Last Thursday I found out that I will be facilitating a Write Around Portland group at the Bud Clark Commons, for chronically homeless men. I’m very excited.

And on Friday, Cheryl dropped me off to bike around Sauvie Island and back through NW Portland, in the sun, in the wind. On parts of the island I was biking sideways, the east wind gusting probably 35 miles an hour. A little crazy, but it was the first longish ride of the season, a long season. It was good to be out, to hear that crackly throat of the Sandhilll Cranes, to see a dozen Snow Geese, white and tall in a field.

And weaving through the streets of NW, I was tired from fighting the wind. There were many people in the shadows, doorways, walking on the dried mud of the sidewalks, where last week there were rivers. And about the woman who raised her head as I rode by, her face flat without her teeth, I wondered if I’d be writing with her. And to the man walking in the bike lane toward me, his wool hat low on his face, his Carhart jacket doing little against the wind, I nodded. Will we write together? 


Now we all have pens. Before, we were so different.

It’s been quite awhile, and I’m sorry to say I haven’t ridden much this year, really. Most of the winter and spring I trained for the Pedal Petal Century, but the weather was sideways rain and cold. I made it through the hills, the first 35 miles, but then bailed. Doh! And over the summer and fall, I didn’t do many rides. Now, the STP calls to me. I may start training in February.

Reviving this blog means writing sporadically. One of the reasons I want to start again is to record thoughts about writing, about change, about the interaction between creativity and activity, and more.

Returning to a piece of writing is like returning to a place. The rocks are still covered with lichen, the trees still textured, the Pondersosa towering over the Scrub Oak, and the sun makes its swing through the seasons. A piece of writing, like the first draft of a novel I started about Sylvia Plath and my Aunt Maureen, is still 160 pages long. It still moves horizontally through crisis and resolution, through complications brought on by jealousy and pride of characters bent on defining themselves in opposition to others. The metaphors are still fresh or mixed or flat. But I’ve changed.

In the 70s, On the Loose, a Sierra Club book about brothers who hitched across the country and wandered into wilderness, shot amazing pictures, and kept a journal, captured the imagination of those of us who felt trapped by cities and families. There was one piece, in particular, that stuck in my body. It was about returning to Big Sur. They wrote that returning to a place again and again showed you how you had changed, not how the place had changed.

In returning to the Plath novel, I can see how my writing has changed. At the time I had no clue how to write a novel, and so, I dove into the dangerous writing community and learned how to slow down, how to break syntax and create character, how to drag the nuance out of a gesture. I’ve learned to observe complicity. In some ways I’ve learned to see more like Plath, to see the complicity the observer has in the action observed. I’m a different person from the writer who wrote the first draft: I’m more willing to be vulnerable, more willing to blame and forgive and expose and deny.

I’m hoping I can write in the place I am now.

Well, I can’t stand it. Here’s a little bit that isn’t riding or writing:

We have walls!!

Today in Mosier, we were blessed with heat and walls and views that unveiled some of what is to come. Blessings to all.

Today was another one of those October days in Oregon, sunny, crisp, dry-grass smelly. While I broke no world records coming or going to school (my bike held about 20 extra pounds on the way to school because I brought leftovers from Hoda’s catering the Friday event. YUM!), I broke through many different subjects: typesetting and letterpresses, novels and storylines, and biking.

Writing is so different if you have to think about setting each letter. Over the weekend 4 intrepid students worked with a most patient instructor, Michael D’Allessandro, and set a line or two of type and printed their very own creations. We worked with tiny presses which print on a 3×5 surface. I can’t tell you how amazing it was to use the composing stick, load lead letters into the left hand, write upside down and backwards, lock the words into the chase, load it into the little machine, watch the doghead turn the ink plate, and feed the Rive paper in. It was magic.

As Joanna Rose said today, she was still “letter-y.” No kidding.

And besides that this weekend, I spent an hour on the phone with Hannah Tinti, my good friend who has adopted my novel. She has sent me 7 pages, single-spaced, of notes, both line-edits and big ideas. She knows my novel better than I do at this point, and I am in this haze thinking of what to do, or how to do what she thinks I should do. Her comments and suggestions are brilliant. Rarely has anyone had such a friend. So, I’m letter-y and thinking about Kyle and Jack Song and Carla and their stories.

