Friday, February 26, 2016

Gumption

“There are no wrong ways, only long ways,” announced Fancy Fred as we exited the woods to the bluff overlooking Puget Sound, a bit of poetry that many of those within earshot found remarkable enough to remark upon it.

Nevertheless, it occasioned another 180 degree turn, one of several undertaken during the course of the evening, each of which transformed a way that, while not wronger than another, would have been longer than the other eventually pursued.

Which just goes to show that perseverance pays off in many ways, and not just for the most obvious example of fire-building. 

It warmed the cockles of my heart (not as did the fire itself, the heart of my cockles, you sickos!) to see that after a failed attempt to ignite damp brush with the new improved technology, actual Eagle Scouts at hand were willing to tear the whole thing apart and do it over the right way, with twigs, moss, and human huffing and puffing.

Less committed souls might have just given up and been forced to stand around the in the cold, but fortunately, there are those among us who have that quality which the Angry Hippy said he believes is sorely lacking among most of the population these days: gumption—that old-fashioned stick-to-it-ivness that made this country great, or at least, for example, enabled one-time bike mechanics like Orville and Wilbur Wright to persevere in the workshop until they figured out how to get their heavier-than-air craft aloft.

It’s the same gumption that keeps riders plunging forward into the underbrush even on a tandem with inadequate lighting or which ensures that all the bottles of everything will be finished before departure or that eleven-plus years into this nonsense, the nonsense carries on, still finding improvements: like doing the bulk of the off-road before the fire so that nearly everyone enjoys the promised trails. 

“There are no wrong ways, only long ways;” clearly, the longer and wronger, the better.

Friday, February 19, 2016

Battered

It counts as success if you wake in the morning on the downstairs couch, your glasses nowhere to be seen, with a sore wrist and pain in your quadriceps that must have been occasioned by some sort of impact you can’t quite recall.

What you do remember, however, is how lucky we were to have a bit of drizzle that encouraged the assembled to congregate under cover, and while there wasn’t a fire, you could, by standing close to the makeshift kitchen, be plenty warmed by the steam rising from a phalanx of irons, at least one of which made spider designs on the outcomes, the others content to merely produce warm pastries perfect for the application of butter, jam, Nutella, syrup, whipped cream, or nothing at all.

After eleven years, you can almost take this shit for granted, but that would be a mistake; I’m sure if the space aliens landed atop the covered freeway, they wouldn’t believe their multiple eyes, but the report back to Alpha Centuri would be accurate: a hundred or so homo sapiens on two wheels arriving at a spot that still doesn’t fail to deliver.

Electricity is a naturally-occurring phenomenon; you just have to direct it.  Picture Old Ben Franklin out in the storm with hit kite and key: I’m sure he never could have envisioned this sort of application of his discovery, but I’m also positive he would have adored it.  Early to bed and early to rise may make someone healthy, wealthy, and wise; however, in doing so, they would miss the opportunity to stand on a picnic table and see patterned pancakes make like Frisbees across the crowded shelter to the delight of many a butter-fingered reveler surprised by deliciousness saucering their way.

We should all thank our lucky stars that technology, combined with competence and a unique set of skills makes such events possible; a single waffle would be plenty; a decade-plus of them is pure astonishment.

Friday, February 12, 2016

Chimney


They can brick up our flues, but they can’t extinguish our fire!

Even though the choice was, for much of the evening, between being chilled or smoked, you still had to enjoy the options, especially when, for some of the time, the drizzle let up and you could stand outside, under the crepuscular heavens, and enjoy the view of bearded and unbearded alike mingling in the roaster while clouds of unburned carbon mushroomed over the eaves.

This was preceded by a conga-line through the yacht haven and the more efficient, but much warmer route alongside the underside of I-5; plastic was peeled off at every intersection and for a time it seemed that sleeveless t-shirt weather had arrived, along with the emerging crocuses, already in February.

The grocery stop allowed metabolisms to return to baseline and it became clear that, in spite of Punxatawney Phil’s prediction last week, winter was still here to stay for a bit longer—not that it matters, just as long as you’ve got a place to dry your gloves before setting out again.

A cup of boiling Boy Scout water provided a momentary thrill, one which neither singed off any eyebrows nor caught the park shelter on fire, in spite of the best efforts of the organizers.

Our descent upon the sylvan grove apparently caused a few secret sweethearts to exit the park with great alacrity; nevertheless, we brought out own brand of Valentine’s Day spirit to the woodland by sharing bike love mixed with alcohol affection to all within reach.

Sure, there were those moments when an overaggressive driver needed to be schooled in how to embrace the reality of several dozen cyclists crossing in front of his field of vision or when a stumbling stumblebum required a reminder not to be rude, but overall, it was mostly a lovefest of sorts, the kind that is ignited only by bicycles combined, chimney or no chimney, where there’s smoke, there is fire.
 

Friday, February 5, 2016

Reunited

It wasn’t exactly a mountain, so the standard Rule 54 admonition didn’t technically apply, but the route of the Hill People following the Angry Hippy up the south side of Queen Anne was way steeper (and incrementally slower) than the one taken by cooler heads, but it wasn’t, as Stephen pointed out, more scenic which begets (but doesn’t “beg,” my friends) the question, “What is scenic?”

Surely, the view was more expansive, especially on that bluff overlooking Elliot Bay and Magnolia but it’s hard, I think, to fully establish the claim that one view has more scenery in it than another.  (Unless, of course, you experience it, which frankly, we all did before the evening was through, most clearly in the park by the fire, but come to think of it, all the way from start to finish, notably through the woods, both directions, switchbacks up and down.)

It was heartwarming to reunite in Ballard on the way, the Up-Group and the Down-Group reconnecting like the Ida and Pingala channels of the breath to reveal the Sushuma nadi; if that don’t activate the Kundalini serpent power, I don’t know what does.  Suffice it to say the whole is greater than the sum of its parts which, while mathematically impossible, happens with great regularity on Thursday nights in these parts.

I finally got a good explanation of why it might be worse to burn the plastic covering store-bought firewood than it is to liberally douse the conflagration in bottle after bottle of Boy Scout water, but honestly, I’m not sure it’s necessary all the time to be as fully responsible as one can be. 

For well over a decade, I’ve believed that getting to your destination via bicycle earns you a little leeway in the environmental responsibility department and, although I realize, of course, how self-serving that judgment is, I maintain that it’s reasonable.

As long as you treat the planet no worse than your liver; you're good.