Friday, December 28, 2012

Superior

photo by Joeball
As Dead Baby Terry observed at Westlake Center, my sister Deb’s cookies are really something special.  Any homemade baked good is appreciated to be sure, but when you sample one of hers, your taste buds do a double-take.  You’re all like, “Wow.  Mmm.”  And you make the little involuntary sigh of pleasure that impels you to reach into the bag for another.  This is something I’ve long known about her culinary artistry and it’s always a pleasure to share it with others for their enjoyment and edification.

Come to think of it, many a Thursday night ride is like that, too.  You show up at Westlake Center thinking, “Okay, here I am; there’s all those other bike-riding assholes; this should be relatively palatable as a way to spend an evening.”

But then, you get out on the route, which includes and unprecedented Home Depot stop and a stirring jaunt through the industrial bowels of the city to a destination whose bonfire potential requires no importing of fuel whatsoever, and as the flames rise higher and the conviviality grows louder, you realize that, as a matter of fact, this is way better than you imagined it might be; your heart does a double-take and remember you should never ever take this shit for granted because it’s really quite remarkable even if you’ve done it before, more or less.

The full moon was so bright that it produced a barely visible spectrum in the mist surrounding it and gave us all moonshadows to follow if we wanted to notice.  I took the opportunity to scream at the top of my lungs for a bit and dance around like Stinky Pete.

Eventually, the flames died down and the beer ran out so it was up and down the hill and over the much-missed Airport Way Bridge to the old standby singing joint.  And even though the karaoke machine only showed background radiation, not words, it was still superior to predictions.

Friday, December 21, 2012

Wassail

It was a genuine Christmas miracle, as the skies, which had been spitting rain all day long, cleared up just in time for Santa and his attendant gang of cycling miscreants to depart Westlake Center fueled by holiday spirit, holiday spirits, and a spirited mix of holiday tunes blasting from tehJobies’ soundbike, whose dulcet tones were a joy to the world within earshot as we wended our way through some of the more populated areas of town via routes and pathways accessible only to those on two wheels or behind the reins of a flying sleigh and eight tiny reindeer.

In fact, the sole cloud cover all evening was precipitated by the decision of an especially festive Derrick to light a campfire underneath the park shelter roof thereby creating an inversion of greenhouse gasses that did little to warm our tiny corner of the planet but managed to momentarily blot out the shimmering stars and glittering quarter moon that were in evidence to anyone on the outside looking up.

Plus, the world didn’t end as predicted, an outcome that would have been particularly a shame given how much hot water there was to consume, thanks to the shared efforts of Santa’s thermos-bearing helpers.

It’s been a somber holiday season so far, due in no small part to the senseless tragedy in Newtown, Connecticut, last week, but there comes a time, I think, when the memories of those lost and their loved ones are appropriately served by a reclaiming of the festive mood, and so, while it seemed to take a little time for the toddies and tunes to make holiday magic happen, there’s no doubt that most in attendance were lit up like Christmas trees by the time we pedaled westward to Freelard for a nightcap or three.

Santa Claus is coming to town and we are admonished not to pout or cry; when he’s with you on a bike ride, though, who needs any such reminders?

Sunday, December 16, 2012

Christaster

There’s not much I really want for Christmas: world peace, full funding for higher education in the state of Washington, a new 650B wheel with a Son dynamo hub, because other than these, I’ve already received all that any nice (or naughty) little boy or girl could ever hope for in the form of yet another successful Point83 holiday Christaster, orchestrated with singular aplomb by the Angry Hippy, whose attention to detail in the golf-themed race course ought to put him right up there with Tiger Woods himself even though the mood of the event was more in keeping with your John Daly modes of consumption and excess.

I mean, you’ve got to love a race that features not one but three separate starting points, the second of which is designated as “finish” on the map.  (And if starting at the end isn’t an apt metaphor for these sorts of bike-fueled shenanigans, I don’t know what is.)

As for me, even though a slight overindulgence in holiday baked goods left me too distracted to complete the entire route, I did manage to achieve all desired three outcomes for the course: getting lost in the woods, experiencing the magic discovery of lights like Galadriel’s elves in the forest, and, ultimately, making it to the finish line for hot toddies and Reindeer Games.

I eschewed the eggnog-chugging, cigar-puffing, and lake-swimming, thereby eliminating any chances I might have had for a much-needed mulligan but no matter, victory was mine in the end, as I garnered a Lifetime Achievement Clappy Award for waiting longer than anyone else in the vicinity has even lived for marijuana to finally be legal.

My white elephant gift-bag pick was a winner, too, filled with variety of analgesics certain to come in handy on many occasions, although, perhaps surprisingly, no Advil or Ben-Gay is called for this morning, an eventuality I attribute mainly to the therapeutic effects of holiday cheer as embodied by another successful Christaster.

Friday, December 7, 2012

High

It’s not as big a deal as the long-awaited legal sanction for the basic human right to marry the person of your choice even if he or she happens to be the same sex as you, but there’s still something significant about what Timothy Leary called the “Fifth Freedom”—the right to get high”—finally being embodied in law and thus, worthy of being celebrated, naturally on two wheels, and especially when December’s monsoons hold off the entire evening despite being forecast by meteorological prognosticators all day long.

In full OCD mode, I was determined to get to the highest point in Seattle to commemorate the occasion, and bless what Mom used to call the “pointy pea-picking hearts” of my cycling brethren for indulging me not only the initial ascents but also the entire dance card of activities I felt one needed to complete before leaving the room, including even more ups and down just so ice-cream could be eaten in spite of the fact that the inclusion of a munchies stop is, to more than one expert in the herbal art of consciousness derangement more stereotypical than actual—a point that didn’t stop yours truly from scarfing down two oddly-delicious scoops of salted caramel at the pinball parlor.

Along the way, we surprised a charming young couple who weren’t aware that their trysting spot was one of the evening’s destinations and were also flabbergasted ourselves by the pink-lipped biker chick who felt compelled to remind us that White Center was her turf in a manner that, I at least, (in the state of mind I found myself), couldn’t really determine whether was intended as friendly or not.

In the end, though, mission fucking accomplished, as evidenced not only by the facts of the case themselves but also by the unprecedented experience of desiring no more elevation as we pedaled away from High Point even though, according to John Law himself, I had every right to partake.