2017. I'm 33. Existence is still absurd, but I'm having a lot of fun.
---
In the early months of 2016, I buy a motorcycle -- A Kawasaki 250cc dirtbike from 1994. Using it for commuting and exploring the vast swaths of wilderness that surround my city, I clock nearly 5000 miles on the machine before winter sets in.
There's an exhilaration that comes from simply operating the machine. I've always loved raw acceleration, but after experiencing the torque produced from a flick of a wrist, driving most cars is a simple, sluggish affair.
The risks of riding are real, but maybe just slightly overstated, or at least misunderstood. Certainly, the margins for error on a bike are much smaller than that of a car, and a single mistake can lead to certain death, but the margins aren't razor thin -- many of the dangers can be mitigated by the rider. I've always prided myself on my observational and situational skills while driving, but riding in a busy city setting has required me to seriously level up my ability. Being able to predict what other vehicles are going to do, before they do it, is the closest I've ever felt to having an actual superpowers.
Owning German cars for the last decade, I'm accustomed to paying a premium at the mechanic. However, I wasn't prepared for the exorbitant prices of motorcycle mechanics. A simple tune-up costs nearly half the price of the bike itself. Thusly, I've spent massive amounts of time learning how to service things myself. Thankfully, small engines from the 90s aren't terribly complicated. Still, being able to troubleshoot and confidently dig into a machine is supremely satisfying.
It's hard to put into words, but the most rewarding aspect of all are the special, Zen-like moments to be found while blasting down an overgrown, abandoned logging road in the middle of nowhere, nothing but the sound of a (well-maintained!) engine and my own breath filling my ears -- where all distractions dissolve, my inner dialogue muted, where I'm simply a brain reacting to stimuli. Alone in my head, moments of absolute, frosty focus.
---
A friend turned 30, hosted a house party, renting an inflatable bouncy house for back yard entertainment. From the deck, I watch someone puke mid-air, then, upon landing, slip in their own vomit.
---
After a 14 year absence, I obtain some gear and get back into skiing. Fully prepared to be humbled by the atrophy of my skills / muscles, it turns out it's just like riding a damn bike -- within 30 minutes, I was shredding like I'd never stopped. What a pleasant surprise.
---
The temperature supposed to hit 101 degrees, we all meet at Jenny's house at 10am, clad in shorts and tank tops and sun hats. Piling into cars, we zip out of town. By noon, fifteen of us stand on the banks of the Sandy River, blowing up our inner tubes, drinking beers and laughing. After casting off on what would be a four hour float downstream, we tie our floatation devices together, creating a single, monolithic flotilla.
After two hours in the water, we find shore on a small, rocky island in the middle of the river. Seizing the opportunity to stretch our legs, we drink more beer and plunder the cooler. Given the heat, the river was busy that day -- groups of people with similar ideas floated by, some waving, some not.
The entire stretch of river is slow and meandering, with the exception of one (very small) set of rapids right in front of our island. The rest of our group distracted by food, I wade in the water with two friends. Watching a group of four people float into the rapids, I see a man, near the rear, slip off his tube. His friends don't seem to notice he'd been submerged.
His tube keeps floating downstream and I'm waiting for his head to pop up for air. But he doesn't surface. I nudge my closest friend and point. After what seems like ages, I see his face barely clear the water. He shouts something short and unintelligible.
"Did he just yell 'help'?"
We start walking towards him. Slipping underwater momentarily, he surfaces again and briefly shouts something. Yep, he definitely yelled for help.
Two of us immediately run into the rapids and swim downstream. The water is surprisingly shallow, maybe four feet, max. Within moments, we have him by the arms, dragging him out of the water on his back. He's shaking, feet haphazardly kicking, repeating "I'm going to die, I'm going to die, I'm going to die"
"Dude, you're not going to fucking die" I say.
At this point, his friends finally notice his empty tube and have land towards the end of the rocky island, running towards us. Sitting on the sand for awhile, he tries standing up and stumbles. I try talking to him, but his speech is slurred and he seems pretty shaken. Not only is he freaked out, but he also appears to be shitty drunk. His friend informs me that the nearly drowned man can't swim.
