Impulse Power
The problem with being impulsive is that you always have to be on guard.
The desire to do something will suddenly hit- and since whatever you're leaping into today has been simmering on the mental back burner for a while anyway, it shouldn't come as a big surprise- but it always does. That's why it's seen as impulsive, since no one but you saw it coming.
One consolation, though: at least you weren't forced to do it. You pushed yourself over the edge.
So it was one Thursday when Carol and I went for a ride to the library. It wasn't a long trip, maybe a mile through cross-town traffic.
As we took off, she said "Lead the way!", to which I replied "Okay, but you never like the route I take, so beware."
And off I went, her telling me upon arrival at the library that she didn't like the route I'd taken.
Maybe that was what ignited my wanderlust.
Whatever prompted it, I announced that I'd decided to ride my bike to Mom's place instead of driving. As such, I'd be going straight home instead of accompanying Carol to Chief Joseph (for some quilt business with the grade school teachers).
There- now I'd said it: my mission statement for the day. Calling me a brave man, Carol went her way and I went mine.
This would be better than driving the truck, anyway, I reasoned. The weather was cloudy but warm, and I needed the exercise. The unseemly paunch I was developing needed taming, and this seemed the best way to do it.
Returning home, I pumped up the tires, donned a helmet and bike gloves, grabbed some water, cash and a tire patch kit- then was on my way. I wore a tee-shirt, shorts and a pair of K-Mart's finest $39.99 walking shoes sans socks. Since this would be a short trip of 20 miles, there was no need to wear my padded bike shorts. I could do the 20 standing on my head.
I had only gone a few blocks when I stopped at a convenience store and bought an apple strudel to keep me going. Then I was off again. My legs felt fine, considering I'd done no warm up rides yet this spring.
I found Vancouver and headed south, passing the Rose Quarter, then went down several switchbacks to the esplanade (or "boardwalk," for those willing to drop the pretense).
Riding along the riverside was nice but it ended all too soon. This downtown stretch of the Springwater Trail was being pushed east by geography, displaced first by docks and then a sand and gravel operation, and finally by a band of forested land where deer and the homeless roam.
Near Oak Bottoms I stopped and talked to a worker I recognized as being an engineer at my former place of employment. He was with a crew measuring the distance between the train tracks and the bike path fence. Nice work if you can get it, I thought as I spoke with him for a couple minutes. As I rode off I wondered what had happened to his engineering career- but at 60 I guess you can't be picky about employment- that train of thought leading to questions about how I would find work, pushing 55 and still looking after ten months on employment.
So on I went, past the backside of Oaks Amusement Park, a depressing sight, its empty Ferris wheel and other rides turning slowly amidst a sparse crowd more interested in the roller skating rink- that and hot dogs of questionable origin. Then I rode under the crumbling Sellwood Bridge and up the hill to 17th before heading down River Road to Mom's place.
One hour and a bowl of ice cream and cookies later, I was on my way again, telling Mom I wanted to check out the new bridge on the Springwater Trail before heading home. But already a plan was brewing in the dark recesses of my mind. Not wanting to return the way I'd come- that being one of my few cardinal traveling rules- my brain was considering all the different ways I could ride back, but at the moment dismissing each as soon as it popped up. Too much traffic, or hills, etc., etc.
Having returned north along River Road to the train tracks, I found the new pedestrian/bike bridge- a pair of reddish-brown suspension-style arches that spanned McLoughlin Blvd.
And as I crossed over, I realized I'd passed a point of no return. I'd traveled 10 miles, and would have to ride even farther to get home.
It was around 4 pm, so with plenty of sunlight left, I pedaled on through the forested gulch of a former rail line, then across Johnson Creek Blvd and past Precision Castparts (my former employer), to the right their dreaded employee parking lot- the one from which I'd barely rescued my car during one of Johnson Creek's yearly flood events.
On I went past Bell Station, as the bottom leg of my L-shaped route turned from east to Northeast.
The paved path was well maintained, but traces of washboarding appeared for a corrugated half-mile or so before thankfully disappearing.
Every so often I'd pass a transient either slumped on a bench or rearranging the contents of his duffel bag. And they all looked the same- mid to late 40's with long hair but a bald pate topside, a vacant stare belying no threat for the present.
I crossed 82nd Avenue and started seeing more of them. There were four at one spot, two to each side of the path, one of their entourage topless and passed out, lying face down in the brush.
