#tbt Portland, circa 1993-97, to a group of lost boys and the Neverland they carved out delivering other people's shit by bike. Portland is a small town, and ours was a small group, and we were all broken in some way. (1) 
We were a family on our island of misfit toys, brought together by our love of riding bikes. (2)
Finding someone who would pay you to ride your bike wasn't easy. There was a rigorous vetting process: Pulse ✔️ Willingness ✔️ Ability to appear sober(ish) from 9-5? [negotiable] (3)
I started at Transerv, the large, soulless company that churned through people like a wood chipper on a Christmas tree farm in late December. Pay was bad and people were fired at the drop of a hat (they came up with an excuse if you weren't making money for them) (4)
I survived a few months at Transerv and then landed one of the two spots at Western Flash. (5)
I rode out to the office at 76th and Killingsworth to meet my new boss, Tom, and pick up a radio and charger. Gave him my tax info. He threw a couple shirts at me and told me I didn't need to wear them, then dutifully suggesting I wear a helmet if I wanted.
I never saw Tom again. For the next 3 ½ years my boss was a disembodied voice on a 2-way radio strapped to my bag. (7)
Moved from the suburbs near my old haunt, Helvetia Tavern, into close-in NE Portland at 7th and Morris, where, back then, we were the only white folks on the block. Texas Chris and Hippie Paul were the anchors. (8)
Friend from Helvetia brought a little dog by one day and said she needed a home. I couldn't say no. Named her by committee after seeing Pulp Fiction the day before. “Uma” was sweet, aloof, fast and fearless. She was my best bud through thin and thinner for the next 18 years. (9)
We conducted multiple studies into the number of messengers and their bikes that could fit in the Morris house – results inconclusive.
Super smart and funny Travis, skater Juan, Absolutely-Do-Not-Fuck-With Steepha, Zac, Don, Jason, and Big Dave, who knew and was loved by EVERY person in the Portland music scene. (10)
The Morris house as it is today. Believe me, it didn't look like that when we lived there. The neighborhood's been gentrified, and respectable people are probably in there now.
We didn't have fancy phones to chronicle every moment in pictures and videos back in the dark ages, but I picked up a disposable film unit a couple times. (12)
Anarchy Mike was my co-hort at Western Flash. Mike hated everything and everyone, except his girlfriend Martha, who rode for one of the graphic design companies.
My dopey demeanor – and our share love of hating things – eventually wore down Mike's defenses, and we shared many laughs. I pulled pranks on him that he wouldn't have let others get away with (14)
Friends liked to say the only thing bigger than Whitey's heart was his liver, and Whitey had a huge, huge heart. (15)
Al the mechanic. Slow as fuck and didn't care, but he loved bikes as art. The first person I ever heard refer to a bike as “sexy.” I remember thinking, “Holy shit, he's right,” and that switch has never unflicked for me. Thanks, Al (9)
Al built the bomb-proof front wheel for the bike I rode during the majority of that time. It was a worn-out Swiss Mondia I bought from former US Olympic Team boxer Mike Felde in Missoula in the summer of 1985 for $250. (16)
It had “vintage” campy everything. A 42-52 up front and five gears in the back. The paint on the downtube above the friction shifter was worn away from my thumb dialing the derailleur in by sound and feel. (17)
Amdue the cowboy would ride for awhile and then disappear, only to return a few months later with wild tales of travel to Wyoming or some such place, the odd jobs he worked and his true love: bull riding. (11)
Henry Hellbender (yes, that was his legal name) was a fixture of the Portland punk scene and eventually gained icon status. Disarmingly friendly and constantly smiling. Al's best friend. He rode the sweetest old road bikes imaginable. (19)
Frank the actor and scholar. Wise and cynical, and he loved giving shit to the dopey whitebread kid from Montana. Did not give a flying fuck what he was riding (20)
Those photos were all taken outside Cap'n Ankeny's Well on the corner of 3rd and Ash. It was the gathering place throughout the day and one of Portland's first places to feature many, many microbrews on tap. (21)
Bottomless coffee in the morning drew us in and friendly bartender pours in the afternoon kept us coming back. Not sure how Jon stayed in business, but I guess the tourist-business crowd in the evenings kept it going. (21)
Ankeny's provided supplemental income for some of us, working the door on weekends in the hub of what we affectionately called Portland's “Bermuda Triangle,” sandwiched between two popular music venues, Ash Street Saloon next door and the more sublime Berbati's Pan on the corner.
