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.
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.
argle bargle.
ReplyDeleteWell put.
ReplyDelete