pigeon--or at least that's what it seemed like.
I was nearing the end of my workout, running along the banks of the Willamette at the south end of Waterfront park. Flocks of pigeons were stalking the grounds looking for food, and they didn't like that I was tresspassing through their feeding grounds. So they started flying away, some almost colliding with my trajectory. My focus shifted from keeping pace to keeping pigeons out of my face, when out of the blue some raggedy-looking lady makes eye contact with me, says in loud voice, "Oh baby!" and flocks me on the shoulder with something that looked and felt like a dead pigeon (I was running the whole time--I didn't stop). I have no idea why she targeted me--maybe it was the attractiveness of my short shorts and see-through singlet that got her motors running. Because, you know, once the temps drop under 60 degrees, everyone around here puts on their running pants and jackets (under 40 usually gets my winter gear on), so I was perhaps the only scantily-clad runner on the roads that afternoon. My guess is that the Pigeon Lady is related--perhaps a sister--to the Crazy Cat Lady on The Simpsons. This is Portland, after all . . .
I was nearing the end of my workout, running along the banks of the Willamette at the south end of Waterfront park. Flocks of pigeons were stalking the grounds looking for food, and they didn't like that I was tresspassing through their feeding grounds. So they started flying away, some almost colliding with my trajectory. My focus shifted from keeping pace to keeping pigeons out of my face, when out of the blue some raggedy-looking lady makes eye contact with me, says in loud voice, "Oh baby!" and flocks me on the shoulder with something that looked and felt like a dead pigeon (I was running the whole time--I didn't stop). I have no idea why she targeted me--maybe it was the attractiveness of my short shorts and see-through singlet that got her motors running. Because, you know, once the temps drop under 60 degrees, everyone around here puts on their running pants and jackets (under 40 usually gets my winter gear on), so I was perhaps the only scantily-clad runner on the roads that afternoon. My guess is that the Pigeon Lady is related--perhaps a sister--to the Crazy Cat Lady on The Simpsons. This is Portland, after all . . .
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