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April 25, 2006
the teddy bear parade 
I began this, long ago, on Sunday, and I was achey all over. My legs, my arms, my back—all sorts of underused muscles are all going, what the hey?
Yesterday, we had an adventure. We rode to The Dalles and back on the scoots.
It started, as these things do, insanely early. Get up, get gas, get bears. With a giant grey koala and a somewhat smaller goldish bear, we meet up with a friend and go over the river and through the woods to the ringleader's house. After krispykre@ms and much discussion of motorcycles running and not running, we hit the road.
The top deck of the Marquam bridge, a freeway bridge, is scary on a scooter. The winds are heavy, the traffic nuts, everything seeming to conspire against us.
I had been hoping for surface streets, which don't go all the way to The Dalles, but would cut the freeway portions into smaller chunks. Mais non. It was freeway all the way.
Things got exciting when we appeared to have dropped a rider, though by the time we got over to the shoulder, he came riding up. Then there was the gorge wind, always a bit much, and passing at over 80mph. I knew my scooter could do it, but it seemed a bit foolhardy to see how much of it I could do.
So I was already uncomfortable and cold, in spite of many layers. I need a better neck gaiter, I need better gloves and arm warmers, I need some sort of legwarmers. And they need to be not just wool but also something wind resistant.
Anyways. In the best of times, going to The Dalles in the car takes about an hour and a half. On the scooter/motorcycle entourage, it was two hours of some of the most unpleasant scootering you can imagine.
But it was all redeemed when we got to The Dalles.
We had seen tons, metric tons, of motorcycles on the highway. Meetups of a dozen, dozen and a half bikers in Troutdale, collections of Harleys, collections of Japanese bikes.
We pull off the highway into West The Dalles, which is this frontage road of big box stores and fast food, and the street is lined with motorcycles, and with people ready to watch the parade. Dude!
As far as the eye can see, motorcycles. Trikes. No scooters. Not a one.
Soon enough, everyone gets ready to ride in the parade. A man gives me a pink teddy bear, which I stuff between my sideview and my steering column—the gold bear is on the other side. My helmet safe under the seat, we start to ride the parade route at a rousing 9 mph.
Because this is the Cherry Festival, with Cherries Gone Wild!as the theme, we're not the only game in town. There's some old cars and well, I know there has to be other stuff going on as well.
But for the time being, we are it! We loop around downtown The Dalles. Everyone appears to be out on the sidewalk, waving and cheering. The sun is out, and it's gorgeous. It's pretty darn cool. I wave like a parade princess, trying to look tall and majestic on my goofy blue scooter.
And quickly enough, it's over. We're giving our teddy bears to cub scouts with bags that are as tall as they are, which is to say, not that tall. And everyone is wandering around looking at other bikes, talking about bikes, bikes, bikes, bikes.
...
After lunch and some hang out time, we head back towards Portland. We take the historic highway back as far as Mosier, where it ends. Then the freeway to Hood River. Then we drive through HR.
On the way out of HR, I decide to check out the place that Sweetie and I stayed the first time we made an out of town trip: the Meredith Motel in West Hood River. We ride up the frontage road, where it appears that the majority of businesses have gone out of business.
And then, at the end of the road, a somewhat forlorn Meredith, looking dusty. We ride up, and there's writing on the walls, literally. Beds, frames, tables, lamps, air conditioners, fridges had all been for sale. One unit has its air conditioner removed, with its hole left open and exposed. Devoid of furniture, the motel isn't charming; it's sad. And there isn't even a note. There is no evidence if the motel closed on Friday, or last year.
(And the web site is stuck in time, as if they were still open)
Just east of Multnomah Falls, the historic highway starts up again. We ride it into Troutdale, and surface streets back home.
...
This is how I know I'm a wuss. I was so tired when we got home at 4 that I could have gone to bed for the night. And the next day, the both of us are walking around like old people. My thighs, my butt, my back, my arms—all seriously sore. Our faces and heads and hands, sunburned. What fun!
Posted at April 25, 2006
Comments
That's not being a wuss. Whenever you do an activity you aren't used to, or for a lot longer than normal, you get sore. Hey - even my 11 year old gets sore after yardwork! :-)
Posted by: neca at April 26, 2006 5:33 AM
Sounds like amazing fun, VJ, but really hate to think about scooters on I-84. Seems like just a
matter of time...
3 cheers for Spring, Marci
Posted by: marci at April 26, 2006 7:36 AM
Hey Marci -
You know, I think that the scooter on the freeway thing is okay, at least in our case (we have 250s). But it was absolutely crazy to be going over the speed limit and passing trucks. Like one of Joe's coworkers told him, you got to ride your own ride, and we didn't on that one. Live and learn. And sheesh, that just was not fun.
The stretches of 84 coming back were fine though; we were obnoxious and kept in the right lane, going the speed limit.
Spring is such a wonderful thing, isn't it? I think I'm allergic to lilacs now, but I still have to bring them in and put them on my desk so I can enjoy the smell (between sneezes and blowing my nose). Take care! vj
Posted by: vj at April 26, 2006 9:33 AM
Sounds like a good sore, no wussing.
Posted by: Susan at April 27, 2006 8:51 AM