Vista

Statistically, it’s unlikely that I will actually live to be 112 years old, but even if I do, I think it’s even more improbable that I will ever see a last Saturday in March as lovely as the 2013 edition, whose clear blue skies and unseasonably mild temperatures were the perfect backdrop to the 327 Words Halfway There (Livin’ on  a Prayer) Vista Time Trial.

Some half a hundred cyclists 

came out to savor a bouquet of some of the finest views in all of our fair city and compete for magnificent prizes from incredibly generous sponsors and friends, including Jagermeister,  Brooks Saddles,  Bill's Off-Broadway, Haulin’ Colin Trailers, 2020 Cycle, Defeet, Swrve Cycling, Vapolution Vaporizers, SKS Germany,Walz Caps,  Microcosm Publishing, BaileyWorks, Peddlar Brewery, Swift Industries, Bombus Bikes, T Leatherworks, and Alchemy Goods,

Ben the Angry Hippy ended six years of frustration by finishing first—at last—with a time of 1 hour, 23 minutes, and 32 seconds, and finally being able to raise the coveted Vapolution as his own.

Newcomer Sandra Wayman took First Lady with a stellar run of 2:07:25 and making off with a charming little saddlebag from Brooks, so darling it almost didn’t find its way into the prize pile—but alas, conscience prevailed.

In keeping with tradition, the trio of Wang, Tom, and Janelle rolled in after first DFL David Mattuzca, had already claimed last place, thereby earning the coveted honor of Double-Dead Fucking Last and the sharp Jagermeister caps that went along with it.

But, of course, everyone was a winner on a day like this one, none the least being race organizer yours truly, who remains in constant awe of the willingness of so many weird and wonderful human beings to engage in such a random event for no other reason than the sheer experience of it (and, of course, in BTAH’s case, the Vapolution).

My life, if hopeful calculations are correct, may only be half over, but with days like this, it’s already complete.

Tradition

Can you have a tradition of ignoring tradition? 

Because if you do, how can you honor it without failing to do so?

But this is just the sort of paradox one comes to embrace after so many Thursday nights out on two wheels.  You realize that of all the places you’ve ever been to, there are even more you’ve never been at, in spite of how memories abound no matter where you ride.

I was all ready to abide by past patterns and preview Saturday’s route, but it’s just as much a nod to history to not do so and besides, having ridden the course so often of late, my eyes were hungry for something different, so northward ho, happily.

Momentarily, from the Safeway with an invisible bathroom to a caged-up stop in the middle of a neighborhood, one could almost, at first, forget the charming  bumble through the new South Lake Union mess and Ye Olde Eastlake Path and Toboggan Run. 

But not quite. 

Because when all the blinkies unblink, there you are, on a ballfield, at night, enjoying the National Pastime—of some nation, somewhere, under some God or gods who clearly know what holidays are all about.

And then, you pedal back into the past for an opportunity to wax nostalgic by emulating the beloved tradition of steering around pedestrians on a dark lake path at night, albeit this time with nary a naked roller-blader to be (not) seen.

Later, in a fondly-remembered park shelter complete with burning twigs, I wondered with Lee Williams when thinking gets to be thought of as thinking; if we’re just talking brain activity, then the distinction can only be normative, not descriptive.

That’s why it doesn’t matter how many sights you see; it’s how you see the sights.

Predictably, the moon is full every month; that doesn’t make it any less thrilling when it finally pours forth from the canopy.

Just like your paradoxical Thursday tradition: traditionally untraditional.

Trainspotting

You’ve waited at the railroad crossing while the train is in the process of coupling: it goes forward, endlessly, then “no way!” backs up forever, then “you’ve got to be kidding me!” forward again as time stands still.

That ain’t nothing.

This time, in a wait so long it ensures that by the time you’re free and across the bridge, riders are already streaming from the bar, the long line of rail cars does the coupling dance, then waits as a massive freight train rumble roars past laden with mind-bogglingly huge shipping containers groaning with machinery that makes you feel like a little kid playing with Thomas the Tank Engine and dispels the annoyance of being stuck for a little while, anyway.

Afterwards, to your utter amazement and consternation and the surprising acquiescence of a cab driver who sits through the entire twenty minute—I kid you not—ordeal, the original train goes through the full coupling cycle again, which by now simply fascinates by contrast to the weather, which hasn’t repeated anything all day long.

