The city she is a strong-willed but beautiful temptress. Rich in rewards but able also to crush a man who attempts to defy her. I think some one said this once, or something akin to it at least. After this past winter it seemed that all I could think about was getting out, putting some distance between us. I would find some mountains. I would buy a portable water filter from REI and intend to use it. I would establish unreasonable expectations of what freedom feels like and April seemed as good a time as any to set out.

My days were basically filled at my leisure. In addition to riding I read Dave Egger’s marvelous book You Shall Know Our Velocity, chatted with fellow campers/ bikers and played with their dogs, took long hikes to admire the blooming wildflowers (geeky, I know!), and scuttled as far up the cliffs as I could to see the sun set or watch a distant storm move across the valley. I miss this serenity as I write about it now.

The time came though when I felt the urge to move pressing at me like the continental divide pushing at rivers. I spent my last night in Fruita at a motel, left a smudgy ring in the tub and washed the clothes I’d been wearing 3-4 days at a time. I bought burrito fixings from the grocery store and whiled the night away watching the Cartoon Network.

The next day I was on the road to Portland, a city I thought would groove with me, based on what I’ve heard. I covered ground fast through Utah and Idaho. I stopped in Boise, where I parked at a Holiday Inn, and rode my bike until I found myself at the granite steps of their capitol building. There was a monument out front to a politician who was lynched for attempting to incorporate laws into this part of the Wild West in the late 1800’s.

Five-hundred miles, thirty-six cattle trucks, four hours of backseat sleep, and one gas station espresso machine later, I was in Portland. My nerves were jazzed, I needed to get out of the car. I found a Safeway, its parking lot like a huge couch and I, a sock, tossed through the air, making silent contact and coming to rest all in slo-mo. I pulled my bike from the roof of my car and pedaled to a gas station to buy a map.

From there I just started riding. The gas station manager told me of an area he thought I’d like and pointed me in that direction. I discovered quickly that Portland is a city of bike lanes, paths, and all sorts of special accommodations to make riding safer and more accessible. The city’s concessions seem to have remarkable results too. During rush-hour I saw hundreds of people riding home: men and women in business attire, business men leaving skyscrapers in spandex (*snicker*), kids on bikes, grad students heading across the river. I’d pull up to a stop light and suddenly there’s like five or six more riders waiting with me. Now we’re getting somewhere!

I spent the afternoon riding through the city, walking through parks, drinking coffee and reading, generally trying to get a feel for the city. As the sun began to go down the clouds rolled in and a light , steady drizzle ensued. By the time I returned to the Safeway my clothes were soaked through and I was shivering. I drove until I found a place to park overnight, across the street from a church where the NO PARKING sign was missing from the post.

That night I decided that staying in Portland wasn’t going to fit the scheme of this vacation. Too noisy, too fast, too many options, and nowhere to park. I would have to put my feet in the ocean tomorrow.

The next morning, after using the restroom at the neighborhood Starbucks, I tore out of town like it was a raging inferno. I drove along the Columbia River through a downpour. My spirits were deflated: I driving too much, my leather saddles were sodden, I worried that I had left Colorado too soon. I stopped at the first restaurant I saw upon entering Astoria, the town that "Goonies" was filmed in. I took a seat near a window that overlooked the big, gray river under the big, gray sky. I surveyed the menu, nothing vegetarian, I ordered a fish sandwich, fries, and a butterscotch shake. The waitress returned with my food and a squeeze bottle filled with an opaque, pink sauce (sympathy sauce, maybe?) which could’ve been mayo and ketchup. Eating some fried, sloppy, ‘Merica food was somehow cathartic. After lunch, I walked through downtown, somehow purchasing a chow bowl for my friend’s cat in the process.

The clouds began to clear as I left Astoria. I turned off 101, passed through a small, seasonal village, and saw the ocean ahead of me reflecting golden sunlight like crazy. I parked along the road, took off my shoes and left them in the street before heading across the dunes. Stepping onto the beach was like stepping into a sacred space. Like having your preconceived ideas and then having them imploded by the grandeur of the reality. As I continued toward the water I exchanged hellos with a young family, the father on his knees surrounded by small mounds of sand, his daughter collecting sand with her little bucket and shovel. I laughed. I was laughing. I was downright giddy. Ahead of me hundreds of little birds thrashed their way up the shore in a tight cluster, evading a wave. As I approached they took off simultaneously, flittered all around me to land downshore. Their wave hit my feet and soaked my pants, so cold, so perfect. I stood there until my feet were numb, staring up and down the coast, trying to realize the concept of continental crossings.

I spent a few more days lolling around Oregon, walking into forests, driving. Homesickness was setting in like thumbscrews. I was tired of driving and of rain and there was this cat in Minneapolis without a proper dish to eat from. I headed north through Washington just in time to see Mt. Rainier in the orange light of sunset through a break in the clouds.

The next day I found a mountain to climb in Montana, well, one of the lesser summits, but formidable. A trail led straight up the side and I spent hours wondering when the end would come. Trees surrounded me, the trail was blocked by dozens of those that didn’t survive winter. This was my chance to climb a mountain, my first mountain, and nothing could stop me. Not these trees, not my fear of bear maulings (whack ‘em on the snout, I’d remind myself), and certainly not my inadequate footwear. No sir, this rock was mine that day and as I approached that snow capped (but sub-treeline) summit I noticed no other tracks in the snow. Mine would be the first expedition (solo, without supplemental oxygen) of the 2004 climbing season.

Did Brad climb the mountain? Find out in the next edition of Fair Grounds!

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