Bounty

photo by joeball

“Don’t believe anything anyone tells you” is paradoxical advice. 

So, we may as well disregard anything we tell ourselves except the suggestions we don’t endorse—like throwing mini-kegs in fires and only regretting the errors we fail to make.

Which is why, in part, I’d have been kicking myself had I not taken the opportunity to pedal south after a lovely dinner en famille to link up with the ride even though doing so required a mini-bushwhack through the trees following a wrong turn in an area I thought I knew as well as the back of my hand, but I guess it’s more like the back of my neck.

Anyway, the assembled miscreants were easy enough to find, especially as I pedaled closer and could hear repeated cries of “No, Derrick, no!” wafting on the breeze. 

That drew me to where I could see the figures around the fire but not the preferred line of egress.  Ultimately, the direct route seemed the most efficient, if not the most prudent, and while I skittered a bit on unseen roots, I was soon rewarded with a hearty hello and imbibables that made the lovely evening even lovelier.

Picnic tables were groaning with bounty and it seemed like most folks had a pretty good head start on me even though the aforementioned meal included generous portions of the selfsame libations as those arrayed about.

I edged my way into a number of conversations while keeping a watchful eye out for flying marshmallows and exploding beer cans.

For once, suds held out longer than fire and I tucked one for the road into my bag as yet another mini-mortar exploded over the lake signaling five minutes to departure one more time.

A zesty jaunt on Lake Washington Boulevard and a reasonably protective pelaton along Rainier led to a fairly large contingent invading the favored karaoke joint near midnight. 

I had the requisite arrival beer and then headed home, no regrets.

Bountiful.