"What a life..." I thought, pedaling past them as fast as possible, entertaining paranoid visions of them jumping me for my money and worn out bicycle. Yeah, right- especially that unconscious guy in the weeds...
The vegetation flanking the trail was thicker now, blackberry vines competing with small maple trees for space, the growth eight feet high and dense enough that trails had been established by the local wildlife- mainly of the two-legged variety, judging by the amount of trash and the eau de hobo crap that wafted across the path every hundred yards or so. Thankfully, the transient population diminished the farther east and away from the city I traveled.
I was surprised by how woodsy the area was starting to look, enjoying the scenery, but as I approached 122nd I realized it was time to head north and then west to my home. But for some reason, quitting now would make for regrets later.
So much for Point of No Return #2.
Seeing more unexpected farmland to the south, I passed Powell Butte, then 174th and 182nd, my butt and legs starting to complain. Realizing I probably should have worn those paneled, padded bike shorts that were resting comfortably in a dark dresser drawer, it finally dawned on me that I'd left behind an even more important accessory: the tire pump. So focused was I on packing a patch kit and tools that I gave no thought as to how I would inflate a repaired tire.
Calling myself a few names, I pedaled on, grateful that I'd at least had the foresight to replace the previous tires with Kevlar versions a couple years earlier.
As I continued on I could feel my leg muscles and Achilles tendons tiring out and tightening up, causing me to pull over. By this time I was wondering who or what was in control- me or a case of undisciplined wanderlust.
I also thought about why I had come all this way. It was close to 6 pm and if I rode much farther, the delicate balance between muscle strength, butt fatigue, hunger and thirst threatened to come undone, leaving me stranded somewhere in East County- that is, if a tire didn't go flat on me first.
My heat-producing helmet had long since been removed, tethered to the right-side handlebar where it quietly clanked out a road rhythm to accompany the music soundtrack running through my brain. The music helped keep me going, though I found it necessary to change tracks every so often. For a while a classical melody would run on and on like a tape loop, then an ABBA song or something by The Kinks. It was only quiet when intense concentration or pain intervened.
There was a point near Gresham where I reversed course and retreated to the main road, visions of a northern-bound trip home dancing in my head- but then I relented and headed east again.
So much for Point of No Return #3.
On and on I went, somewhere along the way having surrendered to the idea of taking the Springwater all the way to Boring- that is, if the trail went that far.
Muscle fatigue was setting in. I was now averaging 10 mph, whereas I'd been traveling along at 15 mph an hour earlier. Deciding to stoke up the furnace a little, I stopped at a convenience store just off the Trail and got another drink and a bite to eat.
Then on past 223rd, 242ndand 262nd I droned, the muscles on the top of my legs really hurting. My palms had long since gone numb in spots, thumb joints aching as I flexed them this way, then that, the handlebars always blocking that optimum position I sought. Every so often I'd have to stand on first one pedal, then the other to give my legs and sore posterior a break. La cola dolorosa indeed!
Then I saw the sign: Boring 3.0 miles. So, the path did exist.
With renewed vigor I started off, only to find the paved path end abruptly, yielding to gravel, its poor cousin. Trying to think of anything but my aching butt and legs, I plodded on with traction-challenged tires.
As I was now on a slight uphill incline, average speed was 7 mph, sometimes slower. But I kept pedaling as the trees thickened and the power lines loomed. On and on the three miles drug.
"Keep to the right side of the path," I'd mutter, as the gravel thickened to my left. Then I'd switch sides as sharp rocks loomed, threatening to dent rims and pop tires. Back and forth. Back and forth. Switch from The Kinks to a Beatles song, said the jukebox in my head.
Then I came upon an intersection- about the same time the odometer showed my having passed the three mile mark- but it wasn't Boring. And thopugh I was more than willing to leave the gravel behins, the signs offered no indication of the way to town.
Cursing the Highway Signage Department, I chugged some more water and pedaled on.
After what semed like another mile, the path suddenly opened onto a paved street, an empty lot, and a convenience store in the distance. I'd made it to Boring.
The odometer showd 30 miles traveled.
It was close to 7 pm, so I stopped at the largest restaurant in town for a grilled ham and cheese sandwich. The dining room was nearly empty, most of the 40-something patrons partying out on the back deck.
I sat in the booth and spaced out, that being the only way to avoid thinking about the trip home. As the minutes passed, strength returned to my weary legs, and the numbness left my hands while the bike gloves- cradled in my bike helmet out front- dried out.
When the food came I ate, but without much gusto. I was too tired to be famished, consuming the sandwich more out of duty to my body than anything else.
