In pushing the boundaries of this new found freedom I discovered my limitations, of course: mental, physical and psychological, but weekends and summers offered endless opportunities to test the boundaries. These were enlarged exponentially when, at 16 I traded in my love for my bike for a car. The desire to see what's over the next ridge and the notion that I was the only one stopping me stoked a thirst for adventure that has stayed with me to this day. Thank you Jack Kerouac, et.al.
My love of the car began to wane sometime around the invention of the turnpike. When getting "over the next hill" confirmed that a lot of people had already arrived, defiled the camp and were clearly not there to for the quiet and solitude, that love lost some luster. So, to keep my dreams alive and even fuel them, I returned to my bike. A state-of-the-art Fuji 12 speed, a surprise gift from my wife 30 years ago got me going. Although the thought of heading out the driveway and crossing the continent on my own still calls, I have learned to be quite satisfied with abbreviated versions of the big adventure.
A bike, like a boat or a horse allows one to see the world through a different lens and to reach places that people, otherwise, might not be able to get to. It allows for a change in perspective. It represents freedom: there is always a quick ride out of Dodge when the panic or escape mechanism ignites from any daily crisis.
On a bike, in the real 3D world, your perspective changes dramatically in two ways: The speed you are traveling (typically 5-25 mph) allows access to all manner of roads and pathways (relatively) safely while sharing with faster and slower vehicles. And our cities have lots of roads! Lots of access, and I often reach a destination as fast or faster than I would in a car. Outside the city and in the city's greenspace, you travel at a similar pace as many bird species. A thrush dives from a passing branch, cuts in front of you, matching your speed, and allows a close up view of a bird in flight. Not going to happen walking, and definitely not in a car. You are the director in your own wildlife movie.
The second perspective shift comes with altering your height when you climb on a bike. That relatively minor adjustment has a profound effect. Consider the timing of the evolutionary change when humanoids gained advantage in their environment by becoming bipedal. Slowed them down, but speed loses some significance when you can see further, all the time, and therefore have more time to plan an attack or a retreat. More time to plan became a need to plan and that led to larger brain size (humans most "successful" adaption) and that led to the invention of the wheel....and, of course, the bicycle.
My latest "contribution" to evolution are adaptations in my style of riding. I have readjusted my seat so it functions more as a perch than a bench and I have added a device that extends the handlebars upward. This allows me to see further and adopt a variety of riding postures. These adaptations allow great relief from an aching neck that develops after a few miles on the road. This upgrade caused me to rethink the whole concept of maintaining a curled position through a ride. Was I going out to race or ride? The sight of spandex slickened bodies whooshing past me as I am stretching my back and taking in the sights does not trigger the competing urge like it used to. Following my ancestors, I have sacrificed speed for comfort and an improved view.
So, when friends asked if I would join them for a ride on Portland's much touted Springwater Trail I said sure, in the spirit of adventure, I will give it a go. We met at Oaks Park and started a lovely ride through the city of Sellwood, a burg of Portland, between spring downpours. As we headed east toward Boring, we entered the Johnson Creek floodplain, and it was clear from the rolling mass of water why it was so called. As usual, I was riding high in my sightseeing position when the view along the trail changed dramatically. The greenspace started to be interrupted by a few scattered tents; maybe remnants of Portland's hippie communities...so that is where they hang. As we rode on into an industrial area tents became tent city. Packed in "no mans land" in the corridors between busy thoroughfares and between businesses was a sprawling nylon and plastic community which had all the need for the surrounding city's infrastructure, but had none. Well, not exactly none---someone provides a port-a-pottie every mile or so.
And this went on for miles. Moldy structures of every kind, pushed up against chain link fences, each with piles of soaked debris outside the "doors" and stacked overflowing in commandeered shopping carts. I moved from surprise to wonder to shock to fascination to a grim realization that I was seeing the answer to a nagging question I have harbored for some time: Where are all the hoards of homeless we hear have been chased from this or that city park or public area. They were here. It made sense that 8 years of political deadlock and economic crisis had made a few people in our country way more wealthy, but the folks living here were The Forgotten. I was riding high in the saddle seeing things I didn't want to see. I get out and about in this city often, but I had never seen this. These are the mentally ill, the migrants, the addicted, the sick, the unlucky, the troublemakers, the dropouts. Donald Trump's "losers". All this in a country that really should know how to take care of itself.
So, in a little over a month I am heading off to Africa where I will likely experience a different combination of riches and poverty. Some places I may visit may not look all that different than the Springwater Trail, but my mission is to witness not to judge, and in my heart I hope I can find and fulfill a need. I will be very interested in what is over the hill. Hopefully I can see some of this from the saddle of a bike. It has come to me that I will be going back to a place that was just the right spot for our species to want to get up tall and see as far as possible.
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