Funereal

The word “morbid” comes from the Latin word “morbus” meaning “diseased” and someone could argue that the idea to stage a pre-emptive funeral ride for a couple of brothers with a morbid fascination for getting hit by cars is clearly the product of a diseased imagination, but if so, you have to appreciate the irony a death-themed occasion giving rise to such a life-affirming experience, one to be fondly remembered for all this lifetime and perhaps even beyond the beyond.

My heart swelled with pride to see two Haulin’ Colin trailers transformed into bicycle hearses and my eyes went wide in awe to witness not only the cycling prowess of tehSchott and Tall Fred in pulling their human cargo but also the intestinal fortitude of Wreyfords Junior and Senior who consented to be pulled in makeshift coffins all the way crosstown like corpses—albeit ones who could eat and drink on the way.

In The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, Twain’s hero gets to attend his own funeral and hear all the townspeople waxing rhapsodic about his life and how badly he’ll be missed now that he’s drowned; last night our fraternal heroes got to enjoy that once-in-a-lifetime opportunity themselves as—not an entire town, but at least two or three drunken sots—sang their praises, accompanied by Seattle’s own best impression of a New Orleans funeral band.

I burned in effigy the custom mini coffin that the darling daughter fashioned from duct tape and cardboard for me in hopes of exorcising the demons that keep making cars run into the Brothers W. and apparently it’s worked so far as—unlike on so many past Friday mornings—the internetz yield no reports of Wreyford crashes (although admittedly, they did ride home in cars.)

Statistically speaking, yours truly, with more than two decades on the boys, is likely to beat them both to the grave; now when it’s my turn for real, I want a wake just like theirs.

Combination

It’s right up there with this as winner of most annoying song in history, but it sure inspires an excellent bike ride, as the Combination Pizza Hit and Taco Bell drew us way across the lake and through a maze of suburban neighborhoods, before appearing, in all its shiny plastic glory miles and miles away from our start—but still less than half of the way we would eventually ride on a summer night so soft and lovely on planet Earth that rocks were falling from the heavens in hopes of joining the fun.

I only saw one meteor streak across the sky, but I guess that was enough given all the other stellar delights I got to enjoy, including a forest trail ride on what I assume was—strangely juxtaposed—a campus of the evil computer software empire.

And besides, how could a person want anything more when he gets to hang out and drink beer in the middle of the night at a huge concrete bowl devoted specifically to bicycle racing and even has the opportunity to savor the combination thrill of victory and agony of defeat when both wagering on and participating in two-wheeled suds-fueled competitions himself?

Destinations are commonly shouted out as the bike gang leaves a place—“The Knarr! Goldies! Harborview!” but I never before remember one called for (and reached!) something like 18 miles and more than an hour away, and yet I arrived at the College Inn Pub just as last call was announced from within as I locked up outside and even in time for a nightcap, another combination of luck and good timing on an evening of such unusual alliances.

Just think of all the world’s dynamic duos: Batman and Robin, Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers, King Kong vs. Godzilla, even Combination fucking Pizza Hut and Taco Bell; worthy candidates all, but in my book, pale when compared to the best pairing of all: you and your bike.

Slide

It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that combining fifty or so bicycle-riding troublemakers with five handles of whiskey, enough gallons of lemonade to disguise its taste, a city park that just happens to have an outdoor water spigot hookup, a fully-functional Wham-O Slip N Slide Double Rider, and a box full of handheld multi-colored laser pens is going to result in an unforgettable evening of hilarity and nonsense, but it does, I think, require some kind of twisted genius to come up with the idea in the first place.

And then, you’ve got to be committed enough to the cause that you’re willing to haul all the shit out there in your bike basket and panniers, including a fifty foot length of garden hose, but in the end, it’s got to be all worthwhile when you see heat after heat of sodden revelers throw themselves down the plastic raceway in an effort to snag the winning flag, with amazingly, not a single broken neck nor dislocated shoulder.

All most of us had to do, thanks again to tehJobies annual largesse on the eve of the Dead Baby Downhill, was just show up and ride (and drink, of course), and although I regret slightly not partaking of the slipping and sliding myself, I’m glad there were plenty of others more willing to risk life and limb in the pursuit of pleasure than me to provide so many lolz.

My favorite image of the night was a shirtless, back-lit Miles spraying racers with the garden hose as they streamed down the track; he could have been a bronze statue in the Bizarro-world version of the Trevi fountain in Rome; then somebody else (maybe Kevin?) took over and the way he held it was, by contrast, all Manneken Pis.

Still, each was perfect in its own way, which is pretty much my assessment of the evening overall, as well; distinctive brilliance is required for such manifest stupidity.