Recounting the facts: man who can't swim gets super drunk and floats down river without life vest, nearly drowns in four feet of water.
If he had any wits about him, he could have literally just stood up and walked to shore. How silly.
---
After a long, glorious day on the mountain, we hit up a barbecue joint to place a to-go order for obscene amounts of food. Surprisingly, the entire restaurant seems to be staffed by young, attractive women. The lady who takes our order clearly flirts with both of us as we pay up.
Grabbing a root beer and a table, waiting for our order, I glance at the receipt. Two $0.00 line items grab my eye -- "The Cat's Pajamas" and "Ol' Fashioned".
Showing the receipt to my friend, 10 years my junior, he immediately speculates that the cashier has given us flirty nicknames. Presumably, I'm "Ol' Fashioned". I'm doubtful, suspecting that she's just doing her job and being pleasant, but I encourage him to flirt back, to see if she'll play along.
A few minutes pass, she smiles as she carries two heavy bags of meat to us. I see my friend winding up to talk, wry smile on his face.
"Hey, I just have to ask, what are these?" he asks, coyly pointing to "The Cat's Pajamas" and "Ol' Fashioned"
She giggles, looking at us both, saying, "Oh, those are just our signature sauces. Have a good night!," spinning on her heel to walk the other direction.
I can't stop laughing as his smile immediately fades.
---
I went to an indoor monster truck rally. It was the loudest thing I've ever experienced. The first 15 minutes were facemelting, but after they've jumped / crushed a few cars, it all gets pretty tedious pretty quickly.
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For the third year in a row, I've made the summer pilgrimage to an indian reservation in Washington in which to procure fireworks. This time around, I know the right questions to ask, the right products to buy and how to properly wheel-and-deal. I end up filling my trunk to the brim. Spending a bit more money than I expected at one of the stands, the owner gives me his card and writes his cell phone # on the back, telling me that I can contact him at any point of the year, should I need to restock. Restated: I have a fireworks dealer.
---
My girlfriend had a conference to attend and her company was generous enough to give her a +1 plane ticket, so I visited Las Vegas for the first time. She spent her days at the conference, which left me little to do but explore. I didn't realize that all of the casinos on the strip are interconnected. You can walk for miles, from casino to casino, and never have to leave the comfort of air conditioning.
I lose $100 almost immediately -- $50 on blackjack, $50 on slots. A cute waitress comps me a few free Manhattans. I smoke a cigarette indoors, just for the novelty. I adeptly navigate large crowds, avoiding eye contact with the peddlers lining the sidewalks. I eat a Guy Fieri signature hamburger. I laugh at a wax caricature of Criss Angel and peer into the eyes of sculpted bronze in the shape of Siegfried, Roy and their tigers.
All in all, it's a hot, dirty, vile place. I gaze upon it all with a morbid fascination, but after spending three days enveloped by the strip, I feel woefully disconnected from humanity. It's almost as if people enjoy being blatantly manipulated. I don't get it. I can't wait to get home.
---
It's the end of the day and we're situated at the very tip top of the mountain. Lifts close in fifteen minutes, which isn't enough time to descend and catch another chair. The weather is shit, but in an attempt to maximize our time on the slopes, we formulate a plan.
We'll traverse to the east, hit the ski boundary, then cut back west, all the way across the mountain, which should put us right at the parking lot if we stay high enough.
Suffice it to say, we really fuck up. On our return, we don't even come close to hitting the parking lot. Instead, we hit the lower ski boundary, which required a 1.5 hour hike out on a Sno Cat trail. In the rain. In ski boots. Carrying our gear.
We made it to the car as darkness fell, soaked to the core. Bad move.
---
In the days leading up to Christmas of 2015, I check craigslist entries in the small towns I'd be passing by via I-5. I find a posting for a one of my dream instruments, a Rickenbacker 4003, which seems a bit too good to be true, given the price. After trading a few e-mails with the seller, we agree to meet at a McDonalds on my way back to Portland.
Turns out, the seller didn't really know what they had. It seems as if they had attributed the maladjusted truss rods and odd patina to intense abuse / neglect. After holding it in my hands for 30 seconds, I throw my cash at the seller, place the bass in my car and speed off.
