Winter Storm Warning: Ten Years in Portland

This weekend I celebrated my 10th anniversary as a Portlander. I arrived in August of 1998 in time to swoon over the glorious late-summer days, feast on wild blackberries, and pretty much frolic through the lush greenery as if it were my own endless welcome mat.  

But I did not commermorate my anniversary with blackberries and sunshine. I say, let those non-native invasives, as sweet as they may be, wither on the vine. Summer is too easy. Anyone can fall in love with a Portland summer. It’s the winter that weeds out the fickle, and the winter of 1998 proved my heart was true.

My grandfather could recall a winter or two that were wetter than 1998, but few had the heart to quibble over rain data as we approached our 40th day of rain with neither a break nor an Ark.  As a newcomer to both Portland and to being a bike messenger, whatever I lacked in experience I made up for in exposure. My rain jacket leaked, my fender was flimsy, and my corduroy knickers soaked up water like a luxury bath towel monogrammed “ROOKIE.” Most of my waking hours that season were soggy. I grew to see the line between wet and dry as permeable and best regarded with a certain non-attachment. Comfort hardly seemed the point.

And so, this weekend with a winter storm warning in effect, I celebrated my Portland anniversary recalling the memory of my first really stupid and epic outdoor adventure.

(The author with ten years of Portland under her belt.)

Early in that first December, I has asked another messenger for some good ride routes and was given vague instructions for the Sauvie Island Loop, a thirty mile jaunt that promised a spectacular vantage point for taking in the snowy west hills. I dressed in my most technical riding gear: Levi’s polyester permaprest action slacks (cuffs rolled up), a shrunken wool v-neck, and a pair of army surplus socks.

On my way out of town, I stopped to make a purchase that I had been contemplating for months: arm warmers. I ducked into the last bike shop in city limits, and emerged with arm warmers on and $1.50 left in my pocket. As I set out, the quarters marked my cadence brightly at first, and were then drown out by the snapping of my pants and sleeves in the wind.

I turned onto the Suavie Island Bridge with a sense of purpose. I had arrived. And so had the weather. The snow on the hills that called me out had now come to join me in the lowlands. I pedaled faster to keep warm. I kept my head down in deference to the wind, and met each new stretch of road as a new shake of the snow globe. I felt the road turn rough beneath me with no evdience of progress around the island. I was in Columbia County, where potholes grow militant and take over the streets. Suddenly, this mattered. I imagined that my fingers, already numb, were now in danger of wiggling off inside my gloves. I made fists. I gave them pep talks. We bargained, and I turned my bike around.

I pulled into the Cracker Barrel, the island’s tiny fish bait and grocery store, and pulled the change out of my pocket. This would have been a swell time to ask myself, “What impulse calls us out into the wild, inspires us to do great things, only to be undone by mundane errors in judgement?” Instead, I asked myself, “What can I buy for $1.50 that keep my hands toasty for a little while?” Coffee. With sugar and non-dairy creamer (for nutritional value). I sipped slowly, trying to buy some time, but I could only feign interest in fish bait and tackle for so long. The Cracker Barrel could not save me. I had to get back on my bike.

As I headed into the wind, the coffee proved useless. I need fuel I could burn. My thoughts turned to donuts, and to the parts of me that weren’t cold. Like my elbows. Maybe I could seek refuge in my elbows pulling that last ounce of power and warmth to get me home. . . 

But it didn’t come to that. Something better happened. A woman on a road bike appeared looking warm, strong, and speedy. I learned that she was a racer, and she had no doubt seen this kind of thing before. She took pity on me and tucked me into her draft. I sat on her wheel focusing on her encouraging chatter, grateful for every minute and every mile that passed. An hour later I was home.

After a couple of donuts and a hot bath, my recovery was complete. Feeling had returned to my fingers and toes. A good feeling. They belonged to me, right where I was standing, at home in Portland.