The older you get, the more you repeat yourself, (as was pointed out to me), but as long as it’s during the rare kind of event where you see everyone you know and more in not one, but two, separate outdoor breakfast kitchens, then, sure, okay.
Paradoxically, the more people there are, the fewer you actually talk to but it’s still remarkable to be among such a horde, especially when pretty much all of them have arrived on two wheels, even, miraculously, on a set without pedals but a dynamo instead.
Electricity is a marvelous phenomenon; all those excited electrons harnessed just for our pleasure; so what if they spill over and things go dark; there’s another bucket of them just across the way and these ones fulfill their promise to behave all through the rest of the evening.
Joby definitely undersold the second location when exhorting us to migrate: once the doors were closed, it wasn’t a restroom at all, but rather a pavilion. Fewer tables, maybe, but cozier, all things considered; once we were resettled, it felt like home all over again.
Surprisingly, although the nearby millionaires kept their second-story lights blazing, no one complained officially. It’s hard to imagine that was a direct result of our efforts to dampen the din, (given that the waves of whispers would inevitably rise to everyone shouting at once) so maybe it was just a solid appreciation of shared intent and a healthy regard for the miraculous nature of the event itself.
Ten years running—or, riding, that is—you’d think it would get old, but even if you do (as evidenced by the aforementioned repetition), the experience doesn’t. When you stand back and survey the landscape, it’s utterly mind-boggling. Sure, there are moments where adjustments must be made, but as long as there’s enough momentum to keep rolling and sufficient current to allow all those charged particles to continue flowing, then why stop repeating yourself and repeating yourself?
Paradoxically, the more people there are, the fewer you actually talk to but it’s still remarkable to be among such a horde, especially when pretty much all of them have arrived on two wheels, even, miraculously, on a set without pedals but a dynamo instead.
Electricity is a marvelous phenomenon; all those excited electrons harnessed just for our pleasure; so what if they spill over and things go dark; there’s another bucket of them just across the way and these ones fulfill their promise to behave all through the rest of the evening.
Joby definitely undersold the second location when exhorting us to migrate: once the doors were closed, it wasn’t a restroom at all, but rather a pavilion. Fewer tables, maybe, but cozier, all things considered; once we were resettled, it felt like home all over again.
Surprisingly, although the nearby millionaires kept their second-story lights blazing, no one complained officially. It’s hard to imagine that was a direct result of our efforts to dampen the din, (given that the waves of whispers would inevitably rise to everyone shouting at once) so maybe it was just a solid appreciation of shared intent and a healthy regard for the miraculous nature of the event itself.
Ten years running—or, riding, that is—you’d think it would get old, but even if you do (as evidenced by the aforementioned repetition), the experience doesn’t. When you stand back and survey the landscape, it’s utterly mind-boggling. Sure, there are moments where adjustments must be made, but as long as there’s enough momentum to keep rolling and sufficient current to allow all those charged particles to continue flowing, then why stop repeating yourself and repeating yourself?
I've said it before, but I'll say it again, because it bears repeating: I love these.
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