There they were, gold-glittered and gay.

The bass thumped and the mass of dancers throbbed and pulsed along with the rhythm.

At the same time the whiz of a hundred coasting bicycle gears ripped through air behind me.

Today the mountain was alive with hedonism.

It was June 16th, 2021, a Wednesday. The time was roughly 7:00pm and the sun had only just begin it’s summer setting, late, as usual this time of year.

After work an afternoon hike up Mt. Tabor had sounded nice.

It sounded low key and relaxing.

Mt. Tabor is a very short mountain in the middle of Portland’s South East quadrant. It is blanketed by Douglas Firs and criss-crossed with short, muddy trails. Small enough to go up and down on an evening whim, big enough to lose yourself in…and discover a day rave…and bicycle race.

The scene was glorious:

Body-glittered gogo girls, groovy movin’ senior citizens, hoola hoopers, poi performers, silk sash sashayers, and regular ol’ Portland weirdos (the least exciting of the bunch). Everyone had joy painted on their faces as they twisted and turned and danced.

I sat and watched.

This was Portland. And this was June of 2021. The city just reached the 70% vaccinated figure, and people were finally beginning to unwind, go out, and let loose. After over a year of lockdown and social distancing, it was time to boogie.

And so it was for me as well.

I got in the mix, shook my money maker, and vibed in my little six-by-six bubble on the dance floor. It turned out, when you got up close to the mass, it wasn’t really a mass at all. Or at least, not a dense one. The dance floor could breathe. The gathering was still intent on maintaining a bit of social distance safety, and each dancer had plenty of orbit to themselves.

In fact, this made things more interesting.

There was no sweaty rubbing, no jostling and bumping, no touching of any kind. Instead, you could swing and flow and move with ease. And you had such a wonderful view of all those around you doing the same. No obstructions at all. It felt choreographed, but really there was just room for all to do their thing in their biggest most spacious ways.

So many varieties of movement, many incredibly talented folks really strutting their stuff. Some not so talented, but still inspiring an equal measure of envy for the freedom and uninhibition they embodied. And some poor souls just trying to get their bearings on how their knees and elbows functioned. All delightful. All love.

And DANGER!

For as I shimmied the bikes made their first appearance.

You could hear them coming long before you caught a flash of yellow metal through the trees. And then you caught a flash of yellow metal.

And then you saw them:

A hundred (maybe more) spandexed cyclists surged around a corner of dark forest road at speeds surely kissing fifty miles per hour.

FZZZZZSHHHSHHSSSH

Now this was a dense mass. Of metal and meat and gears and grit!

“Behind you!” Came screams of warning to those lounging on the close by curbs.

“Jesus!”-es and “Fucking hell!”-s and “Oh my god I just had a heart attack!”-s came back in response as people leapt up and out of the way of the riders.

And then they were gone. Down the mountain, into the trees, and out of earshot.

But in ten minutes they returned. And ten more minutes after that. Lap after lap they coursed the mountain, each time terrifying the near-street-wanderers.

An amazing accessory to the original scene, this bicycle race. Somehow it completed the surreal fairytale picture of this evening’s events.

A day rave of recently unquarantined circus performers, and a torrential flood of Tour De France-ers.

A scene strictly from your fever dreams.

Or else in Portland.