JUNE, BUSTIN' OUT ALL OVER SINCE 1945

deer corpse. just off the bike lane on highway 30 about a mile north of the merger of nw yeon and st. helens road. pulled over by the train tracks. it was open at its rear and spilling bloated organs. a big one (the liver?) looked about to pop. had it popped, my next retch would have brought something up. i thought of the old, overalled man who i'd seen a couple of days earlier sitting, on the opposite side of the same road, in front of a seemingly one-off stand that advertised elk jerky. the deer probably died that same day. on the third day of sunshine, it was leaking and bloated.

after a hazy morning, the sunshine was bright on sunday afternoon. it had been since two summers ago that i'd ridden to the beach at the northeast end of sauvie island, which was apparently a long enough time for me to forget how uncomfortable the ride back can be after hours in the sun and too little nourishment. two vitamin waters didn't turn out to be enough for forty miles. if the stand had still been up, i might have thought to get some elk jerky.

i leave for the beach and i understand that getting to the island is only half the trip, but i'm always able to imagine that the ride on the island itself is going to be easy because of the scenery. but the scenery, and it was beautiful on sunday, didn't put me in the padded shorts that i should have worn for that many miles and such bumpy roads, including reeder road, which gets significantly more bumpy at the exact point of the road sign that marks the border between multnomah and columbia counties. also on the bumpy roads of sauvie island: a dead mole and a dead snake. seeing the snake reminded me of the fact of snakes and that the fact of snakes on the road might mean snakes on the trail through the woods between the road and the beach.

i was still on the happy part of my ride -- the ride out -- so i didn't let the snakes deter me. it was all the same anyway, because the trails between the road (where reeder turns to gravel near its terminus) and the nude (queer) beach were flooded, which probably meant that the beach was flooded, too. one of the punk fags who were buying corn dogs at the seven eleven where i bought my vitamin water shouted the score at me as he was getting back into his car, and i didn't bother to get off my bike to see for myself.

the beaches along reeder before the road turns to gravel aren't so pretty. still, i gave one a try to get some sun on my shoulders while i got some reading done. the clothing not so optional beaches are separated from the road by a weedy hillock that rolls down into beach scrub and sand on the side of the water. easy snake spotting, especially for the regularly spaced cement stairways that lead up the hill from the road. i couldn't concentrate on house of the fortunate buddhas. this beach was more crowded than the one at the island where i last remembered spending time with a book. but maybe my mood on that other day was just more conducive to reading. it was breezier, and it was maureen medved's novel.

i left after less than an hour, anxious about the ride back into town, though apparently not trying to delay it. the sun was still a long time from down, but it had gone behind clouds by that point. they'd have calendula flowers at the blue heron herbary, and the thought of making a tea of them and drinking it in the bath later made it easier to get back on the bike. the sign must not be as easy to see as from the opposite side of the road and when going in the direction of the beach because i missed it. dead rabbit. i hadn't noticed it on the way out. there was a chipmunk that ran across the road ahead of my front tire that might have been dead if it had been two seconds later.

the pain in my ass. i don't believe that lance armstrong ever rode a tour on that saddle, so i can only conclude that "replica" isn't a very carefully regulated standard within the bicycle component manufacturing industry. it was a gift. and it matches my other components. it wouldn't have been a problem had i thought more about appropriate attire. i could still appreciate the smell of the wild roses, which was impossible to ignore, but did nothing for the pain in my ass. no honeysuckle yet. not enough sun this year. will there be a shortage of honey sticks at the farm stores this year?

having realized that i missed the turn for the herbary, i stopped for a recovery beer (don't ask me which style i chose) at the captured by porches beer bus by the kruger's farm market, just a mile from the bridge to highway 30. the barbeque vendor was out of everything, and the market was out of kale. $1.25 a bunch is a steal. even after the beer, the approach to the bridge wasn't fun. but then it's just another ten miles to the center of the city. once i was under the st. john's bridge, the ride back from the beach didn't seem like such a pain in the ass. and there's even more beer to be had back in town. and there's that dead deer. disgusting. we've had our differences, portland -- and i really don't know if we can make it work -- but sometimes i do remember exactly why i fell in love. it's sore, has a bloated liver, and it smells like wild roses.