So I'm wheeling down 5th Ave in Portland today, on my way back from lifting at the Portland State gym. It's cold and wet so I'm hurrying along, thinking about the tuna melt I'm going to make for lunch, getting annoyed with the guy who's obliviously drifting into my path. I pass him and angle to the right. Ahead half of the sidewalk is cordoned off with traffic cones and construction tape extending from the pink siding of the Portland City Grill Building, the tallest in Portland. As I approach the last cone, slowing because I'm not going to make the light to cross Burnside, a loud but thin crash erupts behind me, like a giant banging the world's biggest cowbell, and a whoosh of air and tiny bits of plastic blasts the middle of my back. A guy in a brown rain jacket is looking past me with wide eyes, "Holy Shit!" he exclaims.
I turn around and see a two foot piece of metal tubing laying on the sidewalk, what looks like a part of the pneumatics that stabilize the window washing platform hanging 30 floors above. "That would've killed somebody" the guy in the brown jacket wonders aloud as he walks past me. I look again, the metal casing is just inside the construction tape, and must've landed two maybe three feet behind me as I rolled by. That somebody was almost me. Instantly expunged as I wheeled along the sidewalk four blocks from home.
Now what does this have to do with a yearlong bike expedition? Everything, in fact. One of the most common questions Kelly and I get when people hear about our trip is, "Isn't that dangerous?" Sure, I suppose it is, more dangerous than sitting in my apartment. But over the last 6 years I've traveled all over the world -- wandered around SE Asia for 2 months, cycled the narrow, shoulderless backroads of Ireland for a month, lived in San Salvador, where gang violence and petty crime are daily occurrences, where I was forced to dart among the craziest traffic I've ever seen -- and the closest I've come to dying, or even getting seriously injured just happened right here in Portland. Good ol America. Shit happens. Wherever you are. You never know when a piece of metal casing falling from 200ft might end your craving for a tuna melt. Might as well get your adventure in while you can.
I turn around and see a two foot piece of metal tubing laying on the sidewalk, what looks like a part of the pneumatics that stabilize the window washing platform hanging 30 floors above. "That would've killed somebody" the guy in the brown jacket wonders aloud as he walks past me. I look again, the metal casing is just inside the construction tape, and must've landed two maybe three feet behind me as I rolled by. That somebody was almost me. Instantly expunged as I wheeled along the sidewalk four blocks from home.
Now what does this have to do with a yearlong bike expedition? Everything, in fact. One of the most common questions Kelly and I get when people hear about our trip is, "Isn't that dangerous?" Sure, I suppose it is, more dangerous than sitting in my apartment. But over the last 6 years I've traveled all over the world -- wandered around SE Asia for 2 months, cycled the narrow, shoulderless backroads of Ireland for a month, lived in San Salvador, where gang violence and petty crime are daily occurrences, where I was forced to dart among the craziest traffic I've ever seen -- and the closest I've come to dying, or even getting seriously injured just happened right here in Portland. Good ol America. Shit happens. Wherever you are. You never know when a piece of metal casing falling from 200ft might end your craving for a tuna melt. Might as well get your adventure in while you can.
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