Naked Bike Riding

How many things are wrong with that?

Whereas Atlanta has its Purple Dress Run, Portland has The Naked Bike Ride. The Purple Dress Run is an annual event sponsored by the Atlanta Bucks Rugby Football Club. It’s actually a pub crawl, and their website touts it this way:

“Put the Atlanta Bucks in purple dresses and run them from bar to bar, and it’s no prim-and-proper Southern cotillion. The burly Bucks and their supporters don their gay apparel Saturday for one of the rugby team’s two biggest fundraisers of the year.”

 

Photo taken from my Sun Room Window in Atlanta

So you get it. Burly gay guys dressed in purple dresses and careening from pub to pub to raise money for AIDS awareness, etc. Although often in sequins and boas and size 14 stilettos, they are clothed, at least mostly.

Then on to Portland's Naked Bike Ride. Here’s some info about the latest one:

"The World Naked Bike Ride took to the streets of Portland Saturday night, exposing the city to a reported 13,000 cyclists who in turn were exposing themselves to the city. In spite of a cool evening, cyclists rode with little or no clothing, staying warm with exertion and camaraderie."

Still lots of alcohol involved and a good cause, this one to protest against society's reliance on automobiles and Big Oil.

I can see myself taking part in the Purple Dress Run (as long as I didn’t have to run). I’d actually be one of the better looking participants, trust me. But as to the Naked Bike Ride, please see below for just some of the ways this is wrong:

• It was only 50 degrees the evening described in the article I cited.
• At my age, there's no telling what body part might get stuck in the spokes.
• I can't ride a bike sober so .............
• You know the adage about being the lead dog in a sled race and how if you aren't the lead dog, the view never changes.  I'm pretty sure I wouldn't be the lead dog in this race, and, if I remember correctly, don't people stand up from their bike seats when they accelerate or start up a hill?
• Speaking of the bike seat, who's in charge of cleaning that after the race?
• Do the participants go naked into the bars too?
• Can you imagine where the scrapes might be if you fall off?
• What about chafing?
• Where do you keep your credit card and phone? How about your identification for when they find you naked, drunk, and dead in the gutter?

But what I find most wrong about Portland's Naked Bike Ride is the point they are trying to make, that of protesting our over-reliance on automobiles and Big Oil.  Nothing makes me want to climb into my big old gas guzzling car fully clothed more than considering the alternative of Riding a Bicycle with my Sixty-One-Year-Old Completely Nekked Body on a Cold Spring Evening in Portland, Oregon.  Or any place else, for that matter.

Home

I flew home to Atlanta the other day from my home in Portland. This is the first time I felt Portland to be as much my hometown as Atlanta and leaving was difficult. I know I’m lucky to be able to spend so much time with my grandkids while still having a space for myself. I’m also lucky to be able to live in two incredibly beautiful cities and in two spaces I truly love.

Below are things I miss about each particular place when I'm not there.

Portland

1. my grandchildren
2. hanging out with my very own grown kids
3. toys underfoot
4. my tiny front yard that I don't have to maintain
5. wandering around St. Johns
6. Sauvie Island
7. the rivers and bridges
8. my big bathroom
9. the weather in summer
10. my gas fireplace (even in summer)
11. Mount Hood and Mount St. Helens
12. being able to walk to the grocery store
13. my new Portland friends
14. Trevor's cooking
15. dancing with the family
16. not working
17. family field trips
18. happy hour in Grammy’s Garden
19. a new state to explore
20. a new life
    

Atlanta

1. closer proximity to Molly
2. family furniture
3. my job
4. my car
5. Friday early bird dinners with Allison
6. my old Georgia friends
7. going to the movies with Allison
8. not having to walk to the grocery store
9. my sunroom
10. the old ladies' Macy's at North Dekalb Mall
11. my ottoman
12. Publix Supermarket
13. Piedmont Park
14. walking through Ansley Park and by the High Museum and Atlanta Symphony Hall
15. my view of the Atlanta skyline
    
16. movie star neighbors
17. not having to put the trashcan out each week
18. my purple bedroom
19. an old state with many memories
20. an old life
    

My experiences in each place and space are quite different. My Atlanta home is old and historic. My building was completed in 1917 and Margaret Mitchell once lived in it. My furniture is comprised of mostly old family pieces and my decor is shabby not-so-chic with lots of things (the good, the bad, and the ugly) I've created and collected throughout the years. My Portland home is new and "green", built in 2004 to improved standards. My furniture is all new (at least to me) and the decor is still sparse, although I'm working hard on adding my own personal tacky to it.

