As night settles in, we head out, over two hundred cyclists strong. We pedal slowly down residential streets, weaving among each other, laughing, chatting, and dancing in our saddles. Many bikes are outfitted with lights that twinkle in the gathering darkness and we move like a river of stars.
Music fills the air, streaming from an amplifier that sits atop a trailer on one of the organizer’s bikes. It matches the mood of the group and is both rousing and playful. The cyclists can’t help but bounce in their seats and gently sway their handlebars from side to side.
There are children riding on tag-alongs, attached to their parents’ full-sized bikes, eyes wide at the spectacle they are a part of. There are older participants, riding with reflectors slapped around the cuffs of their pant legs to avoid their khakis getting covered with bike grease. There are young adults, riding on everything from high-end road bikes, to snow-bank specials, complete with rusty spokes and creaky chains. There are couples grinning shyly at each other. There are artists, athletes, teenagers and plain old bicycle commuters. This is an inclusive group, one where it seems that everyone belongs.
Tonight, I am riding with my husband and teenage son. The truth is that I begged them to come. At first they were wary, anxious about what exactly I was signing them up for. This is understandable. I have dragged them on all sorts of adventures, often the scope of which has exceeded my descriptions and their expectations. But tonight, I promised, would be just pure fun—a different sort of adventure.
We met the group in the park, where everyone stood around eyeing each other like children gathering on the playground on the first day of school, perhaps slightly overwhelmed by so many potential friends. Bikes were jostled around like horses at a starting gate, as all of us eagerly waited for the ride to begin.
As soon as our wheels were in motion, people seemed to relax and fall into a mellow rhythm together. We were a school of fish; turning left and then right and then left again through a residential neighborhood, down a city block and along a bike path, matching each other’s cadence with ease.
People stopped mid-dog-walk and called out greetings. They couldn’t help but smile, in fact, it seemed like nobody could. Grins flashed throughout the crowd almost matching the brightness of the lights.
Every time we came to an intersection, a few people rode up and stopped the traffic, allowing all the other cyclists to pass through safely. It was all very well orchestrated and for these few moments it almost felt like everything was right in the world.
I looked through the crowd to find my family, and saw my husband happily talking with another participant, no worries there. I spy my son deep in the crowd, riding solo, sitting tall in his saddle and scanning the scene. I can’t read his face and I wonder whether he is having fun or if the beauty of this event is lost on him. I figure it is best to leave him alone and let the experience wash over him, and hope.
After a mile or so, the group encounters a steep hill. It is dark now and I lose sight of my family. The music changes tone and a rousing rendition of “Guardians at the Gate” by Audiomachine fills the air, making the bicyclists surge forward, united in an effort to conquer the rise. We stand on our pedals, and encourage each other to not give up, but the top narrows and one by one everyone dismounts and pushes their bicycles the last 20 feet to the top. Again, I cast around looking for my son. Is he hating this? I have no idea, but then I see him.
He has raced to the top of the hill, high above the masses and is standing on top of a granite bench with his phone above his head, videotaping our progression. I see at once how proud he feels to be part of this. Something good, something absolutely positive and slightly absurd. And my chest swells with gratitude for these people.
It is all I want for him, actually for all of us. To be part of a community where there is fun, camaraderie, beauty, room for individual expression, and an appreciation of the outdoors, ourselves and each other.
After we continue pedaling I sidle up next to him. “So, do you like this?” I can’t help but ask.
“Yeah, this is awesome.” He replied smiling, with no coolness what-so-ever.
Thank you Portland Bike Party, these rides are about so much more than just bicycles.
I hope everyone joins next month or starts one in their town soon.
Beautiful story. Love the way you write and your weavings of tale.
Portland Bike Party sounds fun, thanks for posting.
Tell me more about this bike party. I’m not from Portland but it does sound like a good time.
Here is Budapest they have “Bike Budapest” an annual celebration of biking as a sport, as transportation and as public policy. We rode along with tens of thousands of riders just this past Saturday. It too, apparently like the one in Portland, was celebratory and fun. We saw tandem riders, including one with a 6-year old and his 3-year old younger sister. We saw a unicyclist, hundreds of children strapped in attached bike seats behind their parents, and bikers with speakers blasting music. Biking is so freeing–so leave your cars behind and join the fun!
Sounds great. I will get my bike
Excellent blog. I also love how participants yell “bike party” randomly and people hoot and cheer; the surprised and amused faces of families coming outside onto their porches to take it all in; stops for dance parties. It’s a mini-festival. Cheers!
Your writing does nothing but get better…I hope you’re considering another book. And, coward that I am, it’s nice to read your works when I’m not breathing so hard my abs suffer for days. This sounds like a wonderful ride: good for you, good for Twain…and marvelous for Oakley!