6:50 pm, Abernethy Elementary
The Friday sun starts disappearing over rows of craftsman homes on the outskirts of Ladd’s Addition. On a school playground, a father watches his daughter play, as a crowd of guys with cargo bikes gathers. A man with a well-manicured mustache leans next to a pink cargo e-bike. He’s wearing a referee jersey that in red letters reads: No questions, just obey.
“Are you here for the scavenger hunt?” he asks.
The referee is Zack. This is his fifth year hosting a weekend of competitive cargo bike debauchery known as the Carry Sh*t Olympics (CSO). The prizes are homemade trophies, cards to decorate bike wheel spokes, cash collected in a donation bucket, and a bunch of random bike accessories. Amidst three days of cargo bike polo and circuit races, this 24-hour Scavenger Hunt is the crown jewel.
Amidst the load-bearing competitors—designed to ferry grocery hauls, small families, and some furniture—my steed is a black, steel-framed dutch commuter that I got freshman year of college. It’s fully human powered, with single-speed gearing, and an old milk crate attached to the back rack. While lacking significant cargo capacity, it’s also slow and bad for climbing hills. I did, however, lube the chain for the first time in a year the night before.
“Don’t worry, you’re competing in the Rack & Bag category,” Zack assures me, as a few other road bicycles roll up. Someone named Lexi arrives on inline roller skates.
Over the next half hour about 30-40 people filter in. Zack hands out a sheet he calls ”the manifest” to each, which lists items to seek, locations to visit, tasks to complete, and the corresponding point values for each.
The rules:
• Track rides on GPS apps like Strava.
• No public transportation or cars.
• The hunt starts at 7 pm Friday night.
• The finish line is at 7 pm on Saturday at Pizza Thief a few blocks away.
The format of the scavenger hunt has its roots in Alley Cats: unsanctioned bike races that originated amongst the fixed-gear bike messenger labor force. Typically Alley Cat racers make their own routes to checkpoints throughout a city, gathering signatures on a “manifest” at different stops, before returning to the finish line. It’s a simulation of a day in the bike delivery profession—one part endurance, one part speed, one part technical knowledge of the urban environment around us.
“If you’re ready to search, 3-2-1-CarGO!” Zack proclaims.
7:30 pm, Ladd’s Circle
Near the top of the task list is an easy 50 points for participating in one of the three minigames scheduled during the Friday Night Ride—Cobblestone Shuttle, Slingshot Biathlon, or the Slow Race. Three valiant competitors, who win their minigame, will earn a whopping 500. There’s already a large mass of cyclists waiting at the circle when we arrive on this perfectly crisp fall evening.
A few attendees are handing out free keg beer in little paper coffee cups at the center of Ladd’s.
“One small stab against capitalism, giving free beer to the people,” one says, handing me a cup.
8:22 pm, Under the Morrison Bridge
We roll up to a cobblestone street for our first minigame called the Cobblestone Shuttle. Two at a time, riders will run up a small hill, load a loose cobblestone and a pool noodle onto their bikes, and ride back. I’m part of the first heat.
I walk to the starting line fueled by a paper coffee cup’s worth of liquid courage. My opponent’s bike is the equivalent of a big rig, an electric cargo bike built to beat the elementary school pickup line. We’re off and immediately my jeans start chafing on the run up the hill. We’re even when my competitor slides across a slick stone, falling to the floor, taking his bike down with him. Loading up my bike, I know my rival is far behind me. During my triumphant sprint to the finish, I’m transported to the European cobblestone classic Paris-Roubaix. Winning this muddy monument of professional cycling is the highlight of a racer’s career. Like Belgian cycling legend Wout van Aert, the mud on my hands and face is the true trophy, a testament to grit and glory. Once I dismount my bike, I’m back under a bridge in Portland surrounded by eighty or so people drinking macro lager tall boys. My hands are clean, except for a few flecks of ash from somebody’s nearby spliff.
The next round I lose to Jeremy, a guy on a road bike wearing a tuxedo-cycling jersey.
