Loops

I’ll bet if you plotted the route as a line on a map it would tie up like a ribbon on a birthday gift, marking the lovely lagniappe that was last night’s ride, a southerly meander along Seattle’s original waterway highlighted by a Whack-A-Mole freeway viewing during which, fortunately, no moles were whacked.

Even without Fancy Fred leading the way, we were able to split the group within two blocks of leaving Westlake, but happily, there was reunion at the car wash minimart which featured, to my cannabis-induced consternation and indecisiveness, way more different types of Reese’s Peanut Butter snacks than is parseable by a mind under the influence of such-and-such and so-and-so.

I had originally predicted that our riverside jaunt was headed all the way to the bottom of the lake, but instead, we eschewed the full riparian version for a curlicue back around the dreaded Family “Fun” Center and a mass of pitch pedaling not particularly endorsed by a lone spectator in a speeding pickup truck.

If you’ve never stood on a platform of dirt with your head poking out between four lanes of freeway—to have cars and trucks blowing by your ears at eye level—you’re surely missing out on something and not just the opportunity to ingest mass quantities of grit traveling sixty miles an hour. 

Consider it a new perspective on automobile culture; viewing vehicles from below reveals their soft underbellies; they’re like careless dragons lounging in their caves on mounds of bejeweled baubles, and you feel a renewed compassion for those poor drivers strapped in metal cages missing out on the opportunity to glide alongside Old Man River for mile upon looping mile on a cool but dry spring evening to the tune of spinning cranks, puttering chains, and beer cans being opened and chugged.

He, like we, just keeps flowing, that Old Man River: mile after mile, week after week, Thursday night after Thursday night, just keeps flowing along.

Purple

There is comfort to be found in marking the passage of a beloved contemporary music and pop-culture icon by pedaling in a group of three or four dozen cyclists behind the Music Bike blasting the greatest hits from their catalogue; it worked for Bowie a couple months ago, and it worked last night for Prince, may he rest in peace.

I usually prefer to give Joby’s bicycle-mounted audio system about a half block berth in order to keep the flesh on my face from melting, but with selections from his Royal Purpleness on the playlist, I was perfectly happy with being subjected to the sonic assault.

It’s seventeen years after the name of the song, “1999,” which, according to the internet, came out seventeen years before the eponymous date, which seems appropriate somehow, a kind of balance, if you will, between the future and the past—a state of affairs even more apt given that this was a ride that featured, literally (in the literal sense) two generations Point83 riders.

The route to our sylvan discotheque was amusing and the outdoor club itself large enough to house numerous conversations and observations as well as a vertical fire on a night unseasonably warm enough to hardly really need one.

The only ding in an otherwise shiny full moon evening was when Mr. Oblivious and Ms. Impatient collaborated on handing out a door prize to Fast Zach resulting in an impressively theatrical crash and an unfortunately unfortunate shoulder injury; best wishes for a speedy recovery and don’t hesitate to lawyer up if satisfaction does not appear forthcoming.

Having sampled one of the larger of the remaining shortbreads from the “It’s All Downhill From Here (Except When It Isn’t) Time Trial” earlier in the evening, I found myself, (mostly to my satisfaction) in the Land Beyond Words for much of the time.

All the better to listen, anyway; I swear you could hear, in the space between songs, the doves cry.

Concentric

photo by Stephen

I recall at least three “dromes” along the way: the Ghetto, of course, but also two more pint-sized circles at different spots near the top of uphill.

And then, I guess, a fourth, too, because, after all, when you think about it, isn’t the Queen Anne summit a kind of ring, as well?  (Albeit one that only appears as such when you circumnavigate it, a pedaling Magellan of sorts, with the ancillary advantage of not being eviscerated by the natives, a fate that would be truly weird among the dog-walkers and baby-joggers of Seattle’s crown jewel, right?)

It’s always a pleasure to be escorted through a neighborhood by someone who lives there—a native, if you will; that’s when you discover pocket parks you’ve never been in before, vistas you’ve overlooked, and routes you’ve yet to have ridden over—and walked up as the case may be.