Interrupting this autumn euphoria are some odd people in cars. Today some workers in a big truck whistled as they passed me, not a hubba-hubba whistle, just one meant to freak me out. I was going about 30mph down a very busy 4-lane highway, and this time, it was more comfortable and easy to get my hand in the right position to flip them off.

All of these actions and stories were in the leaves my tires shredded. They were in the headwind, the warming fall of evening.
(for more pictures of the 24-Hour Story Jam, go here.)

Riding home from work today, I wasn’t taking in the sunshine, the heat. A perfect fall day with a hint of ice crystal in the air, a waft of dry grass and tropics. If I were more Buddhist, I could have let go of insignificant things, like making mistakes, like campus politics, like fear. If I were more Buddhist, I would have noticed the new colors in the trees, the pattern of leaves in the bike lane, and the sound of tires over pine needles and twigs. So different. So different.

Instead, I looked ahead, at my handlebars, pushed, shifted gears where I knew I could maximize the slope. Instead of taking in one of the last breath-taking days of the year, I let silly things distract me.

But I have to say… There’s nothing like irritation to motivate me in a workout. Today was the fastest I’ve ever ridden home: 12.7 miles in 51.19 minutes for an average speed of 14.8 mph. I’m going to hit that goal of 15 mph. Maybe not this fall (since I want to be more Buddhist) but soon.

Last Friday as I biked back from CCC, I had just crossed Rt. 99E and started on River Road. There’s generally junk in the bike lane there, and cars coming from the right. A big Suburban pulled up next to me, right next to me, crowding me, and someone in the front passenger window yelled, “Hey!” just to see me jump. I did. It took me awhile to find the right fingers to flip the vehicle off because I’m not used to flipping people off, and so, I chuckled a little. I saw the Suburban up ahead make a left turn, and I wondered if that street, into a little housing development, curved back to River Road. Sure enough, the car came back.

They were going to be behind me again, and I didn’t want that to happen. So, I swerved my bike back and pulled in front of them as they waited at the stop. I had no idea what I was going to do or say, but I was plenty mad. There were 5 teenage boys in the car.

“What do you think you’re doing?” I said to the driver.
“What do you mean?” he said back.
“Do you like to pick on bicylists?” I was pretty much out of breath.
“What do you mean?” he repeated. The other boys were really uncomfortable. “Lady,” he said, “you’re weird.”
Not able to think too clearly, I said, “No, you’re weird for picking on cyclists. It’s hard enough to be out here without having to deal with people like you.”
“You’re really weird.” And I thought that if “weird” was the worst thing he could call me, then I was dealing with basically good young guys.
“Just be nice,” I said and looked in the eyes of each of the boys.

I rode away, and they waited until I had turned before they kept going. They were going a different direction, luckily.
It took me miles before the adrenaline worked its way through my limbs. I kept thinking, “That was really stupid. You could have gotten hurt!” And I thought, “Is this what happens after you’re 50? You think you can tell off younger people for their misbehavior?” Oh no!

That night I mirrored this experience in my dream:
My high school, which included boys, unlike my real high school, went on a field trip somewhere in the country. We played a game of Tag, sort of, but the people who were “it” were on horseback (notice the parallel incongruity of size). I could hear them coming, and so, I hid behind an enormous tree. I just walked on the root system and moved around the trunk so that they wouldn’t see me.

When more of them came (notice the incongruity in number), I knew I had to make a break for it, to another tree. But that tree was fairly far away, across a savanna (savanna?). So, I sprinted, and as I ran, I saw that I was passing a male lion with three female lions. I saw that the male lion spotted me (Funny the way I don’t blend in…). He came charging after me. I knew that I had to stand my ground, so I stopped and faced his charge. I knew I could not look in his eyes, and so, I kept my eyes down and averted. I could smell his dust, the smell of dry grass and something slightly sweet/sour. He came right up to me, sniffed me, then flopped on his back, just like our big dog, Mia. He spread his legs, and showed me his belly to rub. I didn’t know if it was a good idea to rub a lion’s belly.

Moral? Boys like to challenge, but truly, many of them are cubs.

Well, I can’t believe it. I made it: 50 rides AND Cycle Oregon. Thank you so much for cheering these wheels. The rides on Cycle Oregon were… stunning. Doing such long rides back-to-back was really challenging. Unlike most of the 2,200 riders this week, I took 2 days off, the 2 optional days. Even still, I rode 358.3 miles, for a total elevation gain of 21,722 feet.