9:01 pm, Safeway on NE Broadway
Another cyclist is blasting the string arrangement from “360” by Charli XCX while I load up on caffeine for the 22-hours left ahead. The “Statue of a faceless woman in Lloyd District” is only a few blocks away—100 pts—so I pedal off, snag a photo, and get back just in time to roll out with the group.
9:44 pm, Construction site on NE Sandy
The second minigame is the Slingshot Biathlon. Three racers circle a cone at the end of an alleyway, return to the start, use a slingshot to blow away a beer can, then bike around a second cone at the other end of the construction site, and head back again.
One guy in a grey denim vest pulls a slingshot out of his back pocket, asking: “Am I allowed to use my own slingshot and ammo from home?”
“Is there some underground slingshot scene in Portland that we’re not aware of?” a spectator asks in awe.
Zack will allow it.
The slingshot maestro knocks over his Coors Banquet in one shot, then zooms off, finishing two minutes ahead of anybody else.
“I practice in my backyard every day, from twice that distance, with a target about the size of a gumball,” he tells me, rolling off to the next stop with a cigarette dangling from his mouth. “I better hit a tall boy, or I’m going home in shame.”
10:25 pm, Wilshire Park
The third and final event of the night is Slow Races.
The rules: 1. No stopping 2. You must be moving forward, never backwards or in circles 3. If you fall or you put your foot down, you’re eliminated 4. The last person over the line wins.
Though the crowd has thinned out to about 30 people, the most lively remain, yelling for their compatriots to go, “SLOW! SLOW! SLOW!”
10:55 pm, Wilshire Park gazebo
A man sits atop an insulated Doordash delivery bag in his cargo hull. He tells me he built the e-cargo bike for $250 this summer, mostly through found parts, like an e-bike version of Johnny Cash’s “One Piece at a Time.” He has some eccentric views about the Portland Clean Energy Fund e-bike rebate.
“I don’t want to have to suck on the teat of Trek or Specialized,” he says, chomping away at a bbq rib and sipping a beer gifted to him from a bike punk wearing an Anarchy A cycling cap.
11:25 pm, Baby Doll Pizza (SE Stark)
A few of us end up planning our paths over pizza, but I spend way too much time scribbling a map of my potential route. My commute home includes a detour to the bridge on NE 12th for the “5 minor bridges” achievement—200 pts. In bed by 1:30 am.
6:55 am, My apartment (bike change)
After five hours of sleep, I’m chugging a glass of iced coffee from the day before. My second bike, a Celeste Bianchi road bike, is ready to knock out some of the tougher southwest hill challenges.
7:48 am, Washington Park
From the Broadway Bridge, I see a beautiful early morning fog washing over the Willamette, but all I can think about is how I’m an idiot for forgetting my gloves. My hands are numb for my first climb, crossing from NW into SW and up Washington Park. I arrive at the Sacagawea Statue in (personal) record time—200 pts.
8:23 am, Council Crest Park
It’s a lonely ascension up SW Montgomery Drive, a sleepy street even if it weren’t 8 am on a Saturday. I need a gallon of water for a selfie at the summit. My hoodie is drenched in sweat immediately, but I can’t take it off because that would just slow my momentum. About a quarter of the way up, I realize this bougie ass neighborhood doesn’t have a single convenience store. So I descend to a gas station on W Burnside, buy the gallon and some gum, and start the painful trek again. The hill almost beats me, but I’m sharing a view of Hood and St. Helens with a woman meditating next to her fancy Carbon road bike. Tempted to pour my gallon all over myself, I think better of it. Mindfulness—200 pts. Another 100 pts, if I can bring the gallon of water to the finish unscathed. A bonus 300 pts for climbing 2,000 feet. Time to throw on “100 Shots” by Young Dolph for the third time. That motivational shit.
8:47 am, Elk Statue
SW Broadway is a screaming descent to the Thompson Elk Statue downtown—100 pts. I hit my fastest speed of the day at 42.7 mph (according to Strava). The fountain’s chlorinated mist refreshes me. Next is Ladd’s Addition for a mysterious “Physical Challenge” to be completed between 9-10 am. If I go over Tilikum Crossing, I can knock out the “All 6 ‘quadrants’ of Portland” challenge—200 pts.