Shahan had an idea, starting with ping pong in the futuristic wasteland of SLU and did his best Fancy Fred imitation, leading us on hike-a-bike adventures straight out of the F.F. playbook.  There was some minor grumbling on the superfluous uphills, but after a stint at the home of our fair city’s busiest bartender, including a juggernaut of lovingly prepared tequila shots courtesy of yet another Aries, it was high time to wait no more for raw dog in the butt and a thrilling descent to Interbay through the west side woods via sheer cliffs and multiple roots.

During the course of the evening, both a Frisbee and a cop were rescued from various blackberry brambles, both, as it turned out, requiring at least three helpers to extract the relevant item.  Neither, however, seemed particularly worse for wear after spinning free from what we used to call in Pittsburgh, “jagger bushes.”

Which just goes to show, if you go round in circles enough, you’ll eventually return to where you started, the end, as it were, a beginning all over again.

Sensor

I learned on the internetz that sensor size is important in digital photography because it significantly affects image quality. I’m told if you have two cameras with the same pixel count, but one has a physically larger sensor than the other, the one with the larger sensor will usually produce better quality images. 

I guess I would understand the difference between sensor size and pixel count as something like scope versus detail: a bigger sensor lets you capture more light and therefore expand the horizon; more pixels allows for greater focus, thereby affording you the opportunity for improved clarity.

While this may not accurately reflect the ways cameras work, I nevertheless take it as an apt metaphor for Point83, which I would say is way more about the sensor than the pixels.

Thursday nights out on two wheels afford you the opportunity for opening your eyes really wide and taking it all in, even if, ultimately, in the end, some—if not most—of the details are lost.

I arrived at the waterside fairly late in the proceedings, after a long ride from the top of the lake to the edge of the Sound.  Some cellular wayfaring advice from Joeball, combined with a bit of dead reckoning on my part and then a serendipitous meet-up with a bipedaling (as opposed to simply pedaling) Meg-Ha enabled me to locate the assembled assembled around the teeter-tottering driftwood fire on a new moon night with a spring tide down low revealing thousands of tiny little translucent crabs scuttling out from under rocks and deeper into the sand.

A couple of beers and enough conversation ensued to convince the Angry Hippy that I’d finally begun acting my age as a grumpy curmudgeon, but that was only momentary, when it was time to clean up the mess and head back uphill, cursing a blue streak, to ease the pain of climbing.

I’m leaving out details, of course; my sensors, though, captured it all.

Nursed

When, at the lakeside pre-funk, already made charming by cold beers and warm sunshine, a guy glides to the dock on a stand-up paddleboard with what at first appears to be a small dog behind him but which, upon further investigation, turns out to be a pet chicken, (that being, as tehSchkott pointed out, so much better in every way), you can reliably conclude that the evening already counts as a success. 

From there on out, you’re playing with house money so to speak.

And when the ride starts by going to Harborview, except that, for a change, not because somebody needs to be patched up or put back together, but rather, simply to enjoy a view that features silhouette mountains, pink cotton candy clouds, and the occasional “M”-shaped seagull circling lazily on the horizon, you know you’ve hit the jackpot.

Surprisingly, it wasn’t even necessary to make a U-turn back to the hospital after bombing down the Hipster Highway and skidding over gravel and fist-sized rocks through the Jungle trail; everyone emerged relatively unscathed, if somewhat muddied in certain cases.

As we waited beneath the highway for the straggling and cautious to arrive, I said to Fred, “Well, that was fun;” and he replied, “Yes, and it’s going to get funner!” and lo and behold, he was right, especially if your idea of fun is riding straight up the side West Seattle in order to twist and turn through the woods all the way down to the beach.

The barbecue grill fire was plenty big enough to warm the assembled on such a mild spring evening and even if it launched an ember that burned a washer-sized hole in the shoulder of a particularly-beloved old shirt, you happily chalk it up to the price of admission.

After all, that’s the bitter that makes the sweetness sweeter, like how it’s sad your favorite Nurse is leaving town; but how happy is a ride commemorating the ensuing departure.