---
A very trusted friend gave me a small quantity of a certain three-letter hallucinogen. Making a weekend of it, my girlfriend and I book a remote cabin in the middle of a field, near the base of Mt. Hood. For the first time since high school, we melt our fucking faces off.
Fall was starting take hold, the pastoral scene of our homestead awash in the most glorious colors I've ever seen. We stand at the edge of an aspen thicket, carefully observing the wind moving each leaf individually. We marvel at the mathematical perfection of fern leaves. We sit on a rock and stare at our hands for an entire lifetime. We lay on our backs and watch the clouds form, break apart and reform as they cascade across the jagged silhouette of the mountain.
Instead of seeing nature and contextualizing it with words and associations and experiences and memories, I feel as though can simply observe it, divorced from myself -- an overwhelming sense of wonder and amazement and joy from a wildflower, a blade of grass.
Standing on the tree line of our field, I am the universe observing itself; The profound nature of consciousness. Minutia of my existence melted away, all of mankind's constructs seem so small and unimportant. How absurd is a job, taxes, a mortgage in the face of the universe's raw, unrelenting glory?
While thankfully not a wholly transformative experience, I came away from it with renewed perspective. Much more illuminating than the dabbling I'd experienced in my youth. Try it.
---
Fight Club, the film, turned 15 last year. Since Mr. Palahniuk lives in town and had recently released Fight Club 2 (something I was unaware of [a graphic novel?!]), a special screening of the original film / Q+A session was held at the glorious Hollywood Theater. After seeing the film at 16, I was an instant, rabid fan of Chuck, but as I gracefully aged, I realized that his work didn't follow my lead, so I stopped paying attention. However, through my job, I was able to secure a few free tickets, so I decided to check out the sold-out event.
Upon arriving, we were each handed two deflated beach balls, a handful of glowsticks and a sharpie. We were instructed to blow the balls up, put the glowsticks inside and write our names on it. Why we were to do this, we are not told, but we oblige nonetheless.
While scrawling my name on the balls, I took a chance to size up the audience. No big surprises -- lots of loud, edgy men in their early to mid 30s. Pudgy guys that seemed like, in a fight, would talk shit and then promptly get knocked out.
The event starts, there's a short introduction and we're told how the balls worked -- one the count of three, they would hit the lights and everyone would throw their glowing balls into the center of the room. From this pile, he would select a ball. If it was your ball, you got to ask a question.
Seeing nearly 800 glowing balls get bashed around a giant theater was genuinely impressive. Unfortunately, from that moment on, it all went down hill. The MC did a poor job, the questions asked by the audience were silly and the answers even moreso. Someone asked if Chuck had ever been in a fight -- this person was booed off the stage, the only time I sincerely applauded. Most of it seemed like an ego stroke for Chuck.
After the Q+A session was done, they had a giant pile of Fight Club 2 to give away. One of my balls was selected, so I got a signed copy. I left about 15 minutes into the film.
Later that night, I started thumbing through Fight Club 2. An hour later, I'd finished it. I realize I'm not the target audience, but it's one of the most embarrassing published works that I've ever experienced. At one point, the author writes himself into the story as a plot device. It's all so bad that I question his motives -- is he so sick of his fans and the culture around Fight Club that he is attempting to destroy it from within? Maybe something is lost on me, but it sure feels like it.
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My boss quit. Rather than hire someone new, the president of the company wants to promote me. I politely decline, citing the fact that my skillset and experience are all wrong for the job. He then throws bricks money at my face and now I'm running a multi-million dollar business as I see fit.
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Around Thanksgiving, I buy another motorcycle, one to store in the barn at my parent's farm. Their land butts up against logging and BLM property, and while not strictly legal, there are hundreds upon hundreds of miles of old logging roads and prospector trails to explore. As a kid, I'd hike for hours to get to find this wilderness, but now, in just 10 minutes, I can get utterly lost. It sounds silly, but killing the engine and standing in the silence of an unlogged, unmaintained old-growth forest, no traces of humanity, really is a childhood dream come true.
