1940 N Victory Blvd, Portland, OR 97217
My father always taught me to end on a high note. We played golf tons when I was a kid; I can remember running (probably foolishly) to grab shanked golf balls from the fringes of the range and practicing my swing until I made enough contact to be satisfied, to hit that "high note". He's right. It always felt good and regardless of prior happenings, it made you feel like it was ok to walk away. It's totally about departure. Always have good good-byes. You never know what's coming next.
But that's exactly what this weekend was: a sendoff party. A celebration of all things Portland and truly weird. We are a collection of bike junkies and gear hoarders, family men and women, lone wolves and noobs all straddling mud-caked and shelled around teeny fire-pits, cheersing and smiling, congratulating rides regardless of success. None of us have to be there and we all stand together under the umbrella of sport, friendship and community. And we do it better than anyone else. I don't have to tell a damn one of you that. You were there this weekend. And now, gone.
As for me, I'm not quite sure how I'm going to fill my now completely blank weekends, but I have some ideas. Grab the Leica and get back out doing some street photography again... since I'm in the habit of early rising on weekends. Maybe make some prints finally and get a show together. Zine maybe. Def more blog posts. Maybe sleep in. I'll pepper in some rock climbing and hopefully all kinds of snow activities. I'll try to quell that separation anxiety and for a while it may work. It'll always be on the back of my mind though, hashtag cross is coming.
I have many a thanks to dole out, but for brevity's sake I'll just say this: Thank you OBRA, Cross Crusade and the Oregon racing community. Thank you to everyone who's come to this blog in the past few months, it's been a pleasure sharing ramblings with you. Thanks for making a guy push the bounds of his creativity.
Specific cross memories will undoubtedly fade into oblivion: shattered, fragmented images and sounds harkening back to states of extreme joy and anger perhaps even at the same time. A season as a whole. Sunday night, the cowbells rang silent and their reverberations coughed slowly across the soggy infield. Trucks moved in and broke down for the final time, leaving our final tire treads for a short time. Darkness fell and the almost tangible blueblack darkness completely concealed what most of us, I think, truly love. Goodbye, cross. But only for a year, and then we'll be together again.