Sprung

photo by joeball

Bungie cords hate bikes.

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.

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.

Quantum

photo by joeball

Science fiction conjectures about the implications of relativity theory and quantum physics suggest (at least to science fiction writers) the possibility of wormholes through the fabric of space-time continua that allow for travel faster than the speed of light.  Intrepid travelers could avail themselves of inter-galactic shortcuts to transcend the limits of three dimensions and arrive in a straight line at point C from point A without ever having to go through point B.

Of course, one can do this already, just by following the tail lights of fellow bike riders as you swirl through the forests of West Seattle to suddenly, as if by the magic of aboriginal dreamtime, arrive at our city’s original lifeblood where, in short order, a conflagration ensues and humans return to their simian roots, albeit with certain post-primate accouterments such as gasoline, canned beer, and racy playing cards.

Having been welcomed to the woods through the primordial teardrop Shakti yoni, I suppose it only made some kind of paradoxical sense that Dick Pic Park would live up to its name, although its former moniker, the Hidden Hobo Firepit was equally inappropriately appropriate, especially when the flames from one more than too many palettes threatened to ignite the overhanging trees and bushes into a blaze that would not have been hidden even from outer space astronauts gazing at the Great Wall of China with their naked eyes.

There were trails through trails on the to the early bar and subsequent fire, at least one superfluous hill climb, and perhaps, unfortunately, a new member of the broken collarbone club to boot; but it was easy to remember to resist grumbling no matter how much huffing and puffing was called for: efficiency is an overrated virtue when it comes to Thursday night rides. 

And even with shortcuts through the insides of atoms, the two-wheeled universe is huge, but there are no wrong turns when where you’re going is where you are and nobody’s ever lost when the ride rides together.