Friday, October 26, 2012

Masked

As we rolled from Cal Anderson Park, the Caped Crusader asked me whether I was following Fred Flintstone or Elwood Blues; “Neither,” I intoned from behind my witch’s nose and pointy hat, “I’m following a dream, Oh Masked Marauder, following a dream.”

And indeed it was—or became, anyway—one of those chimerical eves where fantasy and reality collide happily and even though at least half of the assembled showed up as pseudo-hipster bike dorks there were still enough fright wigs and fancy hats to make for the sort of annual Halloween-themed shenanigans that this fellow in a dress, anyway, has come to look forward to at October’s end out on two wheels.

Pooh Bear and Ronald McFondle were nowhere to be seen, but the latter’s alter-ego, Bob the Cat-Tree Builder, easily held the fort, as evidenced by his money quote: “Ya wanna get hammered or nailed?” a question that neither college co-eds at Dick’s Drive-In nor flamboyant crooners at Changes Bar dared answer.

On some rides, the miles melt away like butter, on others, you barely break a sweat even in a polyester frock; but sometimes those are the ones on which you cackle with glee all night long, crossing streets by foot to crowd into a place made famous for 21st birthdays but which, it turns out, welcomes pretty much anyone anytime and where the single drinks are doubles and where—despite the fact that most others of those taking the microphone could actually sing—the Karaoke-J still took a moment to thank our gang of loudmouths and Blues Brothers for showing up to play.

It’s been a long time since I’ve made it to the nub of the evening, where bedraggled revelers scoff at local ordinances and build pyres from palettes but this chance was too good to pass up; and although I wasn’t there to see the flames die, I did see them rise as the Dark Knight lay down for a nap.

Friday, October 19, 2012

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.

Friday, October 12, 2012

Weakling

Sometimes, all you’re really up for on a bike ride is the bike ride.

Thanks, in part, to the demise, in the last second of the fourth quarter, of your favorite football team, and no doubt, to a week of work that involved more hand-holding and back-patting of colleagues and students than you’re used to after the recent months of relative leisure, the undeniable appeals of alcohol and fraternity fail to fully appeal.

You wander the bar a bit, impressed that, contrary to history, the assembled have yet to be 86’ed, and then decide it’s time to pedal home.

The route back’s not nearly so amusing as the route there; it doesn’t even involve a walk across the much-loved Ballard Locks, a place where miscreants and scofflaws turn into surprisingly good citizens, merely wondering aloud what constitutes cycling while still doing pretty much exactly what the signs say one must.

Moreover, you realize that even though you’ve left the ride, it still remains with you: every time you see a bike lamp blinking towards you, there’s that little frisson of hope you feel whenever there’s that chance of running across cyclists you know.

Occasionally, you even consider turning back, but the road unfolds too quickly and before you know it, you’re climbing past Convention Centers and hipster bars and then over the topmost top of the last big hill.

There are still stars visible, a phenomenon the weather prognosticators tell us will be in short supply soon, so you dawdle over the vista before plummeting down towards your final destination.

The last few blocks fly by and then you’re putting the rig away and locking it up.  You stand in your backyard while, noticing it’s the earliest you’ve done so on a Thursday in over a month—not bad for an old guy and thus, you can turn in and drop off soothed by the knowledge that there are others still out there, pedaling the night away.

Saturday, October 6, 2012

Routing

There’s a difference between being on A ride and on THE ride, but it seems to me that if you arrive at the place where the cycling miscreants have assembled, then you’re AT it, at least, if not ON it completely, especially if your route there was longer than the one taken by the masses and even more so if previous to your arrival, you’d been hanging out with friends from work enjoying the same sort of free-flowing libations that characterized the earlier part of the evening for the others.

In other words, if the head start they got wasn’t really a head start at all, then, by the time you catch up, it’s fair to say that it’s no longer a matter of catching up at all, but rather, of reminding yourself that as long as it’s a Thursday night and you’re out on two wheels, then you’re pretty much already there, even if you haven’t arrived yet.

I took a route from Kenmore to Crown Hill I wouldn’t have assayed had it been earlier in the day when more cars were out, and, as it was, the shortest distance between two points turned out to be a pretty straight line even if that included a climb up a couple long hills and at least one descent I had to do over when my short-term memory for places was even shorter than usual.

In any case, arriving at the water-wheeling watering hole, I was quickly enveloped in the full-throated conviviality of the assembled, so much so that I was able to stay awake long enough to have the sleepiest ride home I’ve had in a long time, one of those ones where you choose the scariest, least efficient route possible, across high bridges and along busy streets just to make sure you can keep your eyes open until your house finally pulls up in front of you just as if you’d been on the ride all along.