I only got hit once doing that, by a 6'4” drunk dressed a clown who started out making balloon animals for people and ended up making racial taunts. That'll ruin your night. I saw some crazy, depraved shit on that block. (23)
We lived on our bikes in those days. I went 18 months once without getting in a car. We weren't making a political statement at the time, just living the lives we wanted to live, and that didn't involve cars. I rode to the airport, the train depot. (24)
We rode to go grocery shopping, our laundromat runs, our social lives. We had simple lives, and we didn't need them. It was beautiful. (25)
But when friends showed up with cars, we took advantage – usually using them to transport our bikes somewhere challenging and beautiful to ride. Spots along the coast were a favorite, and, of course, the mountains. (26)
Mount St. Helens was still very raw in 1996. The visitor centers weren't built yet, and the “devastation zone” was still very much devastated. (27)
We hiked from Windy Ridge all the way to the bottom edge of the blown-out crater just above what had been Spirit Lake. Nature is awesome, in the truest sense of the word. (28)
And there were bus and van trips to Central Oregon to raft the Deschutes River with the Ankeny's crew. Thanks, Jon! (29)
Things eventually started to unravel, of course. Chris and Paul moved on and left me “in charge” of the house – never a good idea. I developed chronic sciatic pain for several months (30)
The ability to let the mindlessness and maliciousness of people in cars roll off my back started to wear thin. Pro tip: if you hit one of those pivoting side mirrors with downward force, it'll pop off like it's attached with a stick of butter (31)
One day I saw a person in a big old Cadillac pulling out of a parking lot, clearly not paying attention. I put myself into position to pop into her vision at the last second and scare the bejeezez out of her – sort of a wake-up call. (32)
At the last second she turned drastically, right into me, and took out the back triangle of my bike. I had a little scratch on my leg, but the right chainstay was bent badly. I got her insurance info and the lot attendant gave me her contact info as a witness (33)
I got a friendly $1,500 estimate from a bike shop for my “vintage European race machine.” The mechanic looking at it was listing all the parts that could be saved when the manager tapped him on the shoulder and told him EVERYTHING on the bike needed to be replaced (34)
I called the woman and gave her the estimate. She scoffed and said she could find one at a garage sale for $25. I got her agent's number and called him. He didn't put up much of a fight after an initial balking, and agreed to the $1,500. (34)
So I rode the “totaled” bike I'd paid $250 for across the river to the Multnomah buildings to meet him and get my $1,500 check. He'd already told me he didn't want my old bike, but he insisted on meeting in person. I cashed the check and bought my first brand-new bike. (35)
Hmm. letting 'em hit you pays a lot better than making 'em miss. Probably not a good lesson for a bike messenger to learn. That was my last week (36)
There was obviously a lot of other shit on the road getting there – Mike and Martha broke up, and the disembodied voice on the radio finally pissed him off to the point that he quit, too
I bartended at Ankeny's and Ash Street for awhile and raced my new bike on the local wrong-side-of-the-tracks club with Steepha. We won a lot of local races. Eventually a friend from school lured me back into journalism and the riches of weekly suburban newspapers (38)
I moved to the 'burbs and slowly lost contact with my friends. We've all moved on, for better or worse. Steepha runs international shipping for a large company in Sydney, Australia, where his wife that he met riding in Portland is the head chef at a fancy restaurant (39)
John is a research Librarian. Dabby lives in a boat and builds MTB trails. Others have moved on to business and trades, starting families and gen'rally growing up (40)
It's not all good news, of course. Mike met a new “goth” girlfriend and they eventually gave everything to a heroin addiction, including their lives. RIP, brother ❤️💔 (41)
This world proved too much for Whitey's big heart, and his escape also cost him his life. (42) ❤️💔
We also lost Scotty and Frank to health issues. Henry married Jen but then died peacefully in the night not too long ago. RIP, brothers. You all are missed. ❤️💔
I stopped riding my bike not long after going back to work. Instead I escaped into 70 pounds of fat – having no expectations is a helluva drug – and was happy to just ride it out. Cycling slowly pulled me back, although not riding at first. (44)
That took a Miracle. Something (still undetermined) crawled inside me and tried to kill me about a year ago. I lost 30 pounds in a month before I knew what was happening. Then it went away. The doctors say I'm all good now. 🤷♂️
Riding a bike is a lot more fun at 205 then at 235, as I initially discovered while dealing with a flat tire on my car. Short rides became longer. Hills that used to require multiple stops were well within reach. Fun even. (45)
Another 40 pounds followed. My handling skills returned almost instantly, along with a bit of swagger that comes from connecting with a place where everything makes sense, even for just a few fleeting moments.
I'm in love with my bike again, like a long-forgotten ember catching the slightest wisp of wind and reigniting a flame. (46)
Funny thing about those days in Neverland, trying desperately to run away from growing up. That experience opened my eyes more, taught me more and changed me more as a person than any school or regular job I could have ever had. I don't know if I grew up, but I definitely grew
The Mondia is still with me, of course, on Whitey's old stand, slowly giving themselves back to the earth
… And there'll always be a lot more that's still with me.
Love you, brothers. See ya at the show this weekend, Dave.
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