Exiting down SW 3rd, my bike chain comes off after I hit a metal bollard and try to bunny hop a curb. Already failing my personal goal of not crashing, I get up with only scraped hands and a bruised ego. The water jug is undamaged.
9:18 am, Ladd’s Circle
The Ladd’s Circle physical challenge turns out to be an opportunity to carry Zack on my bike for two laps. That’s what I would choose if I had a cargo bike, but since I’m Rack & Bag (or Die!), I must take one lap around all four nearby garden diamonds. I sprint through this little circuit, speed running it with the elite Portlander skill of “not getting lost in the Ladd’s Addition”—100 pts.
9:50 am, Eastbank Esplanade
Running clubs are out in full force at this hour. I think I’ve hit the “lowest point in Portland” achievement—150 pts—taking a timed selfie on the floating bridge in the Willamette. Big Pink is blocked by morning fog in the background. I realize I still have a pimple patch on my face from last night. Maybe this is also my low point.
I change back to my trusty single speed. Somehow it fits 20 pounds of groceries and a traffic cone (as long as I hold onto the milk crate with one of my hands).
11:09 am, Katie O’Briens on SE Sandy
At Katie O’Briens, I order an economical chicken fried steak breakfast and reflect on my map over five cups of coffee. The caffeine is kicking in, the legs are strong. I’ve got a new lease on life, and I’m putting on some high-octane cyclo-techno, “Caught Behind the Peloton” by Turbotrekker3000.
The sun is shining, not a cloud in sight. What a great day to be on the saddle.
1:21 pm, Urban Gleaners Warehouse (SE 6th)
Right at the start of the 1-2 pm window, I drop off the groceries—250 pts—then make it home to swap out my bike in favor of the speedy Bianchi. There’s points up for grabs in Vancouver, but I’ve never actually biked to the great income-tax-evasion north. Google Maps says it’s pretty much a straight shot on N Williams, before turning into concentric spirals to get up the I-5 Bridge into Washington. Seems easy enough.
2:03 pm, Esther Short Park (Vancouver, WA)
It was not easy enough. A woman sitting on a bench next to the Salmon Run Bell Tower takes a photo of me holding my bike up, having conquered Portland’s version of the French mountain switchbacks of Alpe d’Huez—100 pts. In many ways, that crossing is more dangerous than the Tour de France stage: debris on the road, hardly a shoulder, narrow death trap of the I-5 Bridge pedestrian lane, gnarly crosswind 72 feet above the Columbia. It’s pure luck I’m not eaten by one of Marie Gluesenkamp Perez’s flesh-eating sea lions haunting the depths below.
I stop in a combination Ranch Pizza and coffee shop for a cold brew, and ask if they give out paper receipts—50 pts.
“Let me guess, you need a receipt with sales tax on it,” the barista says. “Yeah, someone else already asked us the same thing.”
On my ride back into Portland I see a man carrying a bag of cans bigger than himself on the seat of his bike. He pushes the bike with one arm and balances his bag with the other, safeguarding at least a day’s work. He’s not part of any race, but this too is cargo bike delivery.
3:10 pm, Adaptive Biketown (next to OMSI)
As I drop my traffic cone off within the hour window—50 pts—Lexi rolls up with theirs. They’re still on inline skates, pushing a wheelbarrow, now 12 miles deep into the hunt. Their water jug broke, and they need to buy a new one.
“It’s not the ideal way to rollerblade,” Lexi concludes. “Normally I use my arms to maintain momentum, these miles are much harder on the calves.”
3:29 pm, Little Caesars (N Lombard)
My last bike change of the race puts me back on my single speed for carrying capacity. Even so, the pizza box doesn’t quite fit right in my milk crate, so I have to angle it and my “hot and ready” pepperoni pie slides to one side—100 pts. After scarfing down two slices, it’s off to my final location—the tippy tip of Kelly Point.
I see a man carrying his kid on his shoulders. This too is a fun car free way to deliver precious cargo.
I put on “Diva” by Judith. My little speaker lets me know it’s about to die.