My Atlanta home is private. What I put down stays down and all dirt is mine. My Portland home is communal, with kids and grandkids in and out, the toilet seat up and down, the refrigerator opened and closed (and occasionally slammed), toys and kid paraphernalia everywhere, sometimes a dog named Lou.

And so, I get to live two lives, both of which embrace and reflect my loves, my interests, and my crazy quirks. On the west coast, I get to be up close and personal as I pretty much think of myself as a full-time Grammy. And then on the east coast, I get to find my solitude and pursue my other selves.

Okay, I know it’s difficult to feel too sorry for me, but I have to say that the transitions are tough, and I'm not just talking about time zones. I have a hard time figuring out which keys are which and I can’t remember if I have any toilet paper or where I keep it. I can’t recall which aisle my Diet Cokes are on in each of my two grocery stores or where are my favorite TV channels are under which remote-control buttons.

And then there's the letting go of the little ones. It was especially hard this time as they are getting old enough to realize I’m leaving. Miles had a meltdown when it came time to say goodbye, his outward falling apart mirroring what I was feeling inside. My heart felt broken in two, each half situated on opposite sides of the continent.

Because there are so many people without even one home, it does sound a bit self serving to be complaining about "oh what a burden" two are, but it's the straddling that's difficult, and I know it would be even more difficult if I didn't have the means to have comfortable surroundings at both ends of the straddle.

So, since I’m not ready yet to give up either life, I'm back to feeling lucky, and I guess I’ll just continue to try to appreciate each place and experience when I'm in the middle of it all and to remember that the transitions will be confusing and painful.

The Pirate across the Street

For ten months of the year, I live in Midtown Atlanta, in a building that, until recently, housed a person who is now an international fugitive, and where, each spring, I can look out of my window and watch men in various shades of lavender passing by for the Purple Dress Parade. For the other two months, I live in St. Johns, a community in the northern part of Portland, Oregon, which, I’m here to say, is even weirder than Midtown Atlanta.

St. Johns (note the lack of apostrophe which no one can seem to explain) was named after James John who, in 1865, laid out the original town on the tip of the peninsula created where the Columbia and Willamette Rivers converge. Most stories report that the Saint part of the name came to be because old Jimmie John, a recluse, was one of the few men who didn’t frequent the local brothel in those early days.

But enough about history and back to now. As I’ve already reported, St. Johns has its very own one-legged Elvis impersonator. In addition, there’s the local schizophrenic people call the Telephone Man, so named because he stops at each of the few remaining pay telephone booths in town to “talk” to Sharon Osborne about her Diet Coke needs. There’s also a guy who meanders up and down Smith Street each day, reading the very same very thick book, and another fellow who walks around town sporting a giant iguana that sits on the back of his neck. And then there’s the pirate who lives across the street from me.

I chose St. Johns for my second home because it's close to one of my children (and just about a 20 minute drive to my other) and because it’s a place where I can survive without a car. Lombard Street, which is St. Johns' main drag, is two blocks from me, two easy blocks, not Atlanta blocks. There’s a grocery store and pharmacy in town; there are several restaurants; there’s a library one block from me, and three playgrounds within a half block either way. There’s also an antique store where I bought my kitchen table and my bedroom dresser, and an Enterprise Rental place close enough for me to walk to in order to pick up a car should I decide to rent one.

I've related some of the good things about St. Johns and there are lots more, but it also has its seedy side. Two rocking chairs and my grandson’s bike were recently stolen from my daughter’s front porch and it seems that a drunken prostitute one time threw up in my son-in-law’s car, which was parked in front of their house. Of course, none of that sounds much different from Midtown Atlanta.

But nothing of the above, the good, the bad, and the ugly, compares to having my very own pirate living across the street. I know he’s a pirate because he flies a pirate flag from his home’s yardarm, and his pirate rowboat is moored on his front lawn.
He appears to be a very nice pirate, and hard working. He leaves each morning in his haphazardly painted truck and comes back each afternoon after doing what I imagine to be some kind of construction work. He grows roses in his garden and even offered a pretty red one to my son as he was going to his car one afternoon after visiting me. My pirate would most likely be found wearing a Lynyrd Skynyrd t-shirt, rather than a tricorn hat and knee breeches, but, then again, he might save those for St. Johns’ very own Pirate Festival, which I will have to miss since it occurs in September.

