Beer

photo by joeball

The important thing is that nobody wiped out on the wet grating of the Ballard Bridge as we headed to the brewery for Brewmaster Dave’s birthday bacchanalia.

Bear with me chillens: it doesn’t matter how much of a bad-ass biker you are, even how fat your tires may be; honest to God, stay off those damn bridge-gratings in the rain.  I never want to see another flapping forehead on any of you, even Joe, who probably still wouldn’t shut up if his eyebrows were dangling over his mouth.

It was one of those nights where cycling played second fiddle to quaffing, and why not?  After all, it’s rare you get to pedal to Peddlar on the occasion of your friendly local beer maker’s birthday and choose from among an array of tasty beverages served up by cheerful, smiling folks in a room into which you can wheel your bike from the drizzle and pile it on top of those ridden by old acquaintance to trap them into staying by the weight of your rig.

And why leave when not only are their plenty of grownups to lie to, but also, you have the unprecedented opportunity to make goo-goo eyes to an actual real-live second generation Angry Hippy, who—at three months—seems to have inherited little of his father’s legendary inclination, but rather, was remarkably sanguine about the whole proceedings, even when Derrick held him in his arms.

Eventually though, the promise of even better (well, freer, anyway) beer drew the hearty from the pub and out along a trail that usually seems more familiar, but which, eventually, led to the zip-lined park where more tales were spun and dyspepsia was cultivated by intrepid souls like Fancy Fred who twirled on the merry-go-round.

I left in time to miss further weirdness that may or may not have involved flaming pizza boxes; my bike brought me safely home by midnight, avoiding one more wet bridge-grating on the way.