Resiliancy

The next to last thing I remember was somebody saying “where is everybody?” and then someone said, “Well, Nova’s here, so we’re all here,” and then we were cruising down First and she hit a pothole, her feet popped off her pedals and then what I saw was her front wheel turning, crumbling beneath her and then she was diving over her handlebars and her bike rolled over her.

She lay there for long enough that it seemed like she might not get up, but then she did; Derrick in his Santa costume checked her over and we all decided to escort her to the hospital which we managed eventually, even though Kris Fucking Kringle insisted on taking a detour including at least two through traffic, but then, there we were and our hero had her bike on her shoulder carrying it into the emergency room.

Resiliance. That’s what I like about my bike gang; we persevere.

And counterpoint: one minute we’re like some sort of Special Operations Unit taking over the street to care for a fallen comrade, the next we’re a bunch of drunks in Mustard Bottle costumes, furry monkey suits, and Buster Brown outfits weaving through traffic on our way to Dick’s.

And mechanicals: A safety meeting before Ravenna Park, where the zip line provided limitless opportunities for innovation and entertainment, capped off by four on a swing and bruises for Cowgirl Laura on her Bianchi horse.

And exuburance: Cackling like a madman as we rode up the Ave; the Halloween spirits beginning to emerge.

And then it was Duncan with Tyler bragging about how many times he had already crashed on his way to Aladdin falafel, but they made it: that’s perseverance.

I’ve heard a chain is only as strong as its weakest link; I say, it’s only as strong as it mends the broken ones.

This chain of fools carried on and I’m sure without me, but no missing links; that’s resilience.

Aww...

When I was a scrawny four-eyed geek of a teenager, I got called “homo” all the time; not because I wanted to have sex with males—except my social studies teacher, Brother Bernard, but that was to get an “A" in the class—but because, I think, I simply loved my friends too much and was just geeky enough to let them know in inappropriate ways for an adolescent boy: like giggling and waving my hands about saying something like, “Aw jeez, guys, aren’t we all like the best friends ever?!”

So that’s kinda how I felt like a big homo on the bike ride last night; pedaling along behind the dozens of blinkies winking at me from cyclists up ahead, eavesdropping on conversations of riders behind, shouting “wheee” as we poured down a winding hill to a secluded beachfront in Magnolia; I was all “Awww, ain’t these guys the greatest?" especially after the pre-funked stink butter kicked in—coincidentally, same as last time along the Myrtle Edwards trail, and even before we ended up at Gasworks Park overlooking a hilariously charming skyline view of Seattle, so picturesque that it seemed like a model put together in a Tokyo film studio to be stepped on by Godzilla at the movie’s climax and well before getting all smashed and bleary-eyed sentimental at the Knarr.

In between, I got to talk to the magical Daniel Featherhead at this pizzashop in Ballard about his epic bicycle trip to a piece of land he inherited in New Mexico; I love the idea of setting forth on two wheels to end up at a place whose location you’re unsure of until you get there—which was kind of last night, full of surprises, but none as unexpected as seeing Henry crash sideways on a concrete seam and then DJ Strokey go endo-ver him but fortunately, no broken bones for anyone which I’m glad about because aw man, I just love those pointy-threes, all of them.

Stupidity

The world is a serious, scary place: murder and mayhem everywhere, bird flu virus mutating to a strain more easily spread, K-Fed getting custody of the kids; and the only good news in today’s paper is that Bush’s approval rating continues to spiral downward and the Yankees got pounded 12-3 in game one of the playoffs.

So, I’m glad I live in a place where (relatively) grown men can put on kids’ glow-in-the-dark Halloween skeleton costumes and ride bikes and drink beer in the middle of the night without being arrested, maimed, or thrown in the loony bin; fuck representative democracy, a free press, and 24-hour health clubs—this is what makes our great country great!

Last night’s .83 ride had all the elements that, for me, result in a positively transcendent cycling experience: a reasonably hilly route to an outdoor location in town I haven’t been to before, plenty of recreational intoxicants applied liberally to one’s nervous system, and purely random idiocy taken one step beyond the place it’s annoying to become joyously stupid all over again.

It’s a rare opportunity to ride a bike in a group of more than twenty-five fellow cyclists, drunk on bike love (and cheap beer), while escorting a trio of glowing rib cages and femurs—one with a magenta mullet rattail—and not to be missed if it presents itself, and my only regret is that I didn’t snag the last costume myself at the Grocery Outlet store we stopped at for provisions on the way.

It was Tim Burton's Beetlejuice meets Breaking Away with a hefty dose of Dumb and Dumber thrown in for good measure and I was saved, too, from being a complete dunce by good samaritan Matthew (IIRC) who rescued my bike bag I’d left in the field as we rode away and so pathetic fool that I am, fortunately I’ve got sense enough to ride with people who may be stupid, but at least, unlike me, aren’t dumb.