Can You Ever Really Go Back?

Have you ever gone back to any of your childhood homes?  I just did last month. Well, let's say I tried. We were in LaGrande, the town where I was born.  It's a beautiful place in Eastern Oregon, and I'm glad I got to visit on our way through to Idaho.

Our family lived in a simple but nice home, out on the edge of town, on a large lot with beautiful fruit trees and views of the mountains. I remember my parents would play Johnny Cash and Ray Conniff records on the hi-fi. We had the most amazing family dog, a German Shepherd named Prince. And even though I was sick a lot with asthma, I really think I had a golden life. So I thought it would be nice to go back and see my old house on Willow,  the place of my earliest childhood memories.

It turns out, a short visit was all I needed.  The house is still there, but it's no longer on the edge of town. And people don't live there anymore.


Now, it's the "Hair Shack."




"Shack?" Really?!





But wait, there's more.  My old bedroom is now the part of the "shack" where you go for a pedicure.



Adjoining the house...er, shack, is a pizza parlor.




Oh brother.




But, as I turned around to see where our fruit trees once stood, there it was....

....Cup O' Joe!




With a cyclist at the drive thru!





Yes, this is home after all!

A Sweet Evening Ride

With the long week finally winding down,  Mrs. C suggested we get outdoors for a little recreation together. She and I spent our Friday evening on our bicycles, out south of Salem along the farms, where we had the quiet roads completely to ourselves. For much of the ride we rode side by side, able to converse without competing with the noise from as much as a single car.

This valley is special. The sweet, dense evening air is intoxicating this time of year. We rode past fields where the smell of cut hay lingers after being cut, baled, and carted away.  This summer’s bumper crop of blackberries are hanging ripe on the vines, their scent a treat for the senses.

All sorts of birds and critters are showing up again at the refuge; in the brief time we stopped at the marsh, we saw egrets, heron, geese, and ducks. A pair of beaver were swimming and sunning on the shore just across the water. Time to bring the big camera back there, I suppose.

A short ride, a slow pace, and a delightful way to usher in the weekend.

Providence Bridge Pedal 2011

A view from the Fremont Bridge

Root Beer and funky music on the top deck of the Marquam

Mrs. C and I joined the throngs at today’s Providence Bridge Pedal 2011 in Portland.  With over 18,000 other riders, let’s just say this was not one of those rides you take out in the countryside to find a little solitude.

This was a big PARTY on Portland’s bridges!

This year’s ride felt much more crowded; it was slow going much of the time.  I think it had something to do with the route we had to take. There were times when we were stuck in crowds at a standstill waiting for our turn to proceed. It was more than a minor annoyance. Still, I’m reluctant to be critical of the route planners because they have to work around a constantly changing set of factors. It’s no small thing to put on an event that actually closes down interstates, city streets, and most of the bridges in town for an entire morning. Better to think of this as a leisurely bike ride with 18,000 friends.

People who wanted to ride above 15 mph were frustrated and created their own impromptu “lanes” outside of the established cones and markers. That’s really aggravating to those of us who are trying to be respectful to motorists and pedestrians. And it’s disrespectful to the ride organizers, I think.  They’re the ones who made the agreements with city officials to make this ride possible. We all own our reputation together. Sharing the road is--pun intended--a “two-way street.” Besides, this is a community event, not a race.

Mrs. C and some close friends of ours were doing the Bridge Pedal for the first time today. Riding on them for the first time, especially the Marquam and Fremont, they were amazed at the scale of these massive structures. We don’t fully get that appreciation while inside a car going 50 or 60 mph.

Toward the end of the ride, I connected with my longtime friend and colleague, Scott W.  That’s another great thing about the slow, friendly pace of this ride. You actually have time to find some familiar faces and strike up a conversation.

On a bridge.  

With no cars.

Getting Home

Dorothy's ruby slippers are now on display at the Smithsonian.
She doesn't use them anymore.

Remember how Dorothy transported herself back from Oz? She clicked her ruby slippers together and repeated, “There’s no place like home” and was suddenly back in Kansas.

Yeah, it turns out that it doesn’t really work--I tried it yesterday to save some long hours in the car on our return trip from McCall, Idaho. All that happened was I got some very strange looks from the locals. I still had to do the 500+mile drive. Actually, it’s a very scenic drive so no complaints.

Now I’m thinking more about that quote from the movie: “There’s no place like home.” Hmmm.

Riding In The Willamette Valley

Probably each of us has someplace we think of as “home,” where we most strongly find our sense of place and belonging in the world. It may not be where we currently live, but where we are most connected to for one reason or another. Because of the associated memories and emotions, we see these surroundings differently and more subjectively than anywhere else we go. Riding through a forest and taking in the sweet smells of cedar and pine, or rolling beside a field of fresh cut hay or mint, I feel most at home. You may as well cue the soundtrack with Dvorak’s New World Symphony. Movement 2 to be precise. 

It’s sort of interesting, though, how “home” is such a relative term, isn’t it? For me, home is here in the Willamette Valley, but somebody else’s home could as well be in those mountains I can see to my east or the coast range to the west. Or maybe it's that next set of mountains just beyond my view, or even a place that is on an entirely different continent. 

I believe that getting there--and being there--on a bicycle rather than something faster and steel encased, makes all the difference as we learn to appreciate what “home” means to somebody else. No matter how far away we go, we are always visitors in somebody else’s home, and in this sense, our homes are all connected to each other.

I love what I read recently from Donald Miller's book, A Million Miles In A Thousand Years. He was describing being a part of a cycling group that was nearing their completion of a ride across the United States: 

It didn't feel like we'd ridden across the country. It didn't feel like the ocean was only two days away. We'd grown into the lifestyle and gotten lost in the story and even, to some degree, grieved that it was ending. When you fly across the country in an airplane, the country seems vast, but it isn't vast.  It's all connected by roads one can ride a bike down.  If you watch the news and there's a tragedy at a house in Kansas, that guy's driveway connects with yours, and you'd be surprised how few roads it takes to get there.  The trip taught us that we were all neighbors, that my life is connected to everybody else's, that one person's story has the power to affect a million others.

It’s really all just our perspective. Riding new roads, finding new places, and experiencing new things, are some of the great joys of riding a bike. So, too, is the exhiliaration of returning to familiar places on a road you know well, because it has become so much a part of who you are. And once you've done that ride, things feel closer and home feels bigger. Whether it’s my age, or accumulated time on the saddle, it’s good to try to expand my view of “home.”

So, Dorothy, have a great life in Kansas. Once you recover from that bump on your head, see if you can borrow that bicycle from Miss Gulch and learn what’s out beyond the farm.