Also, in just a few excursions, I've seen a wildcat of some variety (cougar?), a five-point buck and a sizable black bear.
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This summer, for the first time in my life, I got a real tan.
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I'm three hours from home, exploring a ratty forest trail in the middle of nowhere, about 30 miles off the main road. It's a gorgeous summer day and I haven't seen any signs of life in over an hour. Enjoying the solitude, I notice an overgrown, dilapidated wooden bridge spanning a small creek. Killing the engine, I take off my helmet and go to get a closer look. The road leading to the bridge has been reclaimed by trees, the lumber aged, gray.
I'm inspecting the planks for signs of circular saws, trying to figure out how old the structure is, when I hear the sound of crunching gravel off in the distance. Patting my pocket to make sure my knife is still there, I quickly make my way back to my bike, in case I have to jet (or shank someone).
Kickstarting my bike, the gravel sound gets louder. Eventually, I spot the movement of a car around the bend. Not just any car: a red PT Cruiser. As it draws closer, I see two women in the front seats. I wave as they slowly approach my position. Rolling the windows down, the women look to be in their 50s. Both look a bit shaken.
After some discussion, they inform me they're looking for Lost Lake campground, but are ... lost. No cell phone coverage and they don't have a GPS. Their directions are scrawled on the back of an envelope. Thankfully, I have detailed maps of the area on my phone. After locating their campground, I realize just how badly they've fucked up -- they're nowhere near where they want to be, in fact, from where we are, there's just no way to reach their destination.
I instruct them that their best course of action is to backtrack and find their way to the main road, that they are way off course. As I do so, the sound of a revving dirtbike engine in the distance catches my ear. Within seconds, a large portly man, wearing all black, is tearing around the corner. He notices us, quickly skids to a stop and removes his helmet, his long, white hair and a bushy white beard unfurling in the breeze. Santa Claus in motocross gear.
I glance at the PT Cruiser occupants, expressions of confusion and alarm in their faces
"Are we having fun yet?" he shouts, which startles all of us. "Y'all look pretty lost," he adds, glancing at the road and then to their vehicle, then emits a deep belly laugh.
After explaining how all of our paths have crossed out in the middle of nowhere, Santa agrees that they need to get back to the main road, that this is no place for a PT. Thankfully, he's familiar with the area and is able to easily instruct them where to go. I wish the women good luck and put my helmet on as they turn their car around.
Glancing at Santa, he points at a rocky spur road. "Race ya to the top?" he says, kicking his bike to life. I agree. He counts down from three and we start off. Within seconds, this old man has left me in the dust. Absolutely smoked.
Eventually making it to the top of the hill, I find him, leaning against his parked bike, helmet off. Tapping his wrist, he shouts "About goddamned time!" Again, the laugh.
"You need to be goin' faster than that!"
---
Our third river float of the summer, and again, the river is packed with a varied assortment of humans from the surrounding areas. Truly, some world-class people-watching. About a quarter of the way through our journey, on a particularly slow bend of the river, someone in our flotilla carefully passes a joint around, which I partake in. Our group floats along a the side of the river, lined by rocky cliff, almost coming to a complete standstill.
Gently bobbing along, I'm in full relaxation mode, legs and head draped over the innertube, soaking up the sun. For a moment, I'm lost in my own thoughts. Soon, though, I'm snapped back to reality by an ever-increasing bassy thump coming from ... somewhere. The thumping gets louder. I look around at my crew, but no one else seems to take note.
Sitting up a bit more, I peer around, realizing that the slow-moving bend had become logjammed with groups on floats. Thumping gets even louder. Finally, I spot the source. Floating around the bend is a monolithic inflatable raft with upwards of 12 people on it. They have giant speakers strapped to the front and are *blasting* what I would categorize as deep Ibiza house, real obnoxious electro shit.
I'm trying to come to terms with just how fucking presumptuous it is to blast music in a calm river scenario like this when I see another gargantuan float that makes me momentarily question my sanity. It's a 12'x12' square, with inflatable seating around the edges. The size alone is shocking, but then I start inspecting the passengers. Manning this craft is an asian family. Like, three generations of an asian family -- there are toddlers, teenagers, adults and grandparents alike, all calmly perched around the edge of their craft, eating something.
