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.