Limey and Me: Newport

I'm back in NYC these days, and while the weather slowly changes (or refuses to) I tread on . . . remembering the long, seemingly lazy days of last summer.  Days I want to make come alive again, in spirit and reality.  

Newport.  Newport, Oregon for your pleasure. 

When traveling I often rent a bike, as its cheap transportation and typically fun.  In this case, spending a month in Corvallis, Oregon I certainly needed a mode to shuttle me about town. Granted, my own two feet would have sufficed, but the little Lime-colored Townie I rented (for a flat rate of 55 bucks a week, lock included) has certainly paid for itself in spades.  I’m told it had—at max—thirty miles on her when I picked her up.  I am certain I have logged more than thirty on old Limey (for the record, when I turned her in the 24th of August, I cried a little tear of goodbye knowing her and I had seen more than a hundred miles of road together).  Aside from getting lost around town—true, true—everyday hauls add up quick.  In this case, I took me, my rented bike, and a side of gumption to go wander a bit of the majestic Oregon Coast.

That being said, Limey—as I’ve dubbed her—has become my little sidekick, girl wonder, constructed of metal, and empowered enough to roll me along with literal wind in my ears and sun rays kissing my neck.  With that in mind, Limey and I took one perfect Saturday and went to Newport.  Okay, here is where I should note the obvious.  She’s a Townie, I’m a woman at forty with Lupus and moderate girth . . . get the picture? So, we took the Oregon Connector (the OXO) for ten bucks each way.  Ten US dollars to haul me and Limey from downtown Corvallis to the City Hall in Newport along the famed Coastal Highway, the 101.  I mean, what could be better? Perhaps a few pints of local dark cherry cider served in glasses rimmed with unicorn tears . . . Serious points to note, if you are taking a bike you are required to load it and lock it on.  The rack just folds down from the bus and the built in latch holds your ride snuggly in place.  Rest assured, if you draw a blank and have no idea how to do it the driver will show you.  You will still have to do it (for legal reasons), but drivers on the OXO are nothing short of helpful.

For the basics: the bus dropped me off at the City Hall.  From there I went to the left, down SW Angle to SW 10^th, around the bend and down some baby hills to SW Hatfield.  At Hatfield you can ride for a half a second, but then like the Hatfield and McCoy feud over east on the Kentucky-West Virginia border that road turns into a cliff like drop of crazy dimensions.  I mean when you see people walking slanted back you should take that as a sign.  For the record, since grandmothers, mothers, my mother who reads everything I write (good, bad, and ugly), and the faint of heart are reading this I did NOT attempt to ride down that hill.  Okay, so Limey and I walked down that hill—I looked at her and thanked her for being lightweight yet sturdy enough to tolerate me—and when I got to Bay Boulevard I hopped back on and headed right.  If I had gone straight I would have either smashed into a fish house or pummeled through to the ocean like a deserving loon. So right it was, down past the kitschy, quirky, and expected shops that populate beach towns from coast to coast.  I’m fairly certain my pedals increased speed past the Ripley’s Wax Museum.  Why, you ask? Well, I’m the American odd ball who is flat out, all bars down, freaked out by those places.  If you want to see my skin crawl, either put me in a wax museum with statues looking like dead celebs or get me near a spider.  I’ll pass on both and dream of torches in the meantime.  At some point in my leisurely stroll people exited the displays humor and joy at the wax wonders just inside the teal building.

This cute little beach town, of the Pacific Northwest, has the expected rocky shores and cute shops with wood siding, fading paint, eclectic and tacky wares, shot glasses saying you got “stoned” in Newport, products made in Oregon, tie dye tee shirts, and the always cute, quirky, and willing to take my money boho store.  Limey and I ignored the shops’ siren calls to come inside at first.  As we rolled on down, basked in the blue sea, stood on the wooden pier, breathed in salty and fish laden air, and wondered why we ever worried about getting here the day proved a well needed recluse the nine to five.  Then, we rolled back up and parked her at the bike stand by Up Our Ally (a little tie dye beach tee shop).  Then we walked past the shops, wandered into them, stopped and ate some fresh Dungeness crab.  To say that crab was melt in your mouth worthy is an understatement.  This statement comes from a girl who spent endless hours of her youth clam digging, gutting fish, and caging crabs along the the Washington coast and the Texas Gulf (Texas was for crabs, not Dungeness, ya know). 

