Friday, March 26, 2010

Wellington

When I said, fairly hilariously, I might add, that Lake City would remain my “Beef Wellington,” of course I meant my “Waterloo,” but really, this wasn’t quite accurate either because that term is synonymous with defeat, and even though I failed in my ongoing attempt to see the ride arrive that the Rimrock Steakhouse, I still count the evening as a rousing success: there was plenty of riding on dirt and gravel, booze was drunk outside (in a fucking gale, practically), and we overtook a watering hole that’s skeezy enough, I’m sure, to be listed in the Anthropologist’s big book of dives.

So, rather, I will continue to view the so-called “Lake Shitty” as my Moby Dick, or were I the Angry Hippy, as my Richmond Beach, always out there, beckoning with its charms, or lack thereof, an aspiration to be embraced someday, somehow, another fucking thing for my goddamn bucket list.

I can see it, though: of a summer night, after a swim at Matthews Beach, the sun still not quite completely set as we pedal in the warm crepuscular glow, arriving almost before you know it, a far cry from the death march it would have been last night, even though it was obvious that as long as we kept heading north, things wouldn’t be too bad.

The prospect of return, however, was too daunting and the promise of the magic corkscrew ride through Cowen Park too alluring and thus it was the Knarr, appearing unwashed, like Josephine taking Napoleon’s alleged advice, “Ne te lave pas, je reviens” to welcome us home, or a reasonable approximation thereof.

It turns out that 53 is a pretty big number; less than half that many ounces of tequila were consumed, but I don’t count that as a failure, either, because it means more than half that many are left, which seems to me the apt metaphor for “failure;” it’s simply success that has yet come to pass.

Wednesday, March 24, 2010

Vibrators

At the pre-funk, somebody—I think it was stoner Adam (no, not that one, the other one!)—mentioned he didn’t think he’d ever seen me on a Tuesday night ride. I explained that the occasion was spring break and recalled that I’m pretty sure the last time I made the early-week meet-up was, as a matter of fact, this very same week last year.

In any case, it was a beautiful evening for a ride and I was surprised so few came out, especially after I expressed the hope that folks would assist me in gathering up a few additional prizes for the Prime Time Trial, thanks to the generous offer of free vibrators from The Love Zone “adult” boutique in Ballard, although it seemed to me more like Crown Hill.

Megan, the clerk at the store, who unlike every other porno shop employee I’ve ever seen wasn’t a creepy meth-head guy wasn’t phased at all by the arrival of half a dozen bike riders clutching coupons for the free giveaway, although she did decline to let me use the restroom, saying that “due to the nature of our business, we can’t allow people access,” which, upon reflection, made perfect sense, especially when you noticed the large display for a featured lubricant product called “Jack Jelly.”

Eww, although naturally, I had to buy a sample to throw in the prize pile for Saturday.

Afterwards, we rode to the Golden City bar where the drinks were stiff and a guy sort of tried to pick a fight with Bill because he didn’t order a lemon wedge to go with his hefeweisen.

And then it was on to the area north of the dog park at Golden Gardens where Alec was setting up his homemade hammock to sleep suspended outside. I thought it might make the vibrator more desirable as a prize if word got out that it spent the night with him, but ultimately, thought better of it.