Friday, May 27, 2016

Yes

In his masterpiece The Varieties of Religious Experience, American