What I Learned From My Weekend in Portland

Last weekend was our big getaway, our grown-up getaway, and it was fan--tastic!  After Dave made a brief appearance at work, we dropped Nora at school, stopped at Starbucks, stopped for gas, stopped to fill my tire with air, then stopped at a second Starbucks (because I wasn't hungry at the first one) before FINALLY hitting the road. Despite all the coffee stops, however, and the Mumford and Sons playing in the CD player, and Dave's best attempts to poke me in the ribs whenever he saw me nodding off, I dozed on and off for two hours. I simply cannot stay awake in a moving vehicle.  Unless I'm driving, of course.  I blame this phenomenon on the fact that my parents used to drug me up on Dramamine, throw me in the back of our canopy-covered pickup truck and whisk my sisters and I off for a weekend of camping-- just so they wouldn't have to stop mid-way and clean up puke. I can't say that I blame them.  However, I also believe this is why I have no sense of direction.  

I didn't have any expectations for this trip other than sleeping, eating, and bike riding.  I like to keep things simple, and I hate to plan.  So I was very surprised to find that this trip also taught me a few things about myself, and my kids.  

In order of least to greatest importance, here they are:

First, I learned that I DO like beer.  Okay, I actually already knew this.  But I thought I only liked some beer, light beer.  Beer so light it's almost transparent.  Beer that has little to no calories.  Beer that pretty much tastes like water.  Beer that I can drink after a run, or a ride in the hot sun, and not pass out.  Beers like Corona, PBR, or the lovely, bubbly, Taj Mahal I drink to cool my mouth off when I eat  Indian food.  But Portland showed me another side. I wouldn't go so far as saying "the dark side," because I don't think I will ever have the stomach, or the taste buds, for Guinness, Stout, and whatever other dark beers are lurking out there.  But it did show me a different side: a creamy, thick, malty, delicious side.  

From The Lucky Labrador Brewing Co. I learned that I like ales, at least their seasonal Winterdog Ale.  

I also learned that it pairs surprisingly well (that's my wine snob self talkin) with their Chicken Bento in peanut curry sauce.  I also learned that I don't like the Hellraiser ESB so much.  Maybe because I'm not a hell raiser.  Maybe because it's bitter.  But who wants to drink a beer that's bitter? Isn't that why we have coffee?

The next day, Bailey's Tap Room, confirmed my likes. While making my selection at this bar was a bit more difficult due to their vast array of beers on tap, I did find one that I liked.  Initially, I was going to choose the IPA from Astoria.  In honor of my dad who used to fish there, and who still has very fond memories of his time there.  But the description said it was made with raspberries and, for some reason, that just didn't appeal to me.  So, again, I opted for an ale.   Thus, despite my fear of looking like the light-weight that I  truly am, and unlike every other patron in the place,  I ordered mine in the  baby glass  10 ounce glass.  

But in my defense, it was only 4:00 which meant I still had one long night of vacation ahead of me and I wasn't planning on wasting it by falling asleep early. While this beer wasn't as sweet and creamy (are these even adjectives beer snobs use to describe beer?) as the Lucky Dog's Winterdog Ale, it was still pretty darn good.  

So Sonja likes beer.  Who knew?

Second, for those of us unaccustomed to city riding, I learned that urban cycling definitely has its challenges.  From where I live in T-Town, it is very easy to go for a bike ride and have very little interaction with cars.  All I have to do is pedal through a few quiet, North-End neighborhoods before finding myself at Point Defiance Park.  Once here, I can ride the five-mile-drive as many times as I want without seeing anyone or anything except the growing pack of no-longer-nocturnal raccoons waiting for their handouts.  Or, if I feel compelled to ride in a different direction, I can head out to Steilacoom, or Dupont, and still encounter pretty minimal traffic.  

Not so in Portland.  The Rose City may very well be ALL ABOUT BIKES, but it takes a bit of work to learn to navigate the bright green bike lanes, the car-traffic, the buses, and the all-too experienced cyclists who know exactly where they are going and seem to be in quite the hurry to get there.  We were not those cyclists.  Knowing we had a little investigative work to do before we were ready to be included in the tally of cyclists that are automatically counted by some magic counting-machine on the Hawthorne Bridge, we headed to The Bike Shop.  Of which, there are eighty-nine.  Eighty-Nine! (according to our hotel's valet)    

After leaving River City Bicycles the first time, my bag was filled with cliff shots, cliff bars, and a cute, new pair of Pearlizumi gloves.  (They were half off!) Dave's head, on the other hand, was filled with all the information pertaining to  Saturday's ride; route, hills, landmarks etc.  When I asked him about it on our way back to the hotel, he simply replied, "about thirty with a little climbing for about the first mile."  Okay, I thought. I can handle that.  

