Highway 99 runs
through Corvallis. It begins as a two lane country highway, winding
peacefully through hazelnut orchards,
seed farms, and mint fields, but, when it hits Corvallis from the south, it
becomes a behemoth—five lanes with bike lanes and sidewalks—with lots of open
land around it, so there is no reason to slow down. It is a menace as a bicyclist; riders spend
hours talking about how to avoid it, which is difficult because it is the spine
for the entire South Corvallis community.
No one walks on the sidewalks if they can avoid it. Last week, a traffic
calming pedestrian crossing light was taken out by a car.
Ten past one,
Sunday afternoon. The side streets are crowded with people on bikes, all ready
to surge forward across Highway 99 when given the signal. Three official
crossing guards stand at attention, holding signs. “Slow.” “Stop.” They move into the highway and gesture to
five figures in the crowd. The five, dressed in exaggerated costumes from 1958,
run into the street. One pushes a tricycle. The audience follows them onto the
highway to watch. They strike poses and break into “Greased Lightening” from Grease. They dance and sing around the
trike, adding streamers. The audience dances and sways in time to the beat. The
pavement is warm, but not burning. Cars pile up behind the barriers. They have
altered the lines to the song to fit the moment. Everyone laughs. At the end,
they strike a pose, then run off the highway. The crowd breaks up, humming,
moves along the Open Streets.
Along the route,
children ride their bikes, swaying and swirling and playing with balance as we
all love to do when we know the road is clear.
Some stop and draw with sidewalk chalk, leaving reminders that it was,
for a few hours, okay to create art in the middle of the street. One little girl learns to ride her bike
without training wheels because she has the ability to think just about
pedaling, not direction or cars, for an hour.
Parents stand around and talk in the road. Other families set up face
painting stands, play live music from 1967 in the driveway, park vintage cars
on the grass for an impromptu car show. Bicyclists
are everywhere. “It’s a fiesta,” one crossing guard explains to a neighbor who
needs to drive through the street to get to work. The driver moves slowly
through the crowd.
In the parks,
neighbors listen to music, dance, eat pizza, give opinions on city issues, and
hang out in the shade, gossiping. Kids climb over the play structures, chase
each other around with water bottles, and yell. A few dogs hunt for scraps.
Three folks decide to have a potato sack race and fall over, laughing. Although
there are racks, bikes are everywhere along the perimeters.
Streets, even
highways, are for everyone—walkers, bicyclists, trucks haulers, families in autos,
skateboarders… Cars do not own the
roads. We all do. And, for brief moments in late August, Open Streets reminds
us of this fact. We all share the road.
