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.