Attendance

photo by joeball

What happens to a ride deferred?  Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun?

Apparently not, at least in this data set; what happens, according to the latest findings, is that it waits patiently for its time to come and then, like some sort of temporal chrysalis, emerges from the wings in full summer glory laughing aloud at its own exceeded premonitions.

The upside of having an idea is that you can imagine; on the other hand, it’s great to be surprised.  Nevertheless, even when you know where you’re going, getting there involves the unexpected.  Case in point: the trail on which you forecast to exit turns into the perfect ingress, one that pulls the rabbit of the park right from the top hat of dusk before your unbelieving eyes.

You gotta have faith in Beacon; it’s hard to believe that the end will arrive and evolve into something else but it does and there you are with nothing to do but forget about destinations until everything else arrives.

That’s what happens when the dream comes true except that it’s bicycles rather than spaceships and lather.

The moon really shouldn’t be so immense and it’s crazy to let it be bright enough to bend light on the horizon, but that’s what Nature does on her summer break.  Surely, even she has to roar at the synchronicity of human moons mirroring the one in heaven, so much milky whiteness and tidal power!

Our planet’s satellite looks exactly the same (even if it’s invisible) at exactly the same time all over the globe; you can use it, therefore, to send messages to people anywhere in the world; clearly, one such communication conveyed by this lunacy is how blessed we are to be dancing half (or more) naked in this luminous sea.

Billions of years after opening night the moon still dazzles; paradoxically, a decade or so into this cycle, it’s the show-stopper that makes the show go.

Inverse

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.

photo by Tom

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.

Invocation

“The lord loves children and fools,” goes the old chestnut, and since you’re certainly not the former, it must be the latter that your favorite Yaweh, Jehovah, Allah, Shiva, Brahma, Vishnu, or Great Spirit in the Sky was looking out for on that very hazy ride home at the end of the night for you even if others carried on long enough afterwards for the fuzz to show up.

Sometimes you have a plan, but more often than not, discarding one’s preferences leads to unexpected delights; case in point: a moment upon entering the forest path near the top of Discovery Park when sunlit dust turned the world golden and all of a sudden, for a few moments, it became the 19th century or thereabouts and you and yours were riding boneshakers over converted horse paths at dusk on contraptions tuned up by the Wright Brothers themselves.

Which is why, perhaps, the view from the ridge felt like flying, especially if you meandered just a little bit north to get out of the wind or stood behind someone large like the good Commander himself who led you there in the first place.

Eventually, the sun set and somehow you bombed to Ballard where it seemed like there was a movie playing although comparing the scenes with Luke Wilson to those with Will Ferrell sure made it seem like two different ones.

And then, bang, Gasworks Parks shows up and damned if your presbyopic eyes don’t bear witness to sights un-unseeable although that could surely be a dream, too, even if the fire itself is real.

It’s a good thing the bicycle is a gyroscope since God knows, God has enough to do with keeping the planets in their proper orbits to focus on His attention on your safe travels home; nevertheless, He is certainly to be commended for seeing that you arrive on your doorstep intact and with a spare beer in your bag, Praise the Lord!

Sash

Lake Union swimming always feels secretly magic as illustrated clearly by those Lady Mary interns who surely asked themselves far more frequently than most of us why they were doing what they were doing.

When the Riding of the Bulls rolls around this time of year, it’s hard to imagine seeing it as a responsibility to be fulfilled rather than an opportunity to be had; was anyone in their cubicle all afternoon making up excuses as to why they couldn’t attend?

Sure, when you’ve got to get up in the morning five days a week, including Friday, one tends to downplay the evening’s opportunities, but that’s not bad when it’s possible to pack what feels like a lifetime into less than half a day:  

A change in the weather was in the offing, as well, but not until everyone had had their fill of heat.

And who doesn’t love freaking out the squares, especially when they’re hip enough to be out watching Tuesday Night Shakespeare or some other version of what happens in city parks on summer nights.

You had to wonder a little bit which of the two Madrona Moms would find more troubling: weed-smoking or shirtless shirt-cocking, both of which were indulged in dockside of the T’s.  As a parent myself, I’d opt for the latter, but that’s due, in part, to aesthetic considerations as well as the obvious point that I was, and remain, an enthusiastic party to the former.

Of course the main lesson to be learned from the evening’s festivities is that the ride is bigger than any of us; even without a founding bull and our one and only matador, hijinks ensued.

Wine was squirted; whites were adorned; and in spite of a pre-midnight pumpkin hour for yours truly, escape velocity was achieved. 

None were gored, but many a heart was pieced by the pointless brilliance of it all; strangers everywhere asked what was happening; the only answer to be given is yes.

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)?