Happy Monday

Every Tuesday I claim to post photos of guys smiling every Monday.

This is yet another Library of Congress photo. (The original is here on flickr.) The subject, Ernest Barry, looks happy, doesn’t he? It makes me quite nostalgic for rowing, which I did for three years in school. Mainly because of the inconvenience — a fourty minute drive to the river at the crack of dawn, then and hour on the flip side in rush-hour traffic — I did not keep it up after college. But I have always missed it.

Now in Portland, there’s a sparkling new boathouse at the foot of the Hawthorne Bridge, and I see the rowing shells on the river and the young lycra-clad demi-gods carrying oars on the dock every time I ride downtown. I’ve considered taking up the sport again. How exciting it would be to row past the skyline and container ships and urban wildlife sanctuaries and the footings of highway bridges. I would be there every day. But it’s something of an expensive undertaking. I’m not sure I’m in a position to blow a thousand bucks on a single when I don’t even own a car to carry it around.

My memories of rowing are usually happy and generaly revolve around nature. I can still picture the whispy fog rising off the still surface of the river, just as the sun was creeping up over the trees. Though closed in by suburban mini-mansions on every side, all I could see were trees and marshes and imposing rocky cliffs, with nothing but an occaisional roofline poking up over the top to spoil the illusion. Yes, there was that one backyard with the riverside half-pipe for the luckiest (and probably most popular) SOB skate rat in town, but that just made you daydream. Not much of an offense.

We traveled to races around the South mostly. One of them was in Oak Ridge, Tennessee, an isolated town surrounded by national forest. It’s so remote that the nuclear bomb was developed there.

The regatta was held on a deep mountain lake, with steep hillsides slicing right into the water, and after the event, we were invited along by some local kids to go swimming. They took us out to I don’t know where, but well off the beaten path, to a muddy cliff navigable only by clinging to a line strung between tree trunks. One by one, we would scramble out to a thick, knotted rope hanging from a tall pine, hold on tight on for dear life, and swing far, far out — past the muddy cliff, past the sharp boulders at the edge of the lake, past the shallows and over deep water. Letting go, there would be a long fall, so long you had time to think. (“Will I die instantly or merely be paralized by a blow to the head?”)

Then you’d hit. The wind would be knocked out of you. If your legs weren’t closed tight together, you’d get a solid whack in the nuts; so there would be that too. When finally back on the surface, gasping for air, you’d swim directly to the shore because the water was too cold to actually enjoy.

Then, of course, you’d do it again.

Our team stayed in town overnight. There wasn’t a lot to do. A few of us walked to get some fast food, then to the grocery store. On the way, I picked wild daisies from the roadside, twisting them together to make a necklace for each person. My hair back then was down to my shoulder blades. The sun had bleached it to the color of chocolate, and it fell naturally in perfect ringlets — just like Nellie fuckin’ Olesen. We were a sight, all of us wearing rowing togs and flowers around our necks, and me with my heavy black stubble and a mess of wavy Jesus hair. Right on top, for extra measure, was a short ring of daisies sitting like a hippy halo.

At the store, people stared, but of course, we didn’t care. We were just kids, and we were having fun.

Happy Monday Epic

Every once in a blue moon, on a Monday, or within four days of a Monday, I post photos of guys smiling.

This time around I’m starting off with a local builder of custom bikes. I assume that means he welds, brazes, drills and screws everything together from scratch. We’ve got quite a handbuilt scene here in Portland, and it’s getting to be almost as common as home-brewed beer. Every heterosexual dude in town is dreaming of fabricating sweeeet frames in his garage, and also dreaming of the inevitable devoted following that will extend his waiting list years into the future.

Though relatively new to the profession, the builder on this page, Tony Pereira, has enjoyed some degree of acclaim. I will admit, however, that his appearance here is for no other reason than to enjoy his charming grin.

I stole the image from Rapha.cc, the website for the maker of astronomically expensive cycling clothes. They have a whole section of thier site called Rapha Continental, which is devoted to “epics” — rides of epic distance and difficulty. In reality, though, they are tough-but-doable day-trips, usually within easy reach of a major city. Fifty to a hundred miles of canyons, gravel, hairpin curves, impossible grades and forest, bookended by coffee on one side and beer on the other. Perfect for the wannabe road warrior with a day job.

It’s all very well done, I admit — photos, descriptions, maps, elevation profiles, etc.. — all ridden and presented by local somebodies. Portland’s rides feature this racer, Ira Ryan, also a frame builder, who is like the Paris Hilton of our hero worshiping bike scene. His presence provides that all-important celebrity athlete endorsement to the ride. Ira would do this ride. It’s worth trying because it’s good enough for Ira. This is no mere stroll in the park if Ira would do it. I must be pretty tough if I could do a ride that Ira could do. Oh God, I want to be Ira.

So, yeah, they cover all bases, and it works. This is heady daydream material for anyone who wants to slip on an old wool cycling jersey and pump and sweat and crash and bleed and maybe even puke away his day off all alone (or with some buddies) in the woods. I’ve got to admit that one of those daydreamers is me.

I heard about Rapha Continental at work, where all the guys love to do outdoorsy stuff — mountaineering, snowboarding, surfing, kayaking, biking. It’s just a retail job, but I feel entirely underqualified. One of them mentioned recently that he had done the Dutch Canyon ride in Forest Park, and I looked it up and swooned.

It’s only 50-ish miles and close to town, but I already know I wont be doing the ride. I don’t have anybody to go with me, and I don’t want to tumble off a hillside or break my collar bone (again) or even just get a flat tire when I’m thirty miles from home down a gravel road, two hours before sundown, and all alone. It just wouldn’t be fun.

That’s the thing, I guess. That’s the pleasure and pain of the site. It’s all doable. It would be awesome. But it’s going to remain, like so much else in life, just another dream.