After some sights and food I let Limey out of her temporary jail and walked that beast of a hill, rolled on back to the 101, and cut over to Second Street.  Somewhere in there we thought a hill looked mild, and thirty seconds in I dropped more four lettered bombs than should be legally allowed as I spotted the handle break and zig-zagged my lime green pal back and forth across the road to slow her down.  In all reality, the hill’s steepness might have been more apprehension on my part, in jogging shorts, a tank, and a hoodie envisioning my skin red and bleeding from a brutal fight with concrete, but bikers at the bottom high fived me and exclaimed something about my prowess and I didn’t ask them what they meant, as I sat curbside catching my breath and seeing blue sea in the horizon.  Limey and I looked at each other and headed over to see the sea, relieved we were off that hill and still alive.  We looked over the cliffs, I said “Girl, I have to leave you for a little while,” and then we rolled the short path in Dan Davis Park (also the Vietnam Park), and then I took her down ALL the steps over by the Performing Arts Center.  I was certain there was a bike rack on the lower street by beach parking and beach level.  There was.  I locked her up, looked over my shoulder, and headed out to the great blue sea known as the Nye Beach area.

I could tell you that I ran like a movie star to the sea’s edge, and tossed my leather sandals in an effortless glide before letting the Pacific Ocean kiss my toes.  Instead, I put the shoes in my backpack and more like waddled out in the soft sand.  Then, then I did let my senses embrace the clear Pacific water, and memories of my Seattle youth came flooding back like a movie screen, and I gasped and laughed at the sheer cold water.  Yet, I continued to stay in the gently rocking waves, strolling about up to my knees, and let the sprays dampen me and push me.  My toes may have grown blue but my soul and senses resounded.  I’ve long said there is nothing like a little sun, sand, and sea, and once I met a man who—while momentarily reminiscing on his San Diego youth and possibly trying to impress me—affirmed that salt water is a sure on cure for the soul.  Like a Pinterest quote board, he and I certainly agree on that romanticized common ground. 

With sand still between my toes, and nearing ten thousand steps later, I begrudgingly pulled myself from that shore and Limey and I headed back up the street.  This time my stomach sang the siren calls of “Feed me, baby, feed me.”  I parked Limey in front of a newspaper box, sat at a table next to her, let my pack fall to my feet, and enjoyed the blackberry lemonade only Oregon can make so supple and sweet you forget your manners and exclaim “that’s good” to anyone within ear shot.  I noshed on a lunch in the late midday sun, served with a substantial side of natural vitamin D.  Paying our bill, we headed back to City Hall walking and riding as some of those hills swore to the heavens to devour me, Limey, or the both of us. 

Parking Limey by the OXO stop, plopping on the crisp, summer cooked grass my body was tired but my traveler’s soul was replenished with some sunshine and sea salt.  Of course, I hoisted her on the front of the bus, climbed aboard, gave the driver exact cash (as you do on the OXO) and told him Corvallis.  Then, I collapsed my middle aged body into a seat, and overheard the driver and his ride along say “Aw, she’s so cute.  She’s so worn out.” As my shades covered my closing eyes, I relished that I don’t look my age and I’m still crazy enough to go explore on my own.  Perhaps I should be irked that strangers felt all too comfortable to talk of me like a 20-something, but there really is something about the Oregon air and coast.  Loose ends fall away and typical irks fade and the 101 rolls along with dense trees, gentle bends, and a horizon littered with peaks and wildflowers not far off.  Home or not, Newport and Limey felt like home for a day.