Friday, July 25, 2014

Bridge

The new South Park Bridge is an engineering marvel, as evidenced by its ability to propel two dozen or so bicyclists over it and up an almost endlessly-rising roadway just to idly stand outside a gated softball complex near a well-appointed disc golf course in order to drink beer and doctored beers and feast on spicy watermelon before gathering up to drink more beer at a bar that, as Joeball pointed out and Joby concurred, is like a model for the sort of place at which beer should be drunk by two dozen or so bicyclists on nights such as the one in question.

The tequila tasted like vodka, which might just mean the place has two flavors of well liquor, clear and brown, but that’s just fine, as the largesse of our neon round-stander was such that it overextended the watering hole’s supply of shot glasses so that some lucky recipients were served their portions in rocks glasses, but the friendly bartender took in all in stride, even the part where pretty much all the assembled shouted along with the music when the traditional theme song came on the jukebox.

On a three-Kevin night, a former regular returned from the drought-stricken Southland to experience the lushness of our Pacific Northwest, where even under the final leg of an airport flight path, Douglas Fir, Bigleaf Maple, and Western Red Cedar trees flourish with exuberance.

This might be the only place in the country where a Hooter’s Casino is turned back into a Red Apple Supermarket; the pies may not be as fresh as he former décor, but the place does feature a section to source all your supplies for appropriately south-of-the-border themed libations and snacks.

Eating marijuana can make you lose things: a Velcro leg-strap, a favored beer cozy, and the Altoids box for pre-rolled mini-joints is the toll over consecutive Thursdays, but so be it; forgetfulness is a the price you pay for such memorable nights.

Friday, July 18, 2014

Meander

Eventually, the ride will find its way, even if it takes standing around for a quarter hour outside an apartment in which wool jerseys are being allocated and Fancy Fred’s ankle is swelling up like a sausage on the grill.

photo by altercator
Finally, options will be discarded and someone will take enough initiative that people can start following behind one another to a place where beer can be bought before climbing to the summit of our fair city’s wildest park, a place where the clouds overhead are like pulled cotton candy and the sand, backlit by the pinkening skies, makes it look like people are doing cartwheels on a movie set for a Southern California beach movie, hang ten Moondoggie, go!

It’s not always high-concept shenanigans with costumes and a theme; sometimes taking ridiculous routes through some of the town’s worst traffic is plenty for a laugh.

And sure, a swim would have been nice, but how can you complain about an outdoor gathering on a bluff at the edge of a continent (relatively speaking) where you get to indulge in so many libations and conversations that you can barely keep track of all your pieces and parts, some of which—although thankfully not the wallet or phone—may not have finally made it home in their complete and undivided form?

Of course, one wants to have standards, and there’s nothing wrong with aspiring to everything always being turned up to eleven, but what you realize, having navigated crazily through the walking trails criss-crossing the dunes, that what you really want is to find that place where expectations and reality embrace and you can’t imagine wanting something other than what you’re getting—which is way more than anyone deserves, especially given these increasingly scary times in which we live.

We could always desire more: miles, nonsense, karaoke participants, random booty-shakers, but why?  When an evening out on two wheels provides so much useless beauty, it's perfectly delightful to coast.

Friday, July 11, 2014

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.

Friday, July 4, 2014

Overstimulation

photo by joeball
It’s pretty amazing what you can pack into a mere 18 hours on two wheels: beer on a patio opened just for you and your friends; a ferry boat ride with more than forty fully-loaded cyclists, all of whom are cleared from the “poop deck” by the power of Derrickito’s crop dust; something remarkably similar to bike touring on country roads past naval bases on a peninsula; then up and up to a vista point that really afforded one some swell vista, and all this before setting up a campsite where beer and spirits far outnumbered water, and many, if not most, stayed up way beyond the horses’ bedtimes; afterwards, come morning, there’s still plenty of time to roll downhill, make a return boat, and be showered and shaved at pretty much the same hour you would have anyway had you never experienced the entire whirlwind in the first place.

Many a rule was broken, notably the one about not following the Angry Hippy up a mountain, but it turned out to be well worth it, even if coming down meant a snapped front brake cable for the effort and since you learn something new every time you go bike camping, the lesson here is twofold: first, bring a spare when you go to the woods and second, in a pinch, you can substitute a gear cable if you jam the leftover end of the broken wire into the lever socket to keep it from slipping.

I lay in my tent with the sound of a screech owl behind me and a lilting chorus of Karadactyl squawks, Botorff bellows, and TicToc gongs towards the front—animals and humans in the wild, making their own presences being heard.

Somehow, if you’re lucky, you may even get forty winks in before dawn breaks, but if not, it hardly matters, since, like Fancy Fred, you remain in a waking dream state with all that happens at the speed of bike.