HARBOR DRIVE

You vote YES. The city erupts. Environmental groups celebrate. Urban planners weep with joy. A park rises where the freeway once stood—grass, trees, the river visible for the first time in decades.

But the Dante's Underground Council is not pleased.

However, Powell's Books is thrilled. The park brings foot traffic. People walk to the river, then to books. It's perfect.

You now face your next critical decision: What should replace the freeway's east-west transportation function?

You vote NO. Harbor Drive stays. Concrete remains. Dante's Underground Council sends a fruit basket to your office (suspicious).

But Portland's environmental movement is furious. Powell's Books, sensing a business downturn in the waterfront area, sends a strongly worded letter accusing you of "betraying the city's intellectual future."

The Screen Door restaurant, sensing that without a park the waterfront remains a wasteland, decides to take matters into their own hands.

Years pass. The freeway thrives. Traffic flows. But Portland's soul slowly dies. No waterfront parks. No revival. Just tired commuters.

And then one day, you receive a letter. Hand-delivered. From Dante's Underground Council.

Smart choice. Harbor Drive becomes Tom McCall Waterfront Park. The Mount Hood Freeway is constructed eastbound via Division and Powell, routing long-distance traffic toward Gresham and Hood River. The Banfield stays functional.

Portland achieves balance: a thriving waterfront park AND functional transportation.

But then a federal bureaucrat arrives with bad news: the government is demanding a decision on I-205. A second interstate loop around Portland's east side has been deferred for decades. No more waiting.

Your engineering team presents three proposals:

You stand up at the city council meeting and make an announcement that will echo through Portland history:

"We're replacing Harbor Drive with a lazy river. Not metaphorically. A literal, continuous lazy river. Tubing. Inner tubes. Water rides directly through downtown Portland along the waterfront."

The room goes silent. Then chaos. Some people cry. Some cheer. The Dante's Underground Council is literally confused—they can't decide if this is genius or insanity.

But Voodoo Donuts sees the ultimate opportunity.

Harbor Drive Lazy River #1 is now a fait accompli. The city is buzzing. But transportation planners are panicking—you've removed a major arterial. What do you do about the Banfield Expressway, and how do you replace the lost traffic capacity?

You announce it: "The Banfield Expressway? Lazy river now too. Two lazy rivers. Portland's infrastructure is now 70% aquatic."

Portland's traffic network becomes half waterway, half asphalt. Commuters are confused. Engineers resign in protest. Voodoo Donuts stock rises 400%.

But there's a catastrophic problem.

Powell's Books, seeing the economic collapse coming, abandons the waterfront and relocates to Eugene. Screen Door becomes a food cart. Even Dante's goes dark temporarily—the Underground Council convenes for an emergency meeting that lasts 8 hours.

By 2008, Portland has no choice. The city declares partial bankruptcy. The Tualatin Valley—that suburban nothingness nobody thought about—becomes a refuge.

Smart move. Harbor Drive becomes a lazy river. The Mount Hood Freeway is constructed eastbound via Division and Powell, routing long-distance traffic toward Gresham. The Banfield stays functional.

Portland achieves an impossible balance: maximum weirdness AND functional transportation.

Before the ink is dry, a cycling collective has blockaded Burnside Street. They've painted it green. They're demanding a permanent protected bike lane. They look determined and caffeinated.

You approve it. Burnside is painted green from the river to 82nd. Cyclists cheer. The lazy river flows. The Mount Hood Freeway hums eastward. Everything is working.

Then the federal government arrives with one more demand.

You reject the bike lane. Burnside stays mixed traffic. The cyclists disperse, furious, muttering about long memories and longer organizational timelines.

Dante's approves. The federal government, oblivious to all of this, arrives immediately with another demand.

You announce it all at once in a rambling 45-minute speech:

"Harbor Drive becomes a lazy river. The Banfield ALSO becomes a lazy river. The Mount Hood Freeway is built. EVERYTHING exists simultaneously."

The city council has a collective aneurysm. Three members retire immediately. Two start cults (separate cults). One just stares at the infrastructure map without blinking for 6 hours.

But something genuinely miraculous happens: it works.

Three simultaneous modes of transportation operate at once: freeway traffic heading east via Division and Powell, two lazy rivers for the whimsical, and somehow—defying physics and economics—it all functions.

Powell's Books opens a 400,000-square-foot waterfront mega-location with a Powell's-branded lazy river boat. Screen Door's underwater brunch concept actually launches with a Michelin star. Voodoo Donuts achieves market dominance through lazy river delivery service.

But then—

A street has been claimed. Not by the city government. By cyclists. Through direct action. And they will not relinquish it.

You announce the plan: the Mount Hood Freeway will run eastbound via Division and Powell to Gresham, replacing Harbor Drive's lost traffic capacity. And the Banfield Expressway — I-84, the backbone of Portland's east-west traffic — will become Lazy River #2.

Transportation engineers stare at the ceiling for a long time. Several tender their resignations. One just starts laughing and doesn't stop.

