Emulsion

On the way to the meet-up, when I ran across him near the downtown library, Shaddup Joe opined that some people aren’t really happy unless they’re miserable.

And that seems right.

In fact, it was perfectly well illustrated during the route from Westlake, through the woods and over numerous rivers in parking lots and at intersections, to Wizard Staff Park, in a downpour loud enough to simulate the sound of public fountains as water poured off the roof of park shelters and in rivulets down one’s neck and cuffs on a night the weather gods seemed determined to make amends for the unseasonably dry autumn we’ve had so far.

Drowned rats never had it so good.

(But when Fancy Fred announces that he has a plan for exploring dark and twisty roads that few of us have ever been on before, bike riders come out—unless they’re sissies [who, it turns out, according to graffiti I keep seeing all over town, rule!]—even if the deluge begins right at the allotted rendezvous moment, an eventuality that I, at least, attribute to that long-haired sorcerer pulling out all the stops to make things interesting for those who arrived.)

The more puzzling question is whether it’s possible that some folks aren’t miserable unless they’re happy; that one seems less intuitively likely.

However, I can imagine this converse combination, too, and did, as we wound through the Cowen Park corkscrew.  Joyfully splashing along over tree roots and fallen branches, I couldn’t help but feel sad for anyone missing out on the fun and while it might be pushing it to say that was misery, the additional fact that you could be loving the company lends credence to the claim.

Joeball and I talked about riding gingerly on newly-soaked streets when the oil rises and cars doe-see-doe at summery speeds; ultimately, my own sodden route was neither particularly long nor fast, but ultimately, it was as miserably happy as could be.