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.
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.
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