Looking closer, I realize they're all wearing street clothes -- pants, sneakers, button-up shirts, etc. Not a single one of them looks like they intend to touch water. From the middle of their craft, I notice a bit of smoke rising up. I maneuver myself closer to peek at what may be causing it. In the middle of the craft, I notice a square of plywood with a small, portable charcoal grill. Looking closer, the grill is filled with ears of corn, which they calmly eat. I see a grandfather toss a gnawed up cob into the water.
I pause and take in just how ridiculous and dangerous this scene is. One stray coal from their corn cookout and that entire family is going in the drink. All of while the pulsing, overwhelming sounds of garbage techno fill me ears. Unreal.
---
New years day, I'm making the trek back from Trout Lake, Washington. For the second year in a row, 22 people have crammed into a 12 person cabin to celebrate. Fun but very close quarters.
Between Oregon and Washington is a toll bridge. I approach, rolling my window down to fork over the $1 toll. After paying, I attempt to roll my window up, only to be greeted by what sounds similar to gravel in gears. A 'clunk' is made and it's obvious that my window isn't moving.
Normally, this wouldn't be a big problem -- I'd take the door card off and rig the window up, but having to transport goods to the cabin, I'd removed my toolbox to make some space. To make matters worse, it's brutally cold (~20F) and actively snowing. Not having many other options, I zip up my jacket and make the miserable, miserable hour-long trip back to Portland.
There was a lesson to be learned, though: in my car (maybe others, my sample size is limited), the faster you drive, the less water makes it onto your face. The entire drive back was finding the sweet spot of speed versus visibility versus water verses danger.
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As usual, I skipped work on my birthday. I took a long ride into the forest, then a long hike on an unmarked trail to find my favorite swimming hole. I floated on my back for some time, ate a sandwich and read a book in total solitude, riding back to the city as the sun set.
---
I roll out to Bend just in time for a 'severe weather warning' to be posted. The weekend was spent with a friend, skiing some of the finest, thigh-high powder I've ever experienced. At the bottom of every run, we can't stop gushing. Two grown men, absolutely giddy.
When it comes time to return to Portland, I expect a long, slick drive home, but I underestimate just how perilous it will be. Normally, the trip takes 3, 3.5 hours. This time, a solid 6. Massive, unrelenting snow the entire way. In fact, I don't see pavement until I was 30 miles from Portland.
About four hours into the trip, I'm at the end of a long train of cars, carefully plodding through the snow at a decent 40mph. Visibility is exceptionally low. Suddenly, a lifted 4Runner appears behind me, really riding my ass. Normally, I'd just ignore it, but in these shit conditions, dude is being a bit reckless. Plus, there's really nowhere I can go -- it's a single lane road.
After 20 minutes of this, I turn around in my seat and give him a little wave to back off through the rear window. Instead of obliging, he flashes his brights a few times and maintains his position. This aggravates me. Nowhere to safely pull over and let this asshole pass, I stay the course. Over the next 40 minutes, he never lets more than 2 car lengths of distance come between us.
As we pass by Mt. Hood, the road splits into two lanes. I stick with the pack in the slow lane. Watching in my rearview, I see the pickup aggressively switch lanes, as to pass. However, during this aggressive lane change, I see him fishtail a bit. It almost looks like he's going to pull out of it when the road bends a bit and he plows into the guardrail. He overcorrects out of it, which leads to more fishtailing and even more overcorrection. I've slowed down, so our cars are neck and neck. Watching him jerk the steering wheel from the side, he plows his front fender into a guardrail a good four or five times more before coming to a stop.
I should have stopped, but I didn't. I see his mangled front fender in my rear view as I disappear around the corner, reminded of something I once overheard my first boss out of college once say: "play stupid games, win stupid prizes."
---
On those long, straight stretches of highway, where there's nothing to do but pin the throttle and wait, I've reacquainted myself with a long-forgotten friend: boredom. Initially, it was uncomfortable, having my brain scream for stimulation, but soon, I find myself purposefully seeking those straight stretches. There's reflection to be found in boredom. An idle brain leaves room to parse an accrued backlog of thoughts, yielding a bit of clarity. Try it.
