We’re going on a Joyride
We roll out for North Portland, an annexed suburb characterized by wide, flat streets and an older, working-class population. The narrow but functional sidewalks of the Broadway Bridge take us to the east side, where we take two right turns onto Interstate Avenue heading north. That’s when things get interesting.
A couple miles of this gritty high speed road and my nerves are starting to fray. Then, Jeff and Rob stick out their left arms to indicate we’re turning onto a steeply ascending four-lane highway.
“Are you, kidding?” I think, as they make a break for it, quickly merging into the left lane. I nervously follow their lead.
Grunting our way up N. Greeley, we hug the edge of the road and slow to six or seven miles per hour. Like a swimmer flailing in a powerboat wake, I grasp my handlebars to steady myself from 18-wheeler wind blasts.
After the crest, we take another left-turn-across-traffic maneuver onto Willamette Boulevard, a quiet street lining a bluff overlooking the Willamette River’s shipyards. I breathe a little easier, sip from my water bottle, let my shoulders relax.
A typical Portland road in the early 1990s
The all-too-brief mile of calm is replaced five minutes later by a non-stop traffic stream as we approach the University of Portland, home to one of the country’s top women’s college soccer teams. I wonder if the players’ biggest concern is crossing Willamette to get to practice.
“Willamette is a very popular road for touring cyclists,” Jeff explains as we stop for a break. They’ve been trying to add bike lanes to Willamette in response to a cavalcade of complaints about safety.
“Students and local residents in particular are demanding improvements.”
“As they should be,” I concur.
“But it’s been hard,” he sighs. “Folks around here don’t like the idea of bike lanes at all.”
I look up the wide, straight expanse of asphalt. “I don’t understand. Just narrow the existing lanes. Or remove one side of parking. Looks like no one parks here anyway. Isn’t it a no-brainer?”
Rob and Jeff shake their heads, and Rob’s bony shoulders slump in weariness. “It’s not about brains, it’s about emotion. You’ll see at the public meeting next week.”
Jeff gets up off the grass. “Let’s keep riding.”
We squeeze along parked cars. Motorists impatiently hover behind us, then gun it to pass. We reach a narrow two-lane bridge, with not an inch of space for bicyclists or pedestrians. It’s been stressful until this point. Now, it’s white knuckle terrifying. The bridge dumps us onto bona fide industrial highway where no one drives below sixty.
I’ve been gritting my teeth, trying to be brave, but I can’t take it anymore. I let loose.
“What is this? You call this bicycling? We’re going to die out here!”
Rob looks back to see if something has happened to me.
“Where is the trail? The bike lanes? This is crazy!” My ranting gets their attention, and we stop. Trucks and cars fly by in a steady stream.
Jeff and Rob look at each other. “Um... Well, yeah,” Rob says. “This is why we hired you.” He tries a gentle smile and touches my arm with long piano playing fingers.
By the most generous accounting, Portland at the time has but a few dozen miles of disconnected bike lanes, green “bike route” signs on a few neighborhood streets, dead-end paths, highway shoulders, and way-too-narrow bridge sidewalks. Better than most cities, but nowhere close to where we need to be. Nothing resembling an attractive bikeway network. It’s like so-called roadway network from the late 1800’s – unpaved, unsafe, incomplete, dysfunctional. If my job is to fix this, I’ve sure got my work cut out for me.
I spew profanities. They wait me out. I turn my bike around.
“I’ve seen enough.” I sound like Ebenezer Scrooge to the ghosts in A Christmas Carol. “Let’s go.”
What was I thinking? That Portland was already like Amsterdam or Copenhagen? Bicycling conditions are deplorable, scary. I wouldn’t send my worst enemies onto these roads.
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