Classic

photo by joeball

Hopes fulfilled.   Expectations exceeded.  Sunset and moonrise.

And, I swear, a tailwind in both directions.

All you have to do is stick with it, keep pedaling, and yet another outdoor venue appears, complete with its very own celestial moment, whether that’s  our favorite local star lapping up the lazy waters of the hometown lake as it sinks behind the nearest ridge of our fair city or the dirty toe of a moon sliding sideways across the western horizon like a bouncing ball in the cartoon musicals.

You won’t find any of this in the palm of your hand, but it’s right there for the grabbing on your bike.

This one was a summer classic from the start: Second Avenue en masse; grandeur over the city bridge; shadow cyclists animating beside you on all the fences.

There was tunnel-yelling at the top and bottom of your lungs, too.

I laughed aloud at the absurd beauty of the Lake Washington crossing: that frog-like sound the cars’ wheels make an accompaniment to water-skeeters on two wheels. 

Try to capture THAT on your device; you have to make a photograph with your heart instead and even that’s just a snapshot of the comprehensive 3-D Surround-Sound reality.

The Island’s marble raceway over and over; how many corkscrews can a corkscrew screw if a corkscrew can screw screws?

Perfect timing for the endo-less beach arrival: sunlight gilding the waters for plenty of time to get wet and pruny while emulating otters.

Some aerobics, then provisions, then another beach, this one complete with a folksinger, are you kidding me?

Consensus achieved and the lights twinkled and blinked westward, still in shirtsleeves after eleven.

You can cite the particulars of what becomes a classic most: miles ridden, beaches taken, strokes swum, beers consumed, jokes told, lies believed, overhead orbs admired, but it still fails to tell the whole story. 

For that, you need to be there embodied, dripping and squirming, like a newborn, born anew.

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.