Mountain

Consider all the things you wouldn’t otherwise do—from savoring Shamu the electric-assist cargo tandem bike-delivered Costco pizza by the waterfront to bounding down the gravel forest road on your own two wheels well before eight in the morning—and you’ll begin to appreciate just how odd and rare is the state of affairs that gives rise to such circumstances.

I know for certain that if it weren’t for Joeball Mountain, I would never pedal to the tippity-top despite the promise of a full moon rising over a vista that’s actually a vista; in fact, the likelihood of my even cycling into the woods at dusk is vanishingly small; and that was less than a quarter of the way into things when it’s tallied up all showered and shaved back home.

There’s something delightful about wrangling half a hundred bicycle riders way out into the woods just to set up an outdoor discoteque.  What a funny little nightclub, (my new favorite), filled with a myriad of familiar faces and plenty enough beer to last until closing time.

Who needs fire when the birthday boy can stand on the barbecue grill and personify the flickering flame around which we congregate?

Consequently, no one burned down the woods, although the dance floor was aflame on more than one occasion as befits such a sylvan Studio 54 on a not one, but two, birthday evening al fresco.

The ride out (and up) remains surprisingly surprising and you get bragging rights for not getting off and pushing, even though it would hardly be much slower; a steel horse might not navigate the path as well as one made from horsemeat but it sure beats having to corral your steed and pull it in a trailer with a pickup.

Peak moments at the peak and the reminder of many happy returns; a mere seventeen hours start to finish; how does a year’s worth of mayhem fit into so small a space (mountain)?