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| photo by joeball |
Recently, I believe, one attacked Kevin 3.0’s bike as he was trying to leave Gasworks some Thursday, and last night, mine decided to tear from its roots the wire connecting the generator hub to my front lamp while I prepared to head from Carkeek, thereby creating the only dark spot on an otherwise luminous evening drinking bicycles and riding around fire.
Or vise-versa.
See, what they do is wrap themselves around things until forward becomes backwards and the problem before you goes from surprising to confounding to hopeless which turns out to be fine if there are still people behind you and extra redundancy backup also as well, too.
Time did a similar rewind last evening, turning 2014 into 2011 and even earlier for a while with visitors from previous eras and their hosts showing up to pedal north under the mildest of mid-October skies in memory, so dry I could even forego my usual aversion to the Ballard Bridge grating.
Such it was: a night of seeing things differently, coming, for instance, in conversation with Custom Garth to an appreciation of the two-stroke motor, or being content with merely watching, rather than yelling at trains.
Nevertheless, the traditional remained equally well-represented: firecrackers were tossed in the fire and launched from outstretched arms, Joby passed around whiskey, and more than one person had trouble finding his bike when the time came to roll out.
It’s the stretchiness of bungies that is both their blessing and their curse. The same characteristic that enables you to proudly bind a bundle of wood to your front rack is the one that makes your ride home so unusual; a flashlight isn’t much of a headlight—which means that the best way out isn’t the flattest, but rather, the brightest.
How tightly something can grasp when it winds around itself is a revelation; no wonder we hang on for deal life as the ride once more rides itself.
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