Submersion

photo by altercator

“What is this?”  “Who are we?”  “What is the meaning of life?”

These are just a few of the questions that inevitably emerge as four score cyclists in white with red accents stream through city streets and public thoroughfares on a perfect summer evening, accompanied by no less than half a dozen other two-wheeling free spirits bedecked in taurean disguises along with, of course, a matador.

“How can this possibly be happening?” is yet another query that’s inspired in spite of the fact that the tradition, such as it is, goes back to at least the previous decade and at this rate, promises—in the future—to eclipse the original Old Country version in the collective consciousness or at least the bucket lists of thrill-seekers the world around.

Say what you will about the decline of American exceptionalism, but you’ve still got to hand it to a place where a first-generation immigrant from South Asia can dress in garb inspired by an event in Spain and ride an English invention manufactured in China all around a city on the edge of the North American continent beneath a rising nearly-full moon that’s the same all over the world but nowhere more striking than in the eastern sky of a north-facing freshwater bay.

You see the bobbing heads of giggling swimmers and you know there’s a body treading water beneath every one; similarly, it’s readily apparent that all of us, underneath the surface of our delightful differences, are, like the fruiting mycelium, each connected as a single entity.

It’s a good thing we have ribcages is all I can say; otherwise, such shenanigans would surely cause hearts to burst forth from chests, swollen as they are by camaraderie, spectacle, and fermented grapes.

Artistry happens by accident on purpose: burgundy splashes and splatters on summer-bleached t-shirts and sundresses put tie-dye to shame.

Such loveliness fills the eyes to the brim; tears of joy salt-watering the lake with every deeper dive.