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.

On a rainy fall day many years ago, I was a bike messenger delivering a super rush to the courthouse. The various parties involved in the scene that ensued will tell you different stories.  This is mine:

My bike shoes always set off the metal detector, and I got in the habit of taking them off and running them through the machine in order to save time and conversation. On this particular day, that metal detector was crammed with umbrellas and coats and the line was full of soggy citizens fumbling with keys and belts. I cleared security in my pink striped socks. I had a filing for the circuit court and two minutes to get it there. “There” was the second floor, so close, yet so far. My shoes were making a slow journey through security. I assessed my options: wait for the shoes and possibly miss the deadline, or deliver the package and let the circuit court enjoy my pink striped socks.  

I left the shoes and went for it.

Bounding up the stairs in my socks, I heard a voice shout out “WAIT!” It was the security guard holding up my soggy bike shoes. I waved the file urgently, the guard nodded his assent and I was off again. I made it no further than the marble landing before I was tackled by two armed guards. They had only heard “WAIT!” and saw me continue.  

As the sheriff issued my 90 day suspension from the courthouse and snapped my picture for their files, the guard with my shoes came to my defense and urged me to clear this up with an appeal to the judge.  I was then cleard to drop off my filing upstairs.

A week later the judge ruled. The official story from the guards was that I was swearing and belligerent, so the suspension held. What had they seen in me? A zealous messenger in pink striped socks, or something a bit darker? I like to think that in a Polaroid buried deep in Multnomah County records, my eyes reveal the truth to the camera.

All I can say is that I eat bacon, and I am bigger than I look.

This is my Western Flash t-shirt.  The shirt itself isn’t much to look at anymore – worn thin where my messenger bag rubbed against my shoulder, then frayed around the collar – but it means the world to me.  These handmade shirts were my first real team kit.

I haven’t had many team uniforms in my life.  I played for the Firecrackers soccer team in third grade and a basketball team in middle school, but I have never been a team sports kind of girl.  I was not athletically gifted in any apparent or useful way when I was a kid.  I could pogo stick to one thousand bounces, but when it came to the kinds of skills that could pull a team through in a pinch, I came up a bit short.  And I knew it.  I shied away from sports in which my performance mattered to anyone else.  When I got older, I found my niche in individual sports like running and biking.

Surprisingly, it was through being a bike messenger that I learned what it meant to be on a team.  Like most messengers in Portland, I coveted a spot on the four-person Western Flash crew.  They rode harder, and faster, and earned more money for doing it.  I worked hard, but my company neither required nor rewarded for it.  

One note about how to break into the messenger business in Portland – it’s not the guys at the office that hire you.  It’s the crew on the street.  So when I was offered a spot on the Western Flash crew in my second year of messengering, I was elated.  It meant more to me by far than getting accepted to the college of my choice.  I wasn’t chosen for personal achievements or my SAT score, but because it mattered to the others on the crew how I worked.  I wasn’t the fastest, but I was diligent.  I was unflinching.

Now, for the second time in my life, I have a team kit: The Super Relax Concept.

The Super Relax Concept is about showing up to a cross race literally ready to kick ass.  It’s about challenging other teams to bocce.  And it comes with it’s own manifesto:

LOOK GOOD.

BE NICE.

KEEP DREAMIN’.

It’s snazzy and new and nothing like my beloved Western Flash shirt.  You see, I know that I have grit and tenacity folded up on a shelf for when I need it.  I have seen a bit of glory through suffering, and know that there are other flavors of glory too.  The Super Relax Concept celebrates pure stoke, and I want to wear this jersey out with the glory of two wheels, a big grin, and an open heart.

Here is Nat trackstanding with a bike on her back getting it used to the open roads before we release it into the wild.

(Photo courtesy of BikePortland)

Ladies: What’s the last social function you attended in which a muu-muu, a skin suit, and a fluffy red ball gown were all appropriate attire? If you are taking longer than a second to answer this question, you weren’t at the Fourth Annual S.S. Pussycat all women’s alleycat race.

The S.S. Pussycat is not the typical allyecat race – that stale formula of bros, beer, and balls to the wall bravado. Nope. This is a race in which all types of fun loving, two-wheelin’ women can fiercely compete in the category of their choice: spirit or speed.

