Ramp

photo by altercator

I can think of no better advertisement for the bicycle than the phenomenon of forty or so cyclists snaking through four lanes of bottlenecked traffic at rush hour in tune to the throbbing bass beat of contemporary dance music emanating at jet engine volume from speakers mounted on the rear rack of one such two-wheeler.  Were I another of those poor saps trapped behind the steering wheel of my metal cage, I’d want only to leave my motorized vehicle behind and pedal off with new friends to go drinking outside around a fire on a doomed freeway ramp beneath the nearly still full harvest moon of autumn.

But too bad, suckers, that’s what you get for destroying the planet with your gas-guzzling monkey-boxes; next time, put the fun between your legs, why doncha, instead of sinking that posterior deeper into those heated leather seats you paid so much extra for?

Now, don’t get me wrong: while I may not be the biggest fan of the internal combustion engine, I certainly appreciate the automobile infrastructure, without which, most of the routes one finds oneself pedaling over would be non-existent (although, as last night’s ride illustrated, there would still be gravel paths and wooded trails to get momentarily lost on) and, even worse, there’d be no abandoned early 1970s highway projects to cavort and gambol upon until the cops show up and shine their spotlights in a half-hearted attempt to chase you away.

It’s kind of heartbreaking to learn that our city’s beloved ghost ramp is coming down in a couple weeks; standing on its glass-strewn surface and being awestruck by the candlelit shrine and the perfect Zen moon reflecting on the marsh below brought to mind years of moments I’ve enjoyed there--from Derrick’s famous kayak-cleanup inspiring shower of beer cups to White Trash sprints to last night’s post-apocalyptic dance party and bottle-throwing extravaganza.

They called it “the bridge to nowhere,” but it always took you somewhere grand.