Friday, November 20, 2015

Scatter

It turns out that even in Puritan (well, I guess technically Lutheran) Seattle, it’s not against the law to have fun, even when one might construe that a little casual vandalism is involved. 

Apparently, the police don’t actually scramble a phalanx of cruisers with lights flashing and sirens blaring just to roust a gang of (putative) adults from the woods simply for talking loudly and sharing warmth.

But you do have to be impressed by the alacrity with which several dozen cyclists can stow the contraband and begin streaming from the site just to avoid what: a stern talking to and, at worst, a ticket?  (Although as was pointed out to me, in this day and age, those seemingly benign interactions with the authorities do sometimes end up with the alleged perpetrator dead and the guy in uniform on paid administrative leave, so discretion—that is, getting the hell outta there—may be, after all, the better part of valor.)

Several of us with cooler heads coined a new word while we waited for the departed to return: “hisderrickal,” as in “I think it was the influence of the argle bargle and perhaps a little guilt over the melted plaque that made them all hisderrickal when they saw the bubblegum machine.”

The thing is, it’s perfectly understandable to imagine that so much attention would be paid to so little: I often have the feeling on a Thursday night that what I’m experiencing is at the apogee of human experience; it’s not surprising to conclude that a drove of PoPos would want in on the action.

More than a decade in, there’s still a path we’ve never taken, this one involving concrete stairs and a full-body workout up a freeway exit; blame my leadership skills for missing the intended turn that resulted in this serendipitous routing; I often don’t know where I’m going, but I have learned that if you stick around long enough, eventually you’ll get there.

Friday, November 13, 2015

Moisturizer

People do, as LWC Kevin pointed out, pay good money for this sort of treatment: champagne bubble-sized droplets steadily applied for hours to your entire face—that’ll keep your skin young. 

Pedaling through the first real beginnings of the season, by extension, helps to keep the rest of you feeling like a kid, especially one lacking enough sense to come in out of the rain, even though much of the time was spent indoors drying off from the previous portion of the route.

Derrick went to eleven right quick and in spite of the fact that Ye Olde C.I.P. didn’t have its fireplace going, remained lit all the way cross-channel to the Boxcar, a ride that might have been longer had we shortened it to GasWorks for palettes and pyrophilia.

Nevertheless, I consider the full route legit, especially taking into account my solo tour home into the teeth of the storm along Elliot Bay, including the marble-raceway ascent from Alaskan Way to Western through the elevator parking lot.

If you don’t ride your bike much in the rain in Seattle, then you won’t ride your bike much in Seattle is how I remember it each year about this time and I’m also reminded how it’s not really all that bad, especially if your socks stay dry and you treat yourself to a second pair of gloves at some point along the way.

“Is everyone up here from down there?” asked the Angry Hippy as we were leaving the first stop and he had had the opportunity to confirm his long-held bias; I, on the other hand, retain many more fond memories of the place—although I do recall how awful it was to be in the smoke-filled underground at Friday beers there during grad school twenty-yikes years ago.

So maybe it really does get better, just as long as it doesn’t get worse. 

Cry all you want about about the rain, no one can see your tears.

Friday, November 6, 2015

Luminous


It really did get lighter; not just eyes adjusting, although there was probably that, too.

Maybe it was cloud cover, but there’s no doubt: I’m not the only one who reached for a headlamp upon arrival but eventually found it superfluous.

Most importantly, no one was hit by a train, a feat that would have been difficult, but hardly anything’s impossible on either side of the tracks.

Mainly, I’m reminded to have faith: if you take the route with no turns, you’ll eventually meet up; still, it might have been better to communicate better, except that it’s obvious when you’re following Fred that you can count on following.

Make a big loop and distance shrinks; follow the river bottom and soon, you’ll be on your way home.  The shortest distance between two points can be surprising even three times in; hooray, hooray, hooray for the reminder to go forward.

Someday a birthday boy may be half your age, too; the bicycle makes it possible for this to be commonplace, not weird.

It’s too bad when people who could have come can’t because they won’t; on the other hand, if you won’t because you wouldn’t, then you could have only if you would have.

It’s maybe the best place of all, just like the other ones.  There’s something about proximity to parallel lines extending to infinity, however, that helps a lot.

What can you get forty people to do whether or not there are exactly that many?  Point being: plenty showed up and rode deep.

Chocolate covered cake powers mightily.  Three to a pack and one is plenty.

Sparks beneath alders always inspire.

Notice what you’re noticing; remember all these memories.  It only takes all it takes to get there. 

I offer up my favorite form of gratitude for all there is to be grateful for: natural features, experiential connections, the way in which the seemingly unconnected leads directly to connections for the making.

Thanks for the light.