Reverse

In my experience, it’s more typical for a Thursday evening to start out at South Lake Union and end up in Georgetown, but these days, in the heady times of the Anthropocene era, where everything is topsy-turvey, it’s hardly a surprise when backwards is the new forwards.

Things have gotten so weird that, apparently, some bars—at least those that used to be familiar final destinations but are now early-closing restaurants serving barbecued cow—prefer that you just come in to use the facilities rather than ingratiating yourself by doing the traditional shot n’ pee, (although after a moment’s reflection, they figure “what the hell” and permit you to enter, forgoing the ten dollar cover, as long as you drink up and get the hell out—which was what you had in mind all along.)

Moreover, how odd is it that a person can ride all the way from Bothell to South Park, stop for a beer with a long lost gang member at a watering hole in which you’ve never seen the light of day before, and still arrive at the county airport picnic area only just as the mass of riders is preparing to depart that first stop?

The night air, as Joeball pointed out during our backwards motion towards the urban swimming hole, felt remarkable on one’s skin and made me reflect on how anthropogenic climate change isn’t going to be all bad for everyone all the time, so we might as well enjoy it while we can.

May 28 strikes me as pretty early in the season for an initial moonlit lake swim, especially one in which the water felt just as warm as the night air.  Nakedness and screaming abounded and it’s not even Midsummer night’s eve yet.  Old Puck had it right when he opined, “Lord, what fools these mortals be,” and that was even before it all went hulu-hula-ing with flaming drinks and foot-long straws: heading forward in reverse fantastically.

Cake

GACH by Shahan

According to the Internetz, the expression “piece of cake” originated in the British Royal Air Force in the late 1930s as an idiom meaning an easy mission.  Apparently, the precise reference is as mysterious as the similar simile, “easy as pie,” but one conjecture is that it evokes the simple accomplishment of eating a slice of sweet desert.

Perhaps it also has something to do with birthdays, which are a piece of cake to celebrate as long as you’ve got a bike to ride, some beer to drink, and several dozen nonsense-loving confederates with which to share the occasion. 

And although, due to the larcenous efforts of some nameless scum of the earth, two of your comrades ended up the evening without that first vital celebratory component, there’s no question that commemorating the day of one’s arrival on the planet is effected with ease by following the long-setting sun westward as far as possible and then turning back east under the crepuscular skies to congregate around fire with fire dancers who might just as well be spinning their flames as a means of sharing in the festivities themselves.

For my part, it was one of those times when collegial quaffing with fellow faculty morphed into libations with bike nerds via the Burke-Gilman trail.  From Bothell to Ballard takes on the order of a two hours at half a dozen post-work beers and a private trailside safety meeting speed, but surely there’s no rush when the whole way you get to admire nature’s handiwork in the form of alders, maples, and poplars in full leaf and cottonwoods so enthusiastically living up to their name that it looks like snowfall on the slough.

I didn’t make it all the way to the saltwater, which, given unfortunate outcome for those two riderless riders, might have been my good fortune, but nevertheless felt nothing was lacking in the overall experience.

Fun times on two wheels in spring?  Piece of cake, man.

Switchback

As long as you keep your eyes on what’s in front, you can continue to climb.  Going downhill, however, not so much.

It’s heartwarming to know that someone has taken the path before even if you can’t imagine how.  Perhaps our indigenous ancestors, for whom an earthen mound rising that high and commanding this view must have meant something.

Underneath a cottony moon, encased in its transluscent chrysalis, we realize that because the world is so big, hope springs eternal; what are human beings meant for if not the thing with feathers?

Meanwhile, you ride from sunshine to overcast, but the light within reveals itself via one more surprise.   That’s what it seems like as the bike train navigates, anyway.

It’s all about perspective, isn’t it?

The Hipster Highway turns into the old hobo trail, which, appropriately enough, is also how fashion proceeds, as well, only in reverse. 

Gravel is your friend, except when it isn’t, but homemade birthday cider, towed behind the sort of bike that gets you where you’re going faster, never fails to delight.

Our strangely mild winter has resulted in more morning glory in the garden than ever; similarly, so little of forty degrees and forty days of rain has led to a steady increase in ridership in spite of the season.  Still, courtesy pays: civilians entering the crowded mini-mart get moved to the front of the line.  None of us are leaving, anyway, until we all do.

We live in a world fraught with meaning; every thought and comment connected to another.  Our minds travel faster than the speed of light from one place to another; pedaling across town, one turn of the crank at a time, is a much-needed counterpart.

Doing the same thing over and over while expecting a different result, they say, is a standard definition of insanity; repeating all the best parts of the quite familiar—switching back to continue going forward—however, is merely bike crazy good.