That Lasted a Day
After eight years of commuting to work by bike, I did what the majority of the American population did to get work. I drove. By chance, I accepted a job in the hinterlands of the Milwaukie and Clackmas area outside of Southeast Portland. In my years of working in law firms of downtown Portland, it never occurred to me that I may have to accept a job out in suburbia. While I was relieved to have obtained a job shortly before I was to be laid off, I was not looking forward to the prospect of driving to the office five days a week. Several days prior to starting my new job, I looked enviously at all the bike commuters, all suited up in their water repellant gear, their LED lights marking their presence, and their flashing tail lights blinking goodbye to me. As unpleasant as pedaling through the rain can be, it is far preferable to sitting in traffic watching my gas gauge plummet while fuel prices skyrocket.
On March 29, 2007, the sunrise glowed brightly in my garage as I reluctantly turned the key in my ignition. My truck groaned in protest, confused at why I was taking it to this place called the office. The truck never went to work; instead it ventured to adventurous places such as the mountain, gorge, or the coast. Errands were done on the way home from these places. During the week, my truck happily rested in the garage, unless it was accompanying me to a social engagement. By the time I approached the first stoplight, I sighed to myself "This will never last."
Despite the relatively short commute from John's Landing to Milwaukie, I knew this was something I could never get used to. It was a reverse commute, and I tried to console myself by observing the parking lot of cars waiting to cross the Sellwood Bridge. After hitting every red light on SE Tacoma, I was merging on to Highway 99E, hoping to beat the herd of vehicles racing to their respective jobs. Highway 224 was not even in the vocabulary of the traffic announcers, which did nothing to convince that I could enjoy this. Highway 224 was not the traffic nightmare that Highway 26, 217, or the Banfield Freeway are, but the potential is there. The commute would be quite smooth if it was not for the three stoplights monitoring the traffic. Suburbia never did appeal to me; I would never gain an appreciation for the generic architecture of strip malls, big-box stores, and chain restaurants. After 25 minutes of accelerating, reaching third gear, and then stopping at yet another red light, I finally arrived at the office parking lot. I slammed the door of my truck, and arrived with ample time to begin my employee orientation.
After reading the policies and procedures of this law firm, I inquired about a locker room and shower facilities. The office manager did not hesitate, as she led me to the third floor locker room.
Returning home, I was taunted by the sun and the clear blue skies. Waiting to cross the first intersection while the car ahead of me waited for the light to turn a special color of green, I began cursing "I hate this! I need to quit!" The drive home was uneventful in the eyes of the average commuter; it was agony for me. My legs longed for the spinning motion of pedaling, my face longed for the fresh air, while my heart longed to be beating at target heart rate for exercising, not crawling through traffic. The end of my drive was the worst, where traffic was backed up for three blocks at a four way stoplight. It was not how I wanted to end each and every workday.
The next morning, I woke up earlier than usual, pulled on my bike tights, top, and waterproof coat. My work clothes were folded in my backpack next to my Tupperware bowl of lunch. Everything felt natural except for pedaling my bike in the opposite direction of downtown. Immediately, I was greeted by the quarter mile downhill on Corbett Avenue going towards John's Landing. Waiting at the light to cross Macadam was far more tolerable on two wheels than it was on four. Soon, I was cruising on the water front, relying on my light for illumination. The sun was beginning to peak over the foothills of East Portland as I pedaled up the Sellwood Bridge. Even bikers were on the reverse commute, as we navigated around each other on the bridge, giving the uphill rider the right of way. SE Tacoma was probably the most hazardous street for me to bike on, but that was shortlived, as I could cross over to SE Umatilla towards the Springwater corridor. The Springwater Corridor trail slices through southeast Portland, Milwaukie, and Gresham. The bumpy trail is not recommended for a sleek road bike and as you venture further east, the number of intersections increase. I was fortunate that Johnson Creek was the only major intersection I had to cross before reaching Linwood. The drivers were used to bikers crossing, as I always had good luck with motorists stopping so I could cross without waiting for a parade of cars to whiz by. Pedaling in high gear across the Springwater trail was a refreshing feeling; far preferable to driving down 224 with the windows down and the music blasting. Soon, I was heading down Linwood, finishing my commute on a downhill. Traffic was light, and I was treated to a bike path. At the end of Linwood, it was just a hop skip and a jump to Lake Road, where my new office was. Riding my bike took 40 minutes, driving took 25 minutes. Each day, as I watched the gas prices grow incrementally, I breathed a sigh of relief that I was still able to remain a bike commuter.