The Mount Hood Freeway opens eastbound. Traffic flows to Gresham. Meanwhile the Banfield — the old I-84 corridor through the lower Gorge approach — fills with water. Inner tubes appear. Bemused Gresham commuters find themselves tubing home.

Then the federal government arrives, unimpressed, demanding a decision on I-205.

You announce it: the Mount Hood Freeway goes in eastbound via Division and Powell. And the Banfield Expressway — I-84 — is decommissioned as a freeway and rebuilt as a surface-level boulevard. Trees. Sidewalks. Bike lanes. Street crossings. The full European urban treatment applied to a former interstate.

Paris did this with the Pompidou Expressway. Seoul did it with the Cheonggyecheon. Portland will do it with the Banfield.

The Banfield Boulevard project is hailed internationally. Urban planners from Copenhagen visit. A documentary is made. Portland is, briefly, not weird in a bad way—weird in a visionary way.

Then the Burnside cyclists arrive.

You announce it: the Mount Hood Freeway goes in eastbound via Division and Powell. And the Banfield Expressway — the full width of I-84, all six-plus lanes, the shoulders, the median, everything — is converted into a protected bike path.

Not a bike lane. A bike expressway. The widest dedicated cycling infrastructure in the United States. Possibly the world. A velodrome that goes from the Rose Quarter to Troutdale.

The cycling community loses its collective mind. Portland becomes international news. The New York Times runs a headline: "Portland Converts Interstate to Bike Path, Remains Unclear If This Is Genius or Collapse."

The Banfield Bike Expressway becomes the most-used cycling infrastructure in North America. Commuters from Gresham bike in on a twelve-lane velodrome. The Mount Hood Freeway handles car traffic. Voodoo Donuts serves the riders. Powell's Books opens a cycling-accessible location at every former on-ramp.

Dante's Underground Council — furious at first — eventually opens a series of nightclubs along the bike path. Turns out, cyclists party harder than anyone expected.

You choose the 52nd Street corridor. Closer to downtown. More efficient. But it cuts through established neighborhoods—Parkrose, Montavilla, South Tabor, Gateway. Thousands of homes displaced.

It's the practical choice. It's also brutal.

Now there's one final decision: the cyclists have blockaded Burnside again. Will you accommodate them?

You choose the 92nd Street corridor. Further out. Less dense. But it spreads sprawl eastward—new developments follow the freeway like moths to flame. Gresham explodes outward. Troutdale becomes a boomtown.

It's the suburban choice. It's also Portland's future.

Once again, the cyclists have blockaded Burnside. Your final choice.

You reject both freeway corridors. Instead, you propose something radical: convert 82nd Street into a beautiful parkway. Trees. Grass. A grand ceremonial entrance to Portland International Airport. No more highway expansion.

The federal government is stunned. Portland is choosing NOT to build a freeway?

The cyclists, seeing your commitment to non-freeway thinking, don't even blockade Burnside. They respect your decision.

The 82nd Street Lazy River to PDX is open and beloved. Portlanders tube to the airport. Voodoo Donuts operates a departure lounge kiosk. Everything is fine.

You are not satisfied. You want more water.

The Banfield Expressway sits there, wide and asphalt and boring. You stare at it. It stares back. You know what it could become.

Harbor Drive became Lazy River #1. Now 82nd Street becomes Lazy River #2, running north to Portland International Airport.

Two lazy rivers. The Mount Hood Freeway running east. The Banfield still intact. Portland has achieved a bizarre equilibrium.

With two lazy rivers in place, a city engineer notices something extraordinary on a map. Harbor Drive (Lazy River #1) runs along the waterfront. 82nd Street (Lazy River #2) runs north to PDX. A bypass canal around the airport's north boundary connects to the Columbia River. The Columbia flows west back toward the city. The Willamette runs south. A Milwaukie Extension east connects back to 82nd.

It's the Great Loop. Two artificial rivers, two natural ones, one complete circuit.

Do you fund the Milwaukie Extension and airport bypass canal to complete it? Or do you keep building more lazy rivers until something geological objects?

You announce it calmly, as if this is perfectly reasonable: "We're not building I-205. Instead, 82nd Street becomes a lazy river running from the inner city out to Portland International Airport."

The federal government is baffled. The engineering team is silent for four minutes. Then someone says "actually that's technically feasible" and everything accelerates.

The 82nd Street Lazy River opens. Portlanders tube to the airport. It works. It actually works. Flight check-in now includes a "drying station."

But then something unexpected happens. Northeast and Southeast Portland, watching the 82nd corridor become a beloved aquatic artery, start building their own neighborhood lazy rivers and canals without asking permission. By the time City Hall notices, inner Sellwood has a canal. Woodstock has a canal. The Buckman neighborhood has converted three streets to waterways. Alberta Arts District has a lazy river running its entire length.

Someone at the Portland Bureau of Transportation writes a memo titled "We Have Lost Control Of The Water Situation." It is never formally addressed.

