Lost

My favorite part of that unexpectedly early evening last night was splitting off from the taco bus and riding around on streets in Mount Baker, most of which I know not quite like the back of my hand, but which I’ve been on plenty of times before, yet which looked—under the influence of a perfectly dry and cool fall night—delightfully unfamiliar, so much so that it took me way longer than expected to circle around from El Asadero, north by magnificent-looking Franklin High, then east, I guess, up the hill which it occurred to me must be what the neighborhood takes its name from before finally wending my merry way through streets of nice houses to downhill and the Rainier Safeway where I bought batteries for my tired light, then pedaled back to meet up with the ride just as it was leaving the food stop.

But I also liked pacing along Lake Washington Boulevard even though a trio of cars found it necessary to flash their high beams at us in what I couldn’t tell whether was a friendly gesture to light our way or an angry message that we should get the hell out of the road—at least until at the first opportunity which presented itself, each one roared by, which seemed sort of silly given that, if they were driving anywhere near the posted speed of 25, couldn’t have earned them more than five miles an hour, and maybe even less, given how we were (at least it seemed to me) flying.

And I was riding the Tournesol, which I haven’t been taking out the much of late, so that even final goodbye hill up Madrona Boulevard unspooled strangely gentle, and so unfamiliar that I failed to recognize my own street the first time past it and had to circle around the block to return to a place I see every day but which rarely ever get to be so sweetly lost in.

Hobo

While we were meeting up for the .83 ride at Westlake Center last night, there was this guy in full Cletus garb—dirty white overalls, no shirt—raging around the fountain flapping his arms, and those of us who saw him remarked that he seemed to be setting the bar for crazed hobo behavior pretty high, but predictably, before the evening was out. that sort of thing would seem pretty tame by comparison to any number of the antics of those assembled to ride, and ride we did, reasonably far south, way past Georgetown, to a brand-new little corner of the universe overlooking the Duwamish, dubbed, IIRC, the “Hidden Hobo Fire Pit” (or HHFP), where much booze was drunk—(and a good portion spit, in flaming blasts into and over the fire)—several pies were eaten, and at least one used condom was scooped up with a stick, waved around threateningly, and then dropped into the flames where, thankfully, it disappeared, never to be seen again.

And although, at first blush, the place seemed hardly a destination nightspot, its charms, once the fire was burning and the bourbon and tequila started flowing, were revealed: with the fast-running Duwamish all silvery in the background and only so much space to maneuver in on the hillside, plus a sweet little bench for the most inebriated to sit on, the HHFP has to be the coziest of all the places we’ve been to around town for burning shit outside at night.

One of my favorite moments was when, as we were gearing up to leave, Miles went all Stinky Pete/Walter Brennan/Walter Huston and called those who were dawdling something like “goddamn douchebag motherfuckers” (now I remember: douchecock sonzabitches! which, in hobo-speak has got to be a term of endearment, but I also liked, at the end of the night, discovering a new taco truck, El Trompo Loco, next to the nightclub El Gallo D’Oro, whose veggie tacos are the new favorite of this douchecock sonzabitch bike hobo, anyway.

Predictable

photo by joeball

Life is full of surprises, which is why the predictable can be such a comfort.

Even before I arrived at the Little Red Hen, after watching the all-but-scripted Vice-Presidential debate, and following a route from school could practically do in my sleep, I knew that the night would include more drinking than pedaling, somebody starting up “Livin’ on a Prayer" while riding and others joining in on the chorus , at least one instance where wrestlers would be pulled apart from each other, and eventually, a fire that at some point would get jumped over and/or into.

And events did not disappoint.

Were I, like Spealunker Sean, only in town for a brief period before heading out for who-knows-what-might-happen, nothing would make me feel better than to see how the wheels and cranks keep turning with some regularity and that the Thursday night checklist gets checked off, including, but not limited to: pretty much taking over some divey tavern with beer-swilling cyclists, arriving en masse at some mini-mart to load up on PBR cans, inviting some random stranger—this one, who of all things, played the saw—to join us in our revels, and as another long-time-no-see familiar face, the speedy Jillita points out, some banked-upon opportunity for Henry to be down to his skivvies before the night is out.

Much is made, of course, of novelty and indeed, the new and different is to be cultivated as we grow, but, still, there’s something to be said for knowing more or less how things will transpire, the unspooling of events like pages in a flip book animation which, when recalled with a few gaps the next morning, nevertheless has scenes one has seen and enjoyed before.

Which isn’t to say that all of it was old hat: for instance, I’d never witnessed anybody in .83 slow-dance to Patsy Cline before and I can never recall a Thursday night in early October being so warm and dry, ever.