Because St. Johns offers just about the last affordable housing in Portland proper, quite a few young families are deciding to make the move here. I have to say I admire these current-day pioneers, people who see this odd place as a good place, a place where they can raise their children and make an imprint and a difference. They could, instead, be living in planned communities where everyone looks the same, with the same thoughts and attitudes, with everything new and nothing different. I'm sure those places feel safer than the grittiness of St. Johns, a place that, at times, reminds us that life can be hard.

But the longer I live, the more I know that, while we don't want to go around looking for trouble, difficulties and despair can find us at most any time, in any place. We can't insulate ourselves from the cares of the world, and living a careful life won't keep hard times from coming our way. Bikes get stolen and hearts get broken, no matter how carefully we plan, no matter how hard we try to protect ourselves and those we love. So, we might as well spend some time in an interesting place like St. Johns where we can, at least, have someone like a pirate living across the street.

It's enough to make you say ARRRGH.

Let It Roll

There are moments in life when you just feel lucky, when the confluence of time and place and experience and event bring you to an occasion that’s purely sublime. That's what happened to me last night.

The time was early evening; the place was the Portland Waterfront Blues Festival; the experience was time spent with two of my grown children; and the event was the chance to hear Little Feat for ten bucks and two canned goods (being Portland).

With me at my advanced age, it had to be early and it had to be easy. I no longer like to stay up late and I don’t look forward to much of anything enough to go to much trouble to take part in it. But the band was playing at 6 and I was in Portland anyway and the kids were willing to drive me and park me and help me navigate the crowd. In addition, the non-Grammy-related parental units were willing to solo cover grandkid bath and bedtime for the evening. And then there was Little Feat. Little Feat is part of my history.

I grew up in a family with much happiness and great humor but very little music. I remember my daddy playing church music on the radio on Sunday mornings, more to annoy us than anything else, and then there were my begrudgingly-taken piano lessons on Wednesday afternoons. I remember my mother introducing me to a recording of Flight of the Bumblebee and Daddy’s favorite song being Alley Cat, which he kept wanting me to practice so I could play it at his funeral. Sadly, or most likely fortunately, my daddy died and was memorialized without me at the keyboard just behind the preacher.

One of the things I truly loved about Gary Talbert, when I met him, was his passion for and understanding of music. He introduced me to Otis Redding, the Allman Brothers, Bonnie Rait, Ray Charles, Van Morrison, Rickie Lee Jones, and so many others. One of those others was Little Feat. I don’t have much of an ear for music and very little rhythm in my soul, but there was something about that particular band that spoke to me. I think it was the syncopation, rhythm so compelling I was able to get over myself and become lost in it.

And so, in a perfect storm of cosmic forces, there I was with two of the three people I love most on earth, caught up again in the magic of Little Feat. I cried with the first chord of Dixie Chicken and stood mesmerized through Fat Man in the Bathtub with the Blues. When they started up Let It Roll with that unforgettable hallmark frenetic whoosh, I screamed so loudly even the dancing dervishes stopped whirling to look at me. And then I remembered Jan Waybright playing leg guitar to that particular song on the road to Athens some time in the mid 80’s, and it seemed like yesterday.

There I was again, dancing and moving, dare I say grooving? Who cared that I was sixty and had arthritic knees and a throbbing toe? I certainly wasn’t the youngest person there, but I wasn’t the oldest either. After all, the band started up in 1969, just a year before I met Gary, so their emergence and my musical education and appreciation grew throughout the same decades.

It wasn’t until after I got home and saw my picture with my loose-skin-spot-speckled arms raised in Feat-struck appreciation that I remembered my age.

Rock 'n Roll Arm of Shame

I wonder if Stevie Nicks has this problem.
It could explain the shawls.

For a moment, I felt just a tad short of ashamed, thinking I shouldn’t have been there at my age, not acting my age with a little disorderly conduct in a public place. And then I thought: screw it. I was having fun and doing something I enjoyed with people I love in an absolutely gorgeous setting. It's a night I'll always remember and something I'll add to my Absolute Joy list.

What could have made it better? Having my youngest with us would have created my perfect kid triad, which tends to be when I'm happiest and most in the moment. Having the Big Kat there, in spite of his geezer know-it-all horse's-assed-ness, would have been fitting and even fun, since we all have him to thank for the music in our lives. Having the grandkids there? Probably not. It was a night for grownups and a chance for me to remember my youth and consider my many blessings.

Despite my loose skin, I am a lucky woman.