A thing I thought I would never say

So, this week I drove through the Seattle Waterfront Tunnel.

Given all the sturm und drang that has accompanied this project - from the controversy over design options to the two-year delay when Big Bertha, the drilling machine, broke down - troubles that continue even now - I honestly never expected the tunnel to be completed. I thought it would be another  mirage that evaporated into nothingness, taking with it scads of taxpayer money, just like the notorious monorail project.

But, for good or bad, it's there, and I drove thought it on the way to SeaTac to drop Coco off for a trip to Hawaii. We had jumped off I-5 at Crown Hill on the advice of the GoogleMaps to save a little drive time; congested 99 was not much better than the crawling freeway, but it was nice to see the changes to the strip. There were some bigger box-buildings, but overall the Aurora Avenue stretch of the state route looked as depressed and depressing as ever, shabby and grimy commerce at its worst, with dilapidated structures, weeds, and ugly signage.

That traffic was miserable was not a surprise or even a disappointment, since we had no expectations; it was just a drag. It was exacerbated by our failure to understand the lane convergence as 99 crossed the Aurora Bridge and headed south: there was only one lane for southbound traffic for a long time, as the left lane was exit-only to Denny Avenue in south Lake Union and the right lane was bus-only. The lane changes and merging as vehicles joined the flow from Queen Anne access points brought us all to standstill over and over again.

We were surprised by the tunnel, to tell the truth; when we left Seattle for Bellingham in 2015, Bertha was still comatose. We had heard that the project was active, but honestly hadn't been following it closely. Traffic didn't speed up until we were out of it, so we had ample time at single-digit mph to experience the engineering.  One thing stood out for both Coco and me:

The wall was covered with exit markings, big graphics and arrows, lots of them. There seemed to be an exit every 600 feet or so, with numerous marking in between each. Having grown up riding through the Holland and Battery Tunnels in New York City, I had always been intrigued by the exits and personnel stations along the walls, and wondered about what subterranean - or subfluvial - world they led to. It was Coco who pointed out that the stick people on the wall were running.

These are emergency exits.

Now, remember the tunnel exits because of an earthquake - the 2001 Nisqually quake was the final blow the the seismically under-prepared viaduct that the tunnel replaced. The Seattle waterfront has always been a major concern in earthquake planning - much of the waterfront is landfill, and in a major quake a lot of the ground is expected to just liquefy. But the Department of Transportation says the tunnel is built to the most up-to-date seismic standards and might even be the safest place to be during an earthquake. And perhaps it is.

But all those emergency exits still make me nervous.

Six mile limit?

So, back in Seattle, I lived within easy striking distance of the Burke-Gilman trail, which, with it's eastside connector the Sammammish River Trail, gave me over 30 miles of paved, separate paths for biking. Here's a map, courtesy of the Seattle Bike Blog:

The path runs through neighborhoods, through two college campuses, through parks, by lakes, over rivers - every turn brings a new scenescape. The path is filled with walkers, runners and bilkers of all stripes, from iron men to stroke recovery patients.

I used to ride for fun a lot, and bike-commuted 13 miles (in nice weather) to my college in Bothell, from that big curve right above where it says University of Washington right onto campus. It actually took me to places I wanted to go, - not just recreation, but shops as well. I could jump on it whenever I wanted, and get in an easy ride or a long one, no sweat.

I miss it.

Bellingham is pretty much a biking mecca, but it's mountain biking - you know, like no-snow, wheeled skiing. Drag your butt and your bike up to the top of a cliff and go whee all the way down, trying (or not) to avoid roots, rocks, bumps and other obstacles. I know folks who do it regularly, who would do it daily, who do it when it's raining, who do it at nigh, who do it when it's raining at night.

I'm not interested.

Luckily, I live adjacent to the Interurban Trail and just blocks from the South Bay Trail, two of Bellingham's premiere bike paths. I don't want to sound ungrateful, but even this near-perfect location has two major flaws.

First, the trails are not paved - they are gravel. Spoiled by the blacktop of the Burke, I find the going bumpy and unstable, even on my hybrid bike - lord knows how anyone with a touring bike does it. I even had to buy fatter knobby tires.

But more than that, the problem is the trails don't go anywhere. Here's take a look:

A prime ride down the interurban trail to Larrabee State Park: six and a half miles. That's the whole trail.

A nice ride up the Bay Trail and then some more along the waterfront and in the marinas: sixc and a third miles.

Or the Bay Trail, through downtown and into Cornwall park: five and half miles, and about two of those are on city streets.

Speaking of city streets, this route to Whatcom Falls park is mostly streets, although I tried to string little pieces of trail together: a hair over six miles.

Anything that goes past these limits becomes pure mall-burbia car-country unpleasant and unsuitable for riding, at least for me. The core city streets are a little better, but I may have lost my stomach for riding in substantial auto traffic.

I even thought about taking the bus out to the county and riding the country roads, but all my peeps who live out here advised against it: no shoulders and crazy drivers.

I guess I learned a few things from this rumination. You can't road bike in a mountain bike town. I'm not as young (or perhaps as stupid) as once I was. The Burke spoiled me.

And Bellingham is about six miles big.

Two-lane blacktop

So, the other week Coco and I drove across the state to Spokane to visit some great and good friends. Instead of taking the interstate, we went by way of the North Cascades Scenic Highway, generally state route 20, which runs through a beautiful mountain pass, goes through some lovely recreation spots, passes by Grand Coulee Dam, and really doesn't take much longer.

It's a pretty grand dam, all right.

As we were driving along on the east side of the mountains, I noticed that there was an extremely straight and long stretch of road coming up - somewhere around Davenport - and I have to tell you that in the generally hilly coastal landscape of the Pacific Northwest (my part, anyway), it was a bit of trip driving for so long without turning the steering wheel an inch. It was such a deal that I just had to share it with you.

Enjoy.