Dads

Even so motley a crew as Point83 has at least this feature in common: every single rider has a dad in one form (including formless) or another.

So it was heartwarming to see an actual instantiation of said fact, especially one so game to carry on all manner of shenanigans, from trail-riding to park-drinking to bar-diving well into the witching hours, winning props for being the senior member of the troupe still standing (which, truth be told, was already the case at the start of the ride, so there’s that, as well, to commend.)

 I myself look forward to a day in the not-so-distant future when my own progeny will think it’s cool to invite her old man for a Fall Break visit, an offer I think we will both concur with last night’s guest of honor to be superior to sharing time during the Spring version when potentials for sights better not seen might be significantly higher.

As it was, it still turned out to be an evening so well attended that it was almost impossible not to fulfill the casual challenge of meeting at least one person you’d never met before, a task made even easier if you’re the sort of person like yours truly who is prone to forgetting the names and even faces of those you’ve hung out with even several times before. 

 

And yet, surely some slack can be cut for not being able to place a newb so newb they inquire of the Angry Hippy whether he is a newb.

 

I think of my own father, born in 1920, and--assuming I’m still alive just half as long more as the erstwhile bike gang has been extant—will have spanned a hundred years from his start to my finish.  And then, if you connect his father and my child at either end, you’re up to two centuries, a daisy chain not unlike Dad's favorite dual fires, one hotter, and one brighter.