Thursday, March 22, 2007

Adventure

I’ve been asked what the hell I’m doing drinking, smoking, and riding bikes with kids half my age and less—and I’ve asked myself that, too.

All sorts of none-too-flattering answers could be given, I’m sure: it’s my midlife crisis; I’m denying my age; I’m just a creepy old guy, and maybe there’s an element of truth in all of those.

But I think the real reason I’m drawn to these regular .83 rides is the opportunity to infuse my staid, middle-class (and middle-aged) existence with some small sense of adventure.

T.S. Eliot said, “Old men should be explorers,” and I agree. When I’m not making at least minor discoveries in my life, having at minimum a few unexpected explorations, I start to feel really old and in the way.

So what’s particularly satisfying about setting out on an evening ride with the bike gang is that, more often than not, I don’t really have a clue about where we’re headed or what’s going to happen.

Last night, for instance, about twenty of us swarmed from Westlake Center in a disorganized mob that somehow re-congregated at Dick’s Burgers near the Seattle Center. Then, after those who wanted them got their meaty gutbombs, it was off down Western, racing traffic towards the Magnolia Bridge.

Another stop in lower Magnolia for beer and Slim Jims, then it really got interesting. We pedaled up into Discovery Park and then dove down a very steep and dark hill to the water, where we rode single-file along the trail to a secluded cove.

Quaffables were quaffed and then came the most adventurous part of the night: we hiked up through the woods, at a fairly furious pace, carrying our bikes to the top of the hill we had descended earlier.

It sort of sucked and was nothing I would have done on my own; I’ll bet few of us will ever do it again.

But there’s no denying it was an adventure.

Thursday, March 15, 2007

Decompartmentalizing

The acquaintances in my life are separated into four fairly distinct groups: I know the teachers I work with, the yogis I practice with, the cyclists I ride with, and the rest—fellow parents, old friends, and neighbors—who I guess I mostly drink, eat, and hang out with.

There doesn’t tend to be much overlap among them.

The yogis, for instance, I hardly ever see outside the studio—and I know only a handful of names—even though with many I have had this strangely intimate but totally detached experience of bending and sweating profusely together three to five times a week for half a dozen years or more.

As for my fellow instructors, all of whom I really appreciate and deeply respect: our time together is pretty much restricted to school. In five years, I’ve only been to one of their houses; I’ve never opened my home to any of them.

My cycling buddies are another class altogether; although Mimi’s met them at the FHR and Jen made the acquaintance of several at the Patchkit, for the most part, their realm is a completely different orbit I travel in.

So it was particularly swell for me last night when, on the regular Thursday evening .83 ride, I had a chance to see two of these groups—the cyclists and the teachers—together in one place for a while.

.83 rode from Westlake Center, over freeway and down Interlaken to Montlake and then up the Ravenna ravine through Northgate with a stop at the Taco truck and ended up at the Pinehurst Pub where a group of Cascadia teachers was celebrating the end of quarter with beer and conversation.

Our wild bunch of around twenty cyclists arrived en masse and pretty took over the joint to the delighted cries of the table of teachers. I felt like the Marlon Brando leading the cavalry, a weird combination to be sure—but so was the one in the Pub.