You could either be warm or dry at the campground festivities, but not both, as the drizzle never really let up, so you had to decide whether to array around the small but persistent campfire, or huddle under shelter near the picnic tables groaning with foodstuffs and strangely-flavored potato chips.
But either, actually, was just fine, as was, in fact, the entire Ben Country Eleven (Feel the Ben) ride from Seattle’s Pioneer Square to North Bend’s Middle Fork Campground, an excursion that featured a stunning amount of dirt, gravel, and wood-chip cycling over its half a hundred-plus miles.
There were more riders than years in the guest of honor’s life and somehow, all of them made it the whole way, even those who started out missing a crank arm or ended up needing a bike shop to finalize a repair.
Over the course of the eight hours it took the group to travel the five-hour route, many a height was scaled and plenty a sock was soaked. A pig farmer was scared by something going bang, but his animals seemed none the worse for wear. Private property was probably trespassed briefly, but no one got in any trouble not of their own making.
The final six or seven miles to the campground were particularly spectacular, alternating between washed out washboard and fresh, perfectly smooth tarmac; hardly a single automobile passed by, so you could fearlessly drink in all the scenery you wanted while chatting with fellow riders about tree names, slugs mating with snails, and books to one day be read.
Thanks to Mother Nature and the Snoqualmie River’s appetite for flooding its banks, we had the campground pretty much to ourselves, proving all the room necessary for plenty of weirdness and an adequate amount of Angry Hippy commemorating. Surprisingly, no one clambered up into the rafters, but let that be no indicating that things did not, ultimately, go to eleven.
That they certainly did. And more.
But either, actually, was just fine, as was, in fact, the entire Ben Country Eleven (Feel the Ben) ride from Seattle’s Pioneer Square to North Bend’s Middle Fork Campground, an excursion that featured a stunning amount of dirt, gravel, and wood-chip cycling over its half a hundred-plus miles.
There were more riders than years in the guest of honor’s life and somehow, all of them made it the whole way, even those who started out missing a crank arm or ended up needing a bike shop to finalize a repair.
Over the course of the eight hours it took the group to travel the five-hour route, many a height was scaled and plenty a sock was soaked. A pig farmer was scared by something going bang, but his animals seemed none the worse for wear. Private property was probably trespassed briefly, but no one got in any trouble not of their own making.
The final six or seven miles to the campground were particularly spectacular, alternating between washed out washboard and fresh, perfectly smooth tarmac; hardly a single automobile passed by, so you could fearlessly drink in all the scenery you wanted while chatting with fellow riders about tree names, slugs mating with snails, and books to one day be read.
Thanks to Mother Nature and the Snoqualmie River’s appetite for flooding its banks, we had the campground pretty much to ourselves, proving all the room necessary for plenty of weirdness and an adequate amount of Angry Hippy commemorating. Surprisingly, no one clambered up into the rafters, but let that be no indicating that things did not, ultimately, go to eleven.
That they certainly did. And more.
No comments:
Post a Comment