As you may have read in The Oregonian, the last ride was the hardest last day they’ve ever planned: 73 miles with 6,650 feet elevation gain. The picture on the right is a sweet canyon we climbed out of at the very beginning of the day. We had approximately 40 miles of climbing. (That may be worth repeating: 40 miles!) And at the summit, we still had rollers. My legs were mush by then. My friend, Dave, who has completed 9 COs and is an animal up the hills, kept me laughing. Otherwise, he might have had to tow me. Seriously, I had nothing in my legs. The good thing, besides the amazing scenery and the shared sense of discomfort and dismay, was the cloud cover. The temperature was perfect: between 60 and 70 degrees.

The last 20 miles were blissful. We glided down along a dry stream at about 25-30 mph on a road with very few cars. The town of Elgin was even more welcoming, and I felt downright euphoric (perhaps deliriously tired, too) returning to Elgin. Here’s a picture of Dave and me on the way to the (separate) showers at the end:

After we showered (separately) and threw our bags in Dave’s truck, we ate the entire town of LaGrand. The 5-hour ride was tricky because we couldn’t move our legs, but somehow we made it home. Phew.

Tomorrow starts my school year, and I know that no one has sympathy if I whine about going back to work. May I just say that this summer has been one I will never forget: the summer of privilege, the summer of love. I have never felt so held. And I can’t believe how fortunate I’ve been: Africa, building a house, the riches of friendship, seeing my sibs, spending time with Cheryl, sending our daughter off to college, transforming our front yard, and more. Overwhelming is one word for this summer. Abundance is another. I am just so incredibly grateful.

Here I go. Thanks for your massive support. If you want to follow along, here’s the link to the interactive map:

http://www.cycleoregon.com/week-ride/route/

Have a great week!

xxox- 

Today was one of those days when the sky opens up and almost swallows you. It was bad news in an email about a wonderful person who is facing very tough medical procedures after having come through cancer surgery and horrendous chemo. But biking a lot helped. Kind of. Yesterday I biked to CCC and back. Today I biked to a hair cut, to a walk with Linda Vogt (which was wonderful), to CCC and back. On River Road in Milwaukie, a woman in a minivan came from the right, and looked to her right, kept rolling. I was coming from her left, slammed on my brakes and fishtailed. When she saw me, she just smiled, not realizing that she had almost struck me, that I was panicked. My fear squeezed tears out of me.

There were good things about the day, though. Walking with Linda Vogt along the Clackamas River was wonderful. She asked what turning 50 has meant to me, and I said that everything seems more precious (not in the cutesy, surgary type of way, but the sacred type of way). She said that’s how she felt about turning 60 and 61. I added that I’ve realized that I have to make my dreams come true because they aren’t just going to happen. Of course, I don’t need to make all those dreams happen in one summer like this one! Sheesh.

And then, riding home I set a new record for time (52 minutes), and I didn’t feel like I was pushing myself. Very cool. So, I’ve completed 35 rides. And on Saturday I leave for Cycle Oregon and will probably complete 15 rides during that time. I’ll also be out of internet range, and won’t check back until Sept. 18th.

Have a great week. Please take time to work against ministers promoting hatred, think of all the peace that has been achieved through collaboration, keep up the good fight for me, please. Love you like smooth pavement and a tail wind. -Kate

September in Oregon has to be the most beautiful. Today from sunrise to sunset, it has been incredible. After a walk with my dog, Rafi, at sunrise, Cheryl and I picked up my former neighbors and drove out to Mosier, to our property where we are building a cabin. It’s growing! My former neighbors, Bob & Rosie, are surrogate parents for me, and the sweetest. They are well into their 80s now, and Bob isn’t sure who I am sometimes. But every 5 minutes or so, he said, “Isn’t it the most beautiful day?! Man, I tell you.” Every tree delighted him. Years ago he’s the guy who inspired me to bike. At age 60 he started running marathons, and he helped the guy who started Specialized with bicycle designs. Bob would try them out.

So, on the way home, they dropped me off at Multnomah Falls, and I rode home. Maybe it was too much lunch or too many days in a row of riding, but I was not feeling too strong. And well, there was also a pretty good headwind, which prevented the bliss of the downhill from the Women’s Forum through Springvale. The few miles along the Columbia on Marine Drive before turning on to I-205 were pretty dicey.

But here’s to ride #28, for a total of 534.5 miles since Aug. 1. (the scary thing is that we’ll do almost that much in a week on Cycle Oregon!)… Hm…