4:05 pm, Columbia Slough Trail
The mixed-use trail by the Portland International Speedway is bumpy and uneven, suggesting it’s been years since the pavement has been maintained. I’m focused on not puncturing a tire but can’t help notice the weird film that practically covers the entire waterway below.
4:30 pm, Smith and Bybee Wetlands (N Marine Drive)
Once I’m back on Marine Drive’s fully-paved bike trail, my speaker fully gives out. I am alone. The only other non-car driver around is a guy on one of those cheap e-motos with fake pedals. I’m keeping pace with him because he stops every two blocks or so to collect cans.
4:37 pm, Terminal 6 (N Marine Drive)
For every headwind I am morally culpable. Punished for my slovenly ways, I offer no tribute to the wind, and only continue to fight against what is inevitable.
4:54 pm, Kelly Point Park
I find the exact point where the Columbia and Willamette Rivers meet and take a selfie with my half-eaten pizza—200 pts. Wind strong, body weak, pizza cold. As if participating in a boat Carry Shit Olympics, a little tug boat toots westward on the Columbia, lugging behind it a massive shipping vessel.
5:10 pm, Papa John’s Distribution Center (N Columbia)
The only other vehicles on the road are big rigs zipping past me at high speeds, honking for no reason. I haven’t checked Strava, but I feel close to the 300 pts bonus for a trip over 100 miles.
I’ve made a song from the sound clanging in my bottom bracket. It’s a triplicate rhythmic click after every downward pedalstroke. The truth is I haven’t treated my bike right over these past 13 years. Not enough tune ups. Not enough rides since I got my speedy road bike. I’ve taken her for granted. I think it’s a country song.
5:22 pm; 7-Eleven (St. Johns)
Stopping off for some caffeine, I almost run into a parent of one of my students. Between my dirt splattered face and sweat stains through my shirt, I imagine I look and smell like a dying animal, so I hide in the back until he leaves, then chug a can of Coke right in the store.
Seeing him reminds me that the rest of the way is basically just my commute home from work. Nothing can hurt me anymore.
6:04 pm; My apartment
The ride down Willamette Boulevard is familiar. Though there’s a shiny new protected bike lane, the consistency of the view and pancake flat route comforts me. Everything’s nostalgic at golden hour.
I assemble my cargo: gallon of water, receipt (with sales tax), half eaten pizza, and the manifest.
6:38 pm; Pizza Thief (SE 12th)
3,582 feet of climbing, 10 caffeinated beverages, and 2,850 pts later, I cross the finish line. Painfully, I finish at 96 miles, just four shy of the century bonus. It hurts. I need a beer. I don’t really need more pizza, but I eat a vegan slice anyway. Going through my photos and Strava, Zack reveals to me that I had the lowest point in Portland wrong, it’s actually Kelly Point not the floating bridge. I still get the points.
At Pizza Thief around 30 of us celebrate, but only 14 scavengers managed to complete enough challenges to actually “finish” the race. I’m proud to be among the weirdos who stuck it out, and my sticking it out is good enough to tie for fifth place. My reward is a single ounce bottle of chain lube from the prize bucket.
After tallying the manifests, the overall champion, Natalie, raises the bicycle pedal trophy, finishing with 5,800 pts. She stopped at every location, even managing to swim in Lake Oswego—250 pts. The crowd wants a speech, and it’s short.
“I didn’t sleep at all,” she says, nursing a pint. “I have to go home.”
Second place goes to Bob from Seattle, with 4,900 pts, who is also first in my Rack and Bag category. Bob did sleep, only it was under a bench on the Crown Zellerbach Trail in Scappoose, the summit of which is worth 1000 pts.
The real hero of the day is the winner—and only finisher—in the open category for any mode of non-car transport. Lexi finishes with 24 miles on skates with a wheelbarrow.
“I didn’t even use a single pedal!” Lexi proudly proclaims, holding up their pedal trophy.
The scavengers rejoice. Glasses clink, a troubling amount of carbs are consumed, and Lexi eyes the bus stop, wondering aloud how they’ll carry all this shit home on MAX.