This year’s race was organized by last year’s champ Bethany and the amazing Tori. The theme of the race was Portland Fountains taking us all around town; spirit racers competing in challenges including boat races, fountain Twister, rescuing baby dolls adrift in the water, and the soulful rendition of sea shanties (graded on style). This year, I did the speed category which included the same checkpoints (sans shenanigans), but included a brutal hill climb to Council Crest.

Highlights included:

• Two Tandem Teams.
• The pre-race revelation “I really should have a tutu on standby for this kind of thing.”
• Asking for directions in Spanish at the (almost) top of Council Crest.
• Security guards kicking hapless racers out of the mall (for the authentic messenger experience).
• Swapping stories and drinking beer with the ladies after the race.
• Kind of, um, winning the race.

(Photo on loan from the Rachel Red Riding Hood Center for the Arts)

The Big Winner gets two special things: custody of the S.S. Pussycat trophy (which I have been tasked with welding back together) and the job of organizing next year’s race. So rest up, take your vitamins, and start getting pumped for next year!

When I was seven years old, I had a Ramona Quimby Diary. It was the kind where you fill in the blanks on the pages, where you bare your soul and specify your favorite animal. On one of those pages, I had carefully filled in the blank “When I grow up I want to be: Just like my brother.” Other pages clarified that Nathan was good at everything and never got in trouble. Even though he should have. Trust me.

And when I think back to my earliest memories of biking, he was always there ahead of me biking though the mudflats near our house. In these memories, he is either waiting for me or telling me that WD-40 makes your bike go faster. I was seven, had a really cool banana seat bike and no reason to believe otherwise. And though I never really understood what was so intriguing about the bicycle parts catalogs that arrived in the mail, I knew that biking was an important part of who he was.

As we got older and got through all of the usual sibling pettiness (”You walk too loud!” “Yeah? Well you breathe too loud!”), we became really close friends. In college, we decided that biking everywhere would be the coolest thing ever. He got a job with Ped Ex in Santa Cruz, delivering organic pastries and sushi rolls by bike. (Does patchouli oil make your bike go faster?) He introduced me to the joys of San Francisco Critical Mass, and some of the finer points of riding in traffic. And when I graduated, I was also inspired to become a bike messenger on the mean streets of Portland.

Needless to say, I felt really honored to have been commissioned to build him a bike. This rig is for his daily San Fransisco commute, his upcoming triathlon, and weekend rides in the Marin Headlands and the Oakland Hills. There are mounts for a rear rack (for carrying his amazing vegan pies to bio-regional potlucks) and fender eyelets (to keep his lederhosen dry on the way to parties).

Do I make him out to be nothing short of super-fantastic? Well, that he is. He told me that the other day a fella in a bike shop suggested that his chainstay ought to say “Handbuilt by My Sister in Portland, Ore.” And that is the heart of it really. I am stoked to have been the builder, but even more stoked to have been the sister.

(More pictures here.)

[youtube]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F0AFpq6jFok[/youtube]

It reminds me of some European bike race on cobblestones, but was actually inspired by the Hell of the Southeast allycat back in ‘99.

Portland averages more than 7 bike events per day–rides, races, and random bike fun. Yesterday there was one bike event that encompassed all those categories and more: the third annual S.S. Pussycat. The S.S. Pussycat has an alleycat (bike messenger style) race format and is organized for all women/transgendered bikers. All the fun without all the testosterone! This year’s race included scavenger hunt and a speed categories in addition to the mandatory stops, so everyone could compete based on their strengths. (Austin’s strength, well, being a boy, was as a volunteer. Thanks Austin!)

I raced the scavenger hunt category with my friend Caitlin, employing our messenger cunning and cat-like scavenging reflexes. Sure, we almost merged onto the freeway in North Portland and I nearly crashed into a parked car trying to identify an oak tree for the scavenger hunt, but we ended up intact at the end of the race. We came in third and fouth overall, and were the first scavengers to finish. After unloading traffic cones from our handlebars and yarn, used gum, and other loot from our bags, we took up residence on the couch on the porch and watched the rest of the riders roll in.

The big winner was Bethany.

Legend has it that she was out until four in the morning the night before, went to class at 11:00, showed up for the race and (in the words of the race director) “spanked it”. The band aid on her shoulder is from the previous night’s Chunkathlon. The tiara goes without saying. As this year’s champ, Bethany gets to organize next years race.

It was also a big day for Sweetpea Bicycles. We were race sponsors for the first time ever. Looking over the crowd of super-tough, fun-loving ladies at the finish it was clear that they are the very reason we are in business.