Portland
More Wheelies!
Portland, OR is a city in the NW USA. A beautiful town split in two by the mighty Willamette river and surrounded by mountains. Some don’t see the beauty. It is an acquired taste I suppose. It is not a perfect city. Drugs, homelessness, gentrification, addiction, and a host of over issues flow through the city. Its history is littered with shady characters and lost souls.
I called it home. It felt like home. I was born and raised in London. I spent almost as much time living in Portland as I did there. It is another city I love but it drives me crazy and that is a story for another love letter. Home. Portland. The people made is so. You would never be lonely there. Conversations are free. Portlanders love to chat. To talk story. I moved there from Seattle because I wanted to be a part of the flatland BMX culture and scene that was there. I met the best people in the oddest places. People love to drink and party. So did I. We got along famously from day one and I lost many years cruising the local bars during happy hours.
Do you like bicycles? Portland does. I pedaled all over that city. Rode with the best people. Met legends and villains. From bars to shows to shops. From morning to night. I rode in circles. I rolled backwards. I did wheelies. I huffed and puffed up steep hills. I almost broke my shoulder riding home from a lesbian bar. Took the streetcar home bloodied and bruised. Got tossed over the bars on the same streetcar line. Falling is a central requirement for rolling. Rode the streets. Owned so many different bikes. Sold them all. Hunted for stolen bikes under bridges. Organised jams. Participated in a ride with over 50000 people. I whooped with joy. Bunnyhopped and never wanted to stop. I did. I miss it. I miss the camaraderie and the shared experience. I miss rolling up 10 people deep on kids bikes and closing down a bar. What a ride.
Stories. Some to share. Some to hold private and near. It is a city made of stories. Oregonians sharing their collective memory. Transplants bringing their history with them. We talked. We drank. We rode bicycles. Days, months, years flowed by. I made some big mistakes. Fucked up in more ways than one. Lost my mind and found it again.
Laurelhurst Park sits in a quiet enclave in SE Portland that my wife and I loving refer to as The Shire. There are Hobbits living there. Trust me. It is my favourite place in Portland. It’s a small park. A pond sits in the middle. A busy road runs close by to the east. During the pandemic a large encampment formed at it’s southern edge. That parked saved my life during those times. It was a sanctuary in the madness. There are squirrels, beautiful joggers, hippies, stoners, families, freaks, and trees. Talking of trees there is one in the park that I would always lay my hands on and talk to when I passed it. I would wait for a quiet moment and have a quick chat when no one was around. Give it a mental nod and thank you if it was busy. The park was built using the naturalistic design principles pioneered for Central Park*. I always liked that fact. It is a little piece of heaven sitting in a neighbourhood that is near and dear to me. If you go to Portland please take a walk there. Say hello to the people you meet. Sit under a tree. Smile. It’s fucking awesome.
Portland I love you. I miss you. I left a little bit of me there. Thank you.
Bish. Bosh. Bang. Sorted. Have a lovely digital day.