A city engineer, staring at a map covered in blue marker lines representing spontaneous citizen canals, has a revelation. The 82nd Street Lazy River runs north to Portland International Airport. From there, a bypass canal can be cut around the airport's north boundary to connect with the Columbia River. The Columbia flows west back toward the city. The Willamette runs south through Portland. A Milwaukie extension of the lazy river connects back to the Willamette's east bank.

It's a complete loop.

The city council votes to fund the Milwaukie Extension and the airport bypass canal. The Columbia and Willamette do the rest for free, as rivers do.

The Mount Hood Freeway handles car traffic. The Great Loop handles everything else.

You announce it with absolute certainty: "We're building a lazy river from downtown Portland all the way to Portland International Airport via 82nd Street. An aquatic highway to the skies."

The city council looks at you like you're insane. They may be right.

Construction begins immediately. The lazy river tunnel toward the airport is dug. Water is pumped eastward at massive volume.

Then, on Day 47 of construction, the ground shakes.

You watch from the commissioner's office as the news breaks. Mount Hood hasn't erupted in 400 years. But the pressure is building. The water. The pumping. The disruption of the volcanic system.

Three days later, it happens.

You stand before the city council and announce something that will reshape Portland's destiny:

"We're not going to choose between I-205 corridors. We're building them ALL. And while we're at it, we're finishing the work that was started but abandoned decades ago."

You pull out a map covered in red ink. Every freeway Portland ever planned but rejected. Every corridor that was studied, debated, and killed.

The Rose City Freeway — Running east from the current termination of the Fremont Bridge, just east of I-5, cutting through Northeast Portland toward Troutdale along the U.S. 30 corridor.

The Northwest Industrial Freeway — A massive 6-lane upgrade to U.S. 30, transforming it from a surface street into a high-speed arterial running west and northwest through the industrial district, past St. Helens, toward Astoria at the mouth of the Columbia River on the coast.

The State Route 217 Extension — Connecting Beaverton with the Industrial Northwest near the St. Johns Bridge. The route requires a prohibitively expensive tunnel bore UNDER Forest Park. Several miles of boring. Millions per foot.

Plus I-205 in BOTH corridors—52nd AND 92nd. Dual I-205 loops for ultimate redundancy.

Construction begins. Bulldozers appear everywhere. Concrete is poured. Asphalt spreads like a plague. The Rose City Freeway cuts through Northeast Portland toward Troutdale along the U.S. 30 corridor. U.S. 30 itself becomes a thunderous six-lane speedway running west through the industrial district, past St. Helens, all the way to Astoria on the coast. The 217 tunnel boring begins—drilling under Forest Park, under trees that have stood for 500 years.

Years pass. Freeway after freeway opens. Traffic flows beautifully. Commute times drop. It's perfect.

For exactly six months.

But the traffic keeps flowing. The freeways are efficient. Commute times are excellent. The trade-off is Portland's livability.

You approve the Burnside bike lane. Despite building I-205 through 52nd, you make room for cyclists. Balance, of sorts.

You reject the bike lane. Freeway construction takes priority. Burnside remains mixed traffic.

You approve Burnside as a bike lane. I-205 sprawls eastward via 92nd. Portland grows outward, but the core remains livable.

You reject the bike lane. I-205 spreads eastward. Portland grows outward. Burnside remains a car corridor.

You approve the Burnside bike lane. You sign the decree. You unveil it in a ceremony. Cyclists cheer. The street is painted green. Burnside becomes a symbol of Portland's commitment to two-wheeled transportation.

The lazy river flows. The Mount Hood Freeway hums with traffic. Bikes dominate Burnside. All three systems work in harmony.

You reject the Burnside bike lane. You send an official letter. Burnside remains for mixed traffic. Cars, buses, trucks, pedestrians, cyclists all competing for space.

The cyclists do not forgive. They remember. They plan.

You accept it. You sign the decree. Division Street is now a bike lane. Not through official channels. Through sheer cyclist will and direct action.

The cyclists, stunned by your acceptance, actually respect you.

You order the police to clear Division Street. The cyclists refuse. What happens next is the largest bike-based civil disobedience event in North American history.

Thousands of cyclists. Thousands of fixed-gear bikes. Division Street becomes a war zone—but a peaceful, pedal-powered war zone.

No bikes. No new freeway. Just beautiful, European-style streetcars. Simple. Elegant. Portland-ish.

Powell's Books approves immediately—pedestrians everywhere mean book sales. Dante's is neutral (streetcars don't bring nightclub traffic). Voodoo Donuts opens a streetcar-specific donut concept anyway.

You choose bike lanes. Protected, painted, beautiful bike lanes everywhere. The freeway space is converted to an 8-lane bike superhighway.

The city transforms. Cars become secondary. Bikes become primary. Even buses seem like dinosaurs.

You do it. You actually build a protected bike lane on the Banfield Expressway itself. Cars on one side. Bikes on the other. Moving at different speeds. In opposite directions (mostly).

It shouldn't work. Traffic engineers say it's impossible. But it works.

You say no. The Banfield stays as a pure freeway. Some infrastructure is sacred. Some systems need to move cars quickly.

The cyclists accept this. Grudgingly. A truce is established.