So over oatmeal at Peet's the next morning, I mentally prepared for the ride by perusing face book, instagram, and just to be well-rounded, a little bit of news.  Dave, on the other hand, poured over the map, locking our route into that steel trap of his.  Then it was back to the hotel to change.  While we got our bikes out of the van, Dave and the valets discussed our route.  "Oh ya," I overheard one of them say with a smile (although in retrospect I think it was more of a smirk) "that's a good climb."  Oh boy, I thought, I might be in trouble.  

But I couldn't even think about the climb yet.  I had more important things to think about. Like traffic.  And getting through the traffic to the bike lane.  Oh and not wiping out on the light-rail track.  And let's not forget about getting out of these still-new pedals.  At every stop sign.  And every stop light. Apparently, tired of hearing all of the clicking and unclicking behind him, Dave said, "you've gotta learn how to balance."  Ya, I'll get right on that, I thought. So, no.  I wasn't thinking about the hill yet.  

Eventually, though, we left the city core behind us, and started up.  And up and up and up!  I got so hot I had to stop and strip down to just my jersey.  My short sleeve jersey! In March! I don't know if it was the unseasonably warm weather, (I am used to riding in 40 degrees and it was nearing 60) or the stress of navigating a new city, but I was sweating like a pig at only a few miles in.  Maybe I should have paid more attention at the bike shop when they were discussing this ride.  Maybe I should have questioned the valet further.  But it was too late for all that.  We were on our way. We twisted and turned and climbed until eventually (eventually meaning 4 miles!) we were at the top: Skyline.  And it was worth it. Once my breathing regulated, I realized we had a great view of the city below us, lots of open space around us, even a few cows here and there for company.  So I put my jacket back on,  zipped up to my chin, and settled in.   

But then, all too soon, the road dipped, and turned, and dipped and twisted.  Of course!  What goes up.... And so my heart rate, my nerves, my blood pressure--everything that had just returned to their normal levels--were about to skyrocket again.  Dave, however, was experiencing none of these symptoms.  His panic level was off.  I don't think he even has a panic level.  As such, I knew he was ready to go!  I knew he wanted to fly.  Despite his modest, unassuming demeanour, I've heard tales of him flying down hills, mountains at speeds close to 50.  Miles per hour!  Knowing I could NEVER keep up with him, and not wanting him to wait for me, like he always does, I just told him I'd probably be pretty slow on this part.  Given the green light, he smiled (like a kid) and was gone.  Tucked into his handlebars, leaning into each curve, relishing in each twist of the road.  

I was doing none of those things.  I do not enjoy descending.  Especially descending on winding roads.  And, yes, I realize this means I will never be a real cyclist.  And while climbing is definitely hard,  I'd rather do it any day.  I mean I can grit my teeth,  and grunt and grind and curse my way up with the best of them. Okay, maybe not the best of them, but you get my point.  But when that yellow streak I try so hard to hide makes its appearance,  there's not much I can do.  So I gripped my brakes, pulled myself in tight, and held on. I had no desire to be aerodynamic, to go fast. I merely wanted to survive, to get to the bottom in one piece.  So, yes I may have held up traffic a bit, I may have severely worn down my brake pads, and I probably sweated as much going down that hill as I did climbing up it in the first place-but I did it.   

In the end, due to some road construction and closures, our thirty mile ride turned out to be about twenty-five.  But that was fine.  That was enough for me. By the time we got back into town, I was physically and mentally spent.  Between the climb, the harrowing descent, and dealing with the obstacles of urban cycling, I was ready for a shower and a drink. Thank God it was after noon.  As we loaded our bikes back into the van, the valet asked us how the ride was.  When we told him, he smiled and said, "ya, that's one good climb." (I think he was just trying to make me feel good-)

The third, and most surprising thing I learned from this trip, is that my girls can survive without me.   Not that I'm planning on going anywhere, for a long time!  But at least I know that when that day comes, they will be fine.  

They totally enjoyed their weekend without any parental supervision. Okay Grandma did take them out to dinner two nights in a row (even though I did leave them a delicious casserole, home-baked banana bread, and a pantry full of food). They stayed up way too late (and by they, I mean Nora.)  They went out for coffee, ice cream, and cupcakes.  They watched movies.  They built a fort in the t.v. room, and slept in it.  They laughed together.  They played together.  

So, NO--they may not have done things the way I do.  They may not have eaten well.  But they took care of each other.  Watching them say goodbye when it was time for Anna to return to Bellingham, Nora clinging to her sister's leg like glue,  I felt comforted in the fact that they will be there for each other as they grow. That they will be friends and love one another like no one else will. I texted Anna later that night, just to thank her once again for all her help.  She responded, "No problem.  Anytime.  I had fun!" Those six little words melted my heart.  So did I girl.  So did I.

So thanks Anna.  And thanks Portland.  Thanks a lot!  It was a good trip!

S-

P.S.  Oh--and I remembered how much I like hanging out with my husband. Even if I will never be a match for him on the bike.  But then, that's what he's got the boys for..