Then I coasted across the parking lot to a convenience store and called Carol. Surprised about where I was- though used to my "impulse" trips by now- she wished me well. I told her I'd be home sometime that evening.
The store clerk was taking a smoke break out front. When I told her how far I'd traveled, she cursed with surprise, then said that at least I had a couple hours sunlight left.
Then came decision time, and another Point of No Return choice.
A) Return the way I'd come? No way. Too boring and against my personal code. B) Take Hwy 212 to Sunnyside Road? No. It would take me too far south. C) Take 282nd north to the Marine Drive bike path? No. Too far north. D) Take Hwy 212 to Foster Road? Yes. It's the most direct route.Had I known what was ahead I would have taken option B. As it was, I chose the shortest, but also the worst possible route.
So much for Point of No Return #4.
Pedaling through Boring to the highway, I passed a guy standing behind a tavern who was taking a smoke break between drinks. He yelled at me to put on my helmet, to which I mumbled "Too late" or something like that. I was wishing he'd mind his own business, but thinking it an omen, I donned my protective gear and moved on.
At first things were okay. Hwy 212 had some hills to climb but the shoulder was wide, and though the four-mile stretch was murder on my butt and legs, it was a safe trip.
Along the way I realized I was traveling the same road I'd walked some 40 years earlier when a berry bus left me behind. And here I was again, in a different fix, but a fix nonetheless. But at least it wasn't raining this time around.
Within 15 minutes, I had removed my helmet again, the heat it generated bothering me more than the chance I might crash.
At the junction I headed right on Foster Road, but only got a half mile along before noticing that there was not only no bike lane, but no shoulder to speak of, aside from a four-inch wide painted lane strip, and a six-inch band of pavement to its right, just above a deep ditch full of rocks, blackberry vines and trash.
I stopped and looked back at the intersection. I could still turn around and go the other way- but for some reason didn't want to backtrack.
So much for Point of No Return #5.
So, on I went, people honking or yelling at me from time to time, either because of my presence on a shoulder-challenged road, or because they liked harassing helmet-less riders. When the shoulder got too narrow or the corner too sharp, or the hill too arduous, I walked the bike facing traffic.
One thing about walking: it was a lot easier to sight-see. I passed a lot of quiet and pleasant farms and scenery that made me wish I was living there instead of on that 100 x 100' lot in town.
The slow-moving trek went on for five long miles, the only breaks coming during a couple nice downhill stretches where I could coast at up to 25 mph, even though the shoulder was still narrow and me bare-headed. One slip and I was a goner- but I was willing to sacrifice safety for comfort, there being so little of it at the time.
As I cruised downhill and the speed increased, I wondered how bad a crash could be, and how much it would cost, since I was unemployed, thus uninsured. As usual, I took cold comfort in the fact that I could always sell off the back half of our property for $200 grand or so. After hospital bills there would still be enough to pay off the mortgage and...
The battle for shoulder space continued until I neared 162nd, where riding room finally reappeared.
I picked up speed now, not due to my legs feeling better- which they did not- but because I was finally back in town. The home stretch.
At 122ndI got a 7-11 drink and a breather, then headed north for three miles to Glisan and west to 102nd, the slight inclines almost too much for my worn-out legs. Then I went north to Maywood Park, enjoying a glorious half-mile downhill cruise to Prescott St.
Then I headed west until I arrived at the church on 38th St. but the Scout meeting had long since ended, my wife and son nowhere to be found. So much for a ride home.
Legs and posterior exhausted, I drank more fluids and lay on my back on the sidewalk, staring in dazed fashion at clouds drifting across a twilit sky. For a few minutes I tried to stop dwelling on my sore parts and enjoy the moment.
After those few minutes of mindless relaxation, I coasted another half-mile downhill to Ainsworth, where I started the last three miles home- and though the road was flat as a pancake, it all felt uphill to me.
I started counting the street signs. NE 29th, 28th, 27th 26th- 26th Court?- give me a break!
25th, 24th, 23rd...
18th, 17th, 16th...
I crossed Williams, the dividing line between NE and North addresses. Now the numbers would climb again, all the way to the river. What a strange numbering system, but then again this is Portland, land of the beautiful and the strange.
The 100 block, then 200, 300, 400, 500, 600...
Ahh, my frigging legs...
1100, 1200, 1300..
Home stretch, come on now...
2100, 2200, 2300- finally.
I pulled into my driveway at 9:30, the odometer reading 55 miles.
The ride was over.