It's All About the Sign

I like my city. I really do. One of the things nicest things is how bike-friendly it is. The people who study these things say that only Davis, CA does better.


Sure, there are stupid motorists. And when you're driving a couple tons of Detroit or Osaka iron stupidity can be fatal. About half a dozen bicylcists die every year in traffic accidents, especially when they are in the bike lane while a clueless motorist decides to turn right.

Some are due to the price of fuel. Every hike in the price of gas puts scores of newbies on the road.


But a lot are just plain irritiating. There's a special breed of Portland cyclist who feels smug in his (usually his) moral superiority and decides that the rules of the road don't apply to him. Or maybe the combination of testosterone and True Goo affects brain chemistry in mysterious non-linear ways. Every day I see people on two-wheelers going the wrong way down one-way streets, riding fast on sidewalks, running stop signs or red lights, turning left across four lanes of traffic in busy intersections or otherwise getting membership points in Future Hood Ornaments of America. They seem to have a special aversion to reflective tape, bright colored clothing and lights and save their most erratic riding for nights.


I used to get mad. But then I remembered the traffic sign. I come from Eastern Washington where they grow a lot of wheat and a lot of beef. The government puts up road signs. You can't predict where the cow is going to be or what it's about to do. The cow doesn't know any more than you do.


Life gets less stressful once you realize that a lot of bicyclists are pretty much the same.

I Love My Town - Public Service Edition

A few minutes ago something smelled wrong. A moment later I realized that it was smoke stepped outside to hear a man saying to my neighbor "That was a fire." Somehow her recycling bin had caught fire and melted. The cover to the barbecue started burning.

Gannon Bond and Gary Lumpkins were driving by and saw smoke. They put out the little fire before it could turn into a big fire. When we thanked them they said "We work for the County. That's what we do."

Well, yes and no. What they're hired to do is mosquito and rodent control for the Multnomah County Department of Environmental Health. What they do is public service. A lot of other people would have just said "It's someone else's problem" and driven on. Many in the private sector would have been afraid of losing their jobs for fighting private fires on Company time. These guys didn't say "It's not our job. Let someone else do it." They said "Someone has to do it, and we are the ones here and now who can do it."

My hat's off to Messrs. Lumpkins and Bond and all the rest who remind us what Public Service really means.

Yo ho, yo ho a pirate's life for me

At least for a couple days.

Pirates are hot lately. It's not just because of the Disney movies. There's been something in the air for a good while. It could be the sense of freedom that the represent in an increasingly constrained and totalitarian world. It could be that the Great Heroes of Capitalism these days are looters and raiders rather than builders. It might be climate change. As we know, pirates reduce global warming. Maybe I didn't wash the dirty sweats after I spilled rum on them.

No matter what it is the Second Annual Portland Pirate Festival will be next weekend, September 22 & 23 right next to the beautiful St. John's Bridge in North Portland.

Last year's was a lot of fun. There were ships, Age of Sail recreators, rum, the guys who came up with Talk Like a Pirate Day (Sept. 19th) and some good bands like Captain Bogg and Salty. You'd be amazed how many of CB&S's "Eat a Lime" and "Yar" bumper stickers are around town these days. The only bit of poor planning was the food and drink. When you have small children standing in line for an hour to get a turkey leg isn't going to work. Oh well, the excellent Big Kahuna BBQ is nearby.

About this time last year we were driving back down I-5 from Silat class when we saw a pair of sailing ships firing signal guns at each other and maneuvering around. After a while they headed up the Columbia to the first PPF.