Blast

Photo by joeball

The huge fog banks hugging Eagle Harbor, from which Lee Williams surmised pirate ships would be emerging to board our Bainbridge Island-bound Washington State Ferry vessel, had nothing on the massive smoke screen that crept in on something much bigger than little cat’s feet—namely several hundred dollars of Chinese-made military-grade ordnance manufactured to commemorate the birth of the American Republic—to the parking area of the Suquamish reservation at Agate Pass on the Olympic Peninsula as sweaty bicycle riders launched explosives skywards, earthwards, and sometimes even eyewards for probably as long as the battle of Lexington itself may have lasted if not the subsequent skirmish at Concord, as well.

In spite of the fact that the putative organizer of the event “yes, but no’ed” at the 11th hour, the small troop of almost non-duplicated named cyclists (two Matthews) managed to not only leave Westlake Center in time for beer at the pier, but also, thanks to the Nuclear version of the aforementioned double-Matts, get a little bit of trail-riding in on the way to the Native American fireworks stand.

A small contingent even braved the interior of the Clearwater Casino Resort to enjoy what the bartender called “pounders” of beer in the Beach Rock Lounge where Ladies’ Night apparently means that the DJ is female since no other patrons of any gender seemed to be attendance at the time.

But perhaps the loveliest aspect of the whole experience is how the miscreants offered at least a respectful gesture of effort to clean up after themselves by organizing the spent explosives into a trash bag (at least those not launched into the woods and nearby highways) before pedaling away to the cheers of gratitude from fireworks purveyors who seemed not a bit disturbed by the carnage they’d just witnessed.

A fast spin to the boat and then, back on the mainland, nightcaps without singing for once capped the evening.

Still, plenty of fireworks all around, yo-yo-yo-yo, pop-pop!

Capacitor

A capacitor, if I understood tehJobies explanation, as he pointed it out to me in the technological bowels of the space-age music bike, is a device that holds a charge so as to deliver power instantaneously when the overall energy needs of the system call for it, in order (and here I’m probably paraphrasing) to ensure that the requisite highs, lows, and overall output is maintained at the desired face-melting levels for as long as necessary.

.83 metaphor much?

The capacities of your average summer solstice Thursday night bike ride are never exceeded, not, anyway, when you get to circle a soaking Ghettodrome while the bike-mounted sound system drowns out the fountain’s philharmonics and you’re having to calibrate your distance from the sonic cycle’s subwoofer so that you’re not blown off your saddle by decibels alone.

Sometimes the purr of your chain and the squish of your tires in the wet is enough; other times, it’s great to have a soundtrack, especially when the drizzle turns to a downpour and passing busses fill shoes with gallons of rainwater.

Fortunately, there are places for nights like this in our town and our very own homeless Prometheus to bring the fire to life; too bad references get confused and he goes all Icarus on things; moral of the story: you fly too high and get sticky-fingered around people’s bikes and a neon-colored solar flare will burn you outta town fast as any capacitor delivering its charge.

You don’t get your liver eaten by eagles for all eternity, then, but you do miss what happens when fizzy drinks and roaring flames combine with sonic booms to send shirts and knickers flying and what had been simple sausage fest somehow morphs into a real banquet on the dance floor.

Miraculously, Jobydrinks do make you better-looking and more intelligent; same for everyone else, too; that’s that capacitor  again, delivering just the burst you need when you need it, and even when you don’t.

Solitaire

Cycling is essentially a solitary endeavor, so it’s perfect when, after a while in the saddle, you get to arrive at an outdoor location crawling with several score others who have also pedaled their own two-wheelers to get there.

And it’s made even better (if better than perfect is possible) when there’s more beer than will be drunk, enough wood to eventually shoot flames through the fireplace chimney, and such a long-fading summer sunset that a waxing crescent moon grins on the horizon throughout.

Because plans change and neither my phone nor its operator are smart, I ended up riding farther north along Elliot Bay than necessary, but because this afforded such abiding views of sailboat flocks gliding upon rainbows, I realized that I wasn’t really in a hurry after all.

And when, turning around, the clouds became M.C. Escher geese and giant teddy bear heads, there was no doubt in my mind that what was out there to be observed mattered more than alacrity.

Besides, you’re never behind schedule on a bike; as long as you’re riding, you’ve already arrived.

The long way around Alki to high school hijinks parklands is almost too short when the Olympics cast shadows on the underside of heaven; in spite of missing camaraderie, I sort of liked I had only myself to look out for and could pay less attention to the road before me than the drama above. 

A decided lack of “YOLO” at the beach for this time of year, I thought, but that was more than made up for by those who realized that everything they could possibly want at the moment was spread out right there before them.

Granted, in another week, we’ll have a whole extra minute or two of daytime, but it’s hard to understand why anyone with lighting would pass up a chance to savor every lumen possible.

I understand the impetus to ride, though, solitary perhaps, but never alone with your bike.

Flare

Half a loaf is better than none, and a little bit of a lot is still a lot.

Even if you’re slightly off-tempo all evening, you can still enjoy the music and lyrics, especially if the opening chorus is a welcoming cry able to turn a week’s worth of frowns upside-down.

So what if you miss the sunset; there’s still the illuminated grins of two-wheeled stumblebums as they trickle from the beach in waves.

Who cares if you’re not in time to see the proverbial green flash; you still get to follow a flare that floats down like a parachuting inspiration for much longer than can reasonably be expected.

And why worry if there’s only time for one beer at the de facto clubhouse; when you put it all in perspective, it’s plenty.

For starters, anyway.

If you can’t unlock your bike you’re not allowed to ride it home; however, when you find yourself in that place where you can’t even find it, you know that, like this, even halfway is far enough.