Hearth

Never before have I visited two bike riders’ homes on a single night out, although perhaps the second stop, at Joe’s apartment, only counts for half since I just partly recall being there.

Bob Ross onscreen, though, seemed like a reasonable cap to the evening, lovely as it was with nary a happy little cloud in sight.

There was a modicum of pedaling beforehand, washed down with lots of beer and other eye-openers and although no one stood around a fire (at least on my watch) there was plenty of warmth of both the metaphorical and literal kind to spare on what might have been the coldest night of the year so far.

My Joeball-endorsed hardware store gloves performed admirably, however, so I got to avoid the traditional cold hands component of the warm heart duo; in fact, as the night went on, the weather seemed less and less of issue; happily, in any case, I did make it home with all my accouterments intact.

The problem with internet jukeboxes, like the one at our newest watering hole, is that they offer too many choices.  Sure, it sucks to be limited to Dave Matthews and Toby Keith like at the first joint we rolled into, but when you can choose from everything from Abba to ZZ Top with fIREHOSE and Jethro Tull thrown in for good measure, it’s hard to decide.

That’s why it’s often a relief to simply follow the blinkies in front of you and give yourself over to whatever happens to show up.  If this involves invading someone’s condominium—at their invitation—to raid the liquor cabinet and test the weight limits of their rooftop deck area, so be it.

And if later in the night, it means you circle around someone else’s apartment yelling their name before shamelessly invading the premises, then that’s fine, too.

You don’t always have to make choices; sometimes what happens is the ride chooses you:

Whee!  Whee! Whee!

All the way home.

Dirt

One measure of a good night out on two wheels is how often you go off-road.

I count four: 1) Interlachen, with its impromptu tuneless bike-straddle no dance party and one beer or bowl mechanical, 2) Sweeny’s detour bulge to the Marsh Island barge, where we got to look at the moon and its reflection over the undulating waters upon which Husky Stadium balances, 3) the magic corkscrew through the Ravenna ravine to Cowen Park where at least one more libation was allotted, and 4) just a bit of turf on the turf over the actual lower-case reservoir where people bounced themselves silly before heading over to the actual upper-case Reservoir.

And a clear mark of an excellent November evening in the Pacific Northwest is how much of it you can spend outdoors without getting drenched so if you count your commute, and the ride home afterwards, that’s nearly six hours, dusk until midnight, with only half a beer inside, crisp and dry the whole time.

I admit I was unsettled at first by the prospect of following Joe, but it turned out my perfectly reasonable fear was, at least in this instance, mostly unfounded.

Sure, it seemed like there was a bit more standing around, backing up, and on-the-fly wayfaring than one might be accustomed to, but most was in a place you didn’t mind being and usually with people sharing one thing or another, so as long as we remembered, as Brother Botorff and I reminded ourselves, that whenever someone grinds your gears, it’s you doing the grinding, all was well.

I realized, afterward, that I’ve never been on a ride before with nary one of the typical ringleaders, so it just goes to show that a set is not just the members of it, but rather, it must be the routes and practices passed down somehow by accident.

Or maybe it’s just that you notice, next morning, that your tires are coated with mud.

Costumed

photo by Andrew Squirrel

Suppose you are compelled by adult responsibilities to be up an atom the next morning for “Disaster Preparedness Training;” couldn’t you just submit your Thursday night Halloween bike ride experience to earn the required certification or whatever?

After all, it’s got to count as being pretty much ready for anything the Universe throws at you to pedal alongside Ronald McFondle, Gumby Damnit, and sexy Dorothy from Oz while singing the only scary song you can remember to the catcalls and cheers of costumed revelers all around your fair city’s central waterway on All Hallow’s Eve, right?

We’re not in Kansas, anymore, Toto, that’s for sure, and, besides, who’d want to be when the alternative is a warm end to what certainly will go down as the driest October on record (or, in memory, at least) and an outdoor stop at a park that’s usually just for flowers and toddlers, not grown-ups in Flintstone’s outfits, sombreros, and high-concept dress-ups supposedly referencing online memes and inside jokes.

Kids love the spectacle, we know that, but everywhere the peculiar pelaton pedals people point and wave; merriment abounds, especially on the inside and most of all when wigs are traded and oldsters dance like hermit prospectors shooing varmints offa their grubstake.

And if being ready for emergencies is the theme, then how can it not count to have survived the sight of Shaddup Joe’s chest merkin bulging from the tiny devil outfit; surely this prepares even the most timorous out there for ducking and covering when the proverbial shit hits the fan.

There was even a legitimately spooky ride through the darkened forest and while I did see a gladiator crash on the marble raceway, there was battle armor for protection, so no harm done.

Eventually, two wheels turned into many cups in the old man bar turned post-graduate masquerade for the special occasion; having survived that, is a course on what to do when the big one hits still required?