As a matter of fact, one might actually aspire to being miles from home, well after midnight, deep in one’s cups, with only a bicycle for transportation. And while it took the entire night to get there, eventually the goal was met and I achieved my hoped-for post-last call two-wheeled ramble home on what turned out to be an exceptionally clear and cool early spring evening in the Pacific Northwest.
I caught up with the a ride a couple hours into it as it rolled up 19th Avenue from the Bridge to Nowhere (which, according to Andre is now, once again, somewhere, albeit a glass-strewn one) and thanks to a family sushi dinner pre-funk that included two giant orders of sake, was more or less in the same place psychologically as the riders who had started their evening’s booze n’ cruise earlier than me.
We headed to the inevitable ride-suck that is Capitol Hill to spend a couple of amusing (although essentially bike-free) hours at Organ Karaoke, an event made almost palatable by Fancy Fred and Lee’s rendition of the “it” song of he moment and by the generous shots poured by the tragically hip bartender.
Still, I was glad to be out of there at last and on the way to outdoor imbibing, even though a detour for nightcaps at some drinking establishment whose details escape me now meant that I at least, never did arrive at have no recollection whatsoever of Gasworks Park—nor, if truth be told did anyone else, if I recall correctly (not that there’s any reason whatsoever to suppose that in fact, I do.)
although, apparently, it must have happened because, as is required, there ARE pics.
Nevertheless, in the end, I got to enjoy most of what one looks for on a Thursday night ride: conviviality, shenanigans, and eventually, a sufficient number of miles out riding one’s bike—despite the fact some of the last ones are sort of lost in the kind of mist one occasionally is apt to experience internally even on such a cloudless night.
I caught up with the a ride a couple hours into it as it rolled up 19th Avenue from the Bridge to Nowhere (which, according to Andre is now, once again, somewhere, albeit a glass-strewn one) and thanks to a family sushi dinner pre-funk that included two giant orders of sake, was more or less in the same place psychologically as the riders who had started their evening’s booze n’ cruise earlier than me.
We headed to the inevitable ride-suck that is Capitol Hill to spend a couple of amusing (although essentially bike-free) hours at Organ Karaoke, an event made almost palatable by Fancy Fred and Lee’s rendition of the “it” song of he moment and by the generous shots poured by the tragically hip bartender.
Still, I was glad to be out of there at last and on the way to outdoor imbibing, even though a detour for nightcaps at some drinking establishment whose details escape me now meant that I at least, never did arrive at have no recollection whatsoever of Gasworks Park—nor, if truth be told did anyone else, if I recall correctly (not that there’s any reason whatsoever to suppose that in fact, I do.)
although, apparently, it must have happened because, as is required, there ARE pics.
Nevertheless, in the end, I got to enjoy most of what one looks for on a Thursday night ride: conviviality, shenanigans, and eventually, a sufficient number of miles out riding one’s bike—despite the fact some of the last ones are sort of lost in the kind of mist one occasionally is apt to experience internally even on such a cloudless night.