Bullish

Photo by joeball

“Nothing lasts forever” the Queen song tells us, but it seems to me that there are some memories at least, that must be—for all intents and purposes—everlasting and eternal.

I know, for instance, that the image of nearly three score cyclists, resplendent in dress whites with red sashes and bandanas, clustering into a candy-cane colored peleton while ascending from the evening’s starting point will abide in collective unconscious forever.

And I’m sure that the mental snapshot of the same dozens of riders mingling by the water in two main groups, one wetter, one dryer, (but both pretty well soaked in the fruit of the vine) will never fade.

And doubtless, the sight of men with horns on their heads charging and grappling on the grass in the soft light of a high summer evening is burned into the brain for all time, try as one might to make it go away somehow, some way, some day.

Anticipation becomes actuality at last as we don our once-a-year outfits to honor an untraditional tradition that’s become traditional itself. 

Untraditionally, though, the route, after corkscrewing through parts of town perfect for bystanders to point and cheer, went east to a more pastoral setting than usual, but one better-suited than in years past to bottle-rocketing and sangria-showering.

I got to swim and dive from the dock that says “No Swimming No Diving” for the first time all summer and was rewarded by water warmer than air.

I got to yell at the top of my lungs for as long as I wanted and earned a morning voice like Harvey Fierstein for the fun.

I got to go overboard on the wine-sloshing and feel remorse for my behavior upon arising.

Fleeting moments certainly; so Queen’s right: they won’t last forever (unlike the wine stains on our whites).

But the memories?  They, on the other hand, will remain etched in our minds forever—try as we might, with some, to forget.