San Diego to Portland 2001 - Day 3 |
Medford to Portland
It goes something like this: I ride up to the pump, the overworked attendant comes around to me, takes my gas card, runs it through the machine, selects the grade of fuel and then hands me the nozzle. (This last bit is actually illegal in Oregon, so I won't name any names. I'm no nark.) The law banning self-serve is, I think, intended to preserve this often neglected labor force. It's also kind of dumb. At least three attempts to repeal the law have failed, so guess we're stuck with it until enough natives move out of state, learn to pump their own gas and then move back. End of rant.. for now. I took some extra time on this leg of my trip. At 270 miles this was the shortest segment so I was able to go easy on the throttle. The swarm of OHP revenue collectors were on hand to observe this. Alas, no "high performance driving citations" were awarded to this careful traveler. A long time ago, when dinosaurs roamed the earth and I was eight years old, my family lived in Southern Oregon (which is part of the State of Jefferson along with Northern California). The names of the towns are fun: Canyonville, Roseburg, Grants Pass and Azalea. At one time I swore I would never want to live there again but today I saw a beauty in this land as I had never seen it before. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to endure the hellish-hot summers and the frozen pipes of winter. Maybe a concrete bunker full of automatic firearms and explosives could seem like home. With a little effort, a bi-level haircut, a beer-stained wife-beater T-shirt and a pickup, even a guy like me could be a part of the community.
No, I'm not going to explain the "Removing Rubbish Prohibited" sign. The Oregon Department of Transportation folks who run the rest stops are big garbage fans, okay? As I passed through Salem (the state capitol) I was pleased to see that much of the freeway improvement has been completed... and is now completely inadequate. Grab a jack hammer. It's the same anywhere lots of people live. Nearing Portland, my eyes began to get misty. The actual cause was less nostalgia than it was three day's worth of bug guts on my visor. Do you have a pest control problem at your house? Give me a ring and I'll ride through your living room for an hour. No charge.
That's my trip report. Thanks so much to all of the folks who expressed such an interest in my prose. I cannot imagine what you find so fascinating, but I'll keep writing as long as you keep reading. And then I'll write some more after that.
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I must have spent almost eight dollars on gasoline today. I'm mad as heck and I don't care who knows it! Am I angry about the price of gas? No, not really since I don't use much of it in the first place. What's got my Kevlar in a bind is that I can't just drive up to the pump and get my own darned gas. But there's a tease... most station attendants aren't willing to do the actual pour when a motorcycle is involved for fear of getting beat to a pulp if anything spills on paint or chrome. Fear is healthy.
Maybe not. There's always Clackamas.
My final destination was the NE Portland hotel where my brother works. He knew that someone with my name had a reservation but he didn't know for sure until I rode up. It was nice to see him again after so much time and -- don't tell anyone -- he got me a great deal on the room. We spent a couple of hours solving the world's problems over steak dinner. ... I just can't remember what we decided to do about hunger and war. We're pretty much against those things.
Trip Summary