Light rain in Bothell, clear by Kenmore, winter at Matthews Beach, hailstones like frozen peas.

I geared up under the park’s cedars and then, peddling towards the U, chuckled at shivering squids who’d dived right into the gale, heading north.

Spring break begins just like March: in a like a lion, out like a lamb?  We shall see.

Currently, this is what we do know: there are trains and there are trains but all of them seemed especially busy on this, the first full night of the season.  I was even stopped by a six car locomotive I’d never seen in action before, chugging right up the street (it seemed to me) in front of the entrance to the low level West Seattle bridge.

Rendezvousing with the ride, rumors of a far north route quickly thinned the herd.  But, as it turned out, the evening’s theme prevailed. 

Of course: the Boxcar!

Cheery

The first daylight meet-up of the season means that winter is over even if saying so jinxes you.

By now, the probability of lowland snow approaches zero and the moon responds with its best Cheshire grin.  A perfect scoop of cloud reveals springtime just to the west.

tehJobies advises an ill-advised route through the Market and off we go.

One never tires of blinkies through Myrtle Edwards nor of Featherhead flying over hill and dale nor of bombing through the bridge cage to Magnolia.

It turns out the Dravus QFC is a convenience store, which really seems apt.

Parking lots look the same even to those who know where they’re going; second time’s a charm, though.

To be towards the rear and see beams of light pour out over the dunes is more than enough.  To arrive in one piece all you could ask.

Our hunter-gatherer ancestors would have been proud of the fire-making teamwork.  They would have envied paper but emulated shavings.

Old ways are the new thing.

Cherry wood makes for a cheery little blaze, especially when the atmosphere’s lungs breathe so deeply.

The rain shadow shortens a bit as the fuel is consumed; pretty soon you’re following Fred to the apparent delight of frogs everywhere.

Some places in town masquerade as their crosstown analogues; now that’s success!  With a swell bomb downhill, to boot!

Where you think that you’re headed is not where you’re going but when everyone arrives that’s where you are.

And afterwards, you make it home with all your pieces intact. 

There’s a model for an evening of cycling, one that never fails.  With a fire in the center, it’s hard to go wrong.  And when you do it en masse it’s guaranteed to amuse.

Behaviorists say that happiness is nothing more than behaviors that communicate happiness; if that includes communicating with yourself I agree.

Our internal states are both inscrutable and incorrigible; on nights like this, the external ones, too.

Unique

You could ride your bike halfway around the world like our new friend from Downunder, BlakeAndy, and not have a single other opportunity to experience what, around here, is fairly regular, if not downright commonplace: meandering through industrial wastelands on two wheels with several score like-minded ne’er-do-wells and fuckups, bursting lungs on what appears to be a freeway overpass complete with an eyes-closed pray-to-God crossing of those lanes halfway to the summit, then single-tracking through the woods to an abandoned gravel roadway where the firewood’s free, the beer is cold, (well, cool, anyway), sparks rise like libidinous angels in the night, and eventually, as the embers coalesce to cheery heartwarming coals, everything is as illuminated as a medieval manuscript, only better, since in this gallery, the portraits’ fire-dancing eyes follow viewers everywhere as the circle of humanity draws closer.

Seansweeny was telling me about a yoga class he went to that included dance music and a DJ and my initial reaction was well, that’s just too much, but then I was reminded that if beer is good and biking is good, then beer and biking is even better, so why not?  And adding a bonfire and stars just serves to enhance; perhaps there is no limit to augmentation after all.

In his objection to St. Anselm’s Ontological Proof for God’s existence, the monk Gaunilo asks us to consider a perfect island, that by Anselm’s logic would necessarily exist; but since it doesn’t, Anselm’s argument is allegedly disproven by reductio ad absurdum. 

Anselm responds that unlike God, who is infinite, an island is finite and so can continually be improved upon by addition, thus Gaunilo’s analogy, and by extension, his objection, fails.

But what if the island reaches such an ideal state that any addition would be subtraction?  Perfection might be a point achieved when conditions are balanced just so.

If that’s the case, then biking halfway around the world is but a short uphill pedal to God.