---
After parting ways with dirtbike Santa, I continue on my way, eventually finding my way to a remote stretch of pavement. Rolling onto a smooth surface after hours on gravel is a real joy. Climbing uphill, I take the curves slow, admiring the landscapes. After a 20 minutes of bobbing and weaving, I notice something in my rearview mirror. An orange dot moving quickly in the distance. Within seconds, it's on my ass. I recognize the angles of a Porsche. I wave, immediately drop a gear and pin the throttle, inspired by Santa's aforementioned advice.
A race I'd never win, I manage to put a little distance between myself and the Porsche for all of 3 seconds. Looking in my rear view, I see another flash of orange. Seconds later, I recognize the angles of a Lamborghini. Unreal.
They tail me for 5 miles or so. On a straight stretch, I pull off to the side, to let 'em pass me. Rather than speed off, they pull behind me and slow down. Coming to a stop, they do as well. Dismounting my bike, I wave. They get out of their cars.
"Nice car" I say to the Porsche. "Nice bike" he says back. I laugh.
Both Porsche and Lamborghini guys are "just looking for places to go fast." Both live in Hood River, look to be in their 50s and are incredibly friendly. Lamborghini lets me sit in his car. Porsche takes a picture of my bike.
We say our farewells and they both speed off, engines wailing a glorious sound. I continue my journey back to civilization.
---
---
My band imploded. The guitarist started dabbling with opiates, got fired from a string of jobs and eventually couldn't make rent payments for our practice space. I've tried to help him out, but he has a tendency to externalize his problems, placing the blame on his environment / the world rather than own up to his spotty decision making. I really hope it makes it out okay.
---
It's just so disappointing. I can't help but think that things could have (should have?) turned out differently. Even with my best intentions and effort, I couldn't keep it together. It was a long, drawn out affair, but eventually the spark that drew me to her was completely extinguished. Adoration faded, replaced with frustration, irritation and failure. Unlike other past relationships, where the cause of death is a messy, tangled knot, I can easily put my finger on the barb that unravels things.
Our second-to-last day in Iceland, wrapping up an absolutely awe-inspiring trip, we make a long drive to the capital city for one last night. During our drive, we casually plan our evening. We both agree that we'd enjoy one last bowl of humarsúpa, a delightful lobster soup, from a specific restaurant on the water that we visited before our journey around the island.
Eventually arriving in the city, we find our lodging and make the lengthy walk to the restaurant. Disappointingly, it's closed that night, so we regroup and find another (amazing) place to eat. As we eat, her attitude turns. No amount of joking or listening or consoling can change it. She's permitted a closed restaurant affect her deeply, seemingly resolved let it to ruin her night. Furthermore, she's being shitty with me, which shocks me, given our experiences over the last two and a half weeks. I take this personally, feeling she's spoiling what could have been a quaint, romantic close to our trip.
Laying next to her that night, I can't sleep. I try to parse things, to give her the benefit of the doubt, but as silly as it sounds, a small bowl of soup (or lack thereof) has exposed a growing rift between us, casting a light on feelings I'd didn't really want to expand upon. She may seem jubilant and energetic, that it's shallow, stilted. Beyond a veil of laughter, just below the surface, she's never truly happy. Never truly satisfied. Even when her life is filled with nothing but goodness, she can tease out something negative and wholly fixate on it. Even when we're at our best, I know she's remembering our worst.
Turning the mirror on myself, throughout our relationship, all I've ever tried to do is satiate her, make her happy, be a source of joy in her life. Her happiness a measure of my worth as a partner, her persistent dissatisfaction making me feel ineffective, bummed out. I feel my face flush as it comes into focus, the fact that I've poured so much of myself into this, that I could cast my entire being into this and she might still find something to nitpick. Feelings of weariness, fatigue and sadness course through me.
The next morning, it seems she's forgotten all about the humarsúpa, but somewhere deep in my chest, that familiar, terrifying numbness blossoms. My heart breaks and I never look at her the same way again.
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