Spooky

It turns out that to be “hoist with your own petard” is a real thing, not just in Shakespeare’s Hamlet.

Or:

You know the scene in Pixar’s The Incredibles, where Helen, the brilliant costume designer, based on the legendary Edith Head, lists all the superheroes done in by their own outfits—Dynaguy, Metaman, Splashdown, Thunderhead—and insists, “No capes!”; it’s like that.

Or:

We’ve learned that it’s not just gun-owners who are the ones mostly likely to be wounded by their own firearms; experience shows that wielders of more traditional forms of weaponry, to wit, the pirate’s sword, are also those with the highest potential for suffering injury from their own armaments.

In any case, no matter how you spin it, our collective hearts go out heartily to last night’s fallen comrade, Lieutenant Dan, whose very own and very official buccaneer cutlass found its way into his spokes (insert “sword in the spokes” joke here) causing him to go endo and face plant behind Husky Stadium for the second worst Thursday night accident I’ve had the distinct pain of riding up upon, while giving the EMT crew who attended to him (after first aid with feminine hygiene products) almost certainly the best story they’ll be able to tell about bike crashes in a long, long time.

But that’s sort of how the night went pretty much from the start, as all manner of scary things emerged from their autumn slumbers to mess with the collective abandon.  Even despite the participation of Ronald McFondle and Winnie the Angry Hippy, there were flat tires to be had and split-ups galore.

A fire was finally effected among the marshes, and television characters, movie villains, and a sexy banana cavorted accordingly.  Many peace pipes were loaded and dispatched with Ronald’s homegrown, perhaps another source of the evening’s topsy-turviness.

Frankenstein is the most misunderstood monster because he is our own invention; that which we do to ourselves, the spookiest beasts of all.

Remember

Sometimes the hill appears and you take it and even though it’s obvious by a third of the way down that this can’t possibly be the way out, you descend to the bottom, just to prove to yourself that you were right all along about being all wrong.

The thing about having lots of experiences is that context gets lost; while you certainly recall each location from previous incarnations, where you were headed that time blends into multiple memories.  It’s not quite déjà vu if you’re seeing it for the first time once more but sufficient vestiges reveal themselves when re-encountered from a different direction.

I lost track of taillights leaving the park and let my bike take over the route; naturally, it chose distance over efficiency.

Somehow, though, we knew the bar’s porch would still be crawling with two-wheelers and so it was, complete with smiling faces inside to sing along with them. 

In his comprehensive history of the bicycle, Bicycle, David V. Herlihy writes that in 1874, Coventry Machinists improved the bicycle wheel, “introducing a durable construction with individually tensioned spokes interlaced for greater strength.”  Of course, that also describes how it feels around the fire, each of us wound a little tighter, connected via flames, the whole far stronger than any single component.

When you get to see the bright quarter moon resplendent between autumn branches, importuned by rising sparks and lifting voices, you need little more: some alcohol, sure, and ample cannabis to stay vertical and visual and maybe whatever else suits your fancy, but in the end (and for most of the beginning and middle, too) it’s all about simply being where you are at the time for the time you are there.

Eventually, if you hold the destination in your mind’s eye and trust there are roads to get there, you’ll find yourself arriving.  And when you do, you’ll know that you have by what you’ll remember when memories are made.

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.

Tandem

photo by altercator

On Point83 rides, we never leave anyone behind.

Two people, however, that’s a different story.

But at least we lightened their trailer full of home-made cider before abandoning them for the Abandoned Highway, and, in our defense, not only was a serious effort made on roadside repair—highlighted by the Rez Run to Home Depot for missing lugnuts—but, more importantly, Team Brad and Allison formally absolved us from further efforts and wished the ride godspeed with assurances that further help was on the way; still, it felt sad to leave them in a downtown parking lot, even one that been the site of much spontaneous gaiety and mirth, occasioned in no small part by the aforementioned homemade applejack.

The newly-christened Argle Bargle drinks seemed to have many in fine fettle and led, in part, to a Hansel and Gretal trail of marijuana leaves indicating the route from Westlake south to the firepit that needs no firewood.  Palettes and underbrush appeared from thin air and were ignited by spray bottles of the improved technology to produce a cheery conflagration way warmer than necessary on such a mild October evening.

The faces by firelight, though, made it more than worthwhile all around the largest circumference for which we stand. 

Sparks rose heavenward…and so did burning embers from the flames, ba-dump bump.  Better jokes were told and more compelling lies traded.

It’s grand when you unintentionally end up at the spot you had more or less intended to from the beginning.  Thanks to the unexpected mechanical, and the unplanned-for absence of store-bought combustables, the revised and updated route leads you to the very place you were halfway expecting and planning for all along.

Of course, this requires a willingness to part company with one’s aspirations, but the beauty part here is being reminded to enjoy what’s happening as opposed to bemoaning what isn’t. 

After all, even the left-behind tandem team rode the perfect ride for the ride it rode.

Gorgeous

It’s only the first week of October, but already the gauntlet for seasonal spookiness has been thrown down.
It’s hard to imagine that there will be any more frightening sights on All-Hallow’s Eve than the one that was witnessed around Carkeek’s firepit on the first Thursday of the holiday’s month: at least a score of same-faced ghouls (whose images, however, were customized with different drippings of blood and a variety of scary teeth and fangs) glimmered in the dancing flames, shoes occasionally afire.

The predictable axe-murderers, vampires, and zombie Donald Trumps to emerge on Halloween will likely pale in comparison when it comes to inciting terror, and assuredly won’t come close to inducing such hysterical laughter as did the multiple Georges. 

For all those out there who were readying their Caitlyn Jenner costumes for this year’s All Saint’s Eve festivities, you’ve been served.

I myself will probably never relocate to New York City from the Pacific Northwest, but if I were to, I don’t think I’d be brave enough to endure the spectacle of my own face peering back at me from so many others.  It was frightening enough to conjecture with the departing guest of honor that he’s got thirty-four more years of opportunities to do so again before he reaches my age; the prospect of carrying on like this at age ninety-two, however, doesn’t seem so bad, just so long as such shenanigans persevere, as well.

Time is simply change under observation, you might say, so when you do the same thing over and over (especially behind almost identical masks), the clock stops and you get to cavort in the realm of eternity.

“Numerous opportunities for disaster” was how longtail rider Lalo put it and yet, about the worst that happened was losing a friend in the woods for a while.   A small search party found her, though, in plenty of time for lots more fire, a little dancing, and enough Georges to scare you silly.