In our era’s fast-paced global capitalist marketplace, it’s easy to forget that efficiency is not the only virtue. The bicycle, however, reminds us that there are other values to hold dear: beauty, camaraderie, humor, and perhaps most important of all, the unexpected.
Consumerism tells us that we must always get what we want, as quickly as possible, and our self-worth is accounted for accordingly; being out on two wheels, by contrast, especially when in the company of three score or so other riders, allows us to experience the experience of being pleased with less, notably in the haste department, (particularly if the main reason for the reduced pace is unanticipated detours, including an opportunity to skim Montlake Boulevard on the brand-new overpass).
It never occurred to me before how much pleasanter boat traffic is than automobile traffic, but the facts speak for themselves: in my whole life no one has ever amiably lofted beer towards me from a passing car, but that happened twice from a speedboat in mere moments alongside the west end of the Cut; moreover, you never see a pirate canoe on the highway.
Riding through early evening shadows in the Arboretum is one of those local luxuries you can easily take completely for granted, but on a bike, it’s harder to not notice how utterly unlikely is this much beauty, replete with a chalk-sketched first quarter moon hanging out overhead.
“Never pass up an opportunity to swim,” I say, and since the reptilian survival brain appropriately overrode that maxim earlier in the evening, Madison Beach provided a chance far less daunting—and with a diving board, too.
Then, soon enough (and not a moment before), many scaled the familiar final leg of seven, count ‘em seven, different years of race routes to the traditional finishing line which, (after it was pointed out to me that July 23rd is my inverse birthday date), seemed even more appropriate than simply the joint’s planned commemoration.
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| photo by Tom |
It never occurred to me before how much pleasanter boat traffic is than automobile traffic, but the facts speak for themselves: in my whole life no one has ever amiably lofted beer towards me from a passing car, but that happened twice from a speedboat in mere moments alongside the west end of the Cut; moreover, you never see a pirate canoe on the highway.
Riding through early evening shadows in the Arboretum is one of those local luxuries you can easily take completely for granted, but on a bike, it’s harder to not notice how utterly unlikely is this much beauty, replete with a chalk-sketched first quarter moon hanging out overhead.
“Never pass up an opportunity to swim,” I say, and since the reptilian survival brain appropriately overrode that maxim earlier in the evening, Madison Beach provided a chance far less daunting—and with a diving board, too.
Then, soon enough (and not a moment before), many scaled the familiar final leg of seven, count ‘em seven, different years of race routes to the traditional finishing line which, (after it was pointed out to me that July 23rd is my inverse birthday date), seemed even more appropriate than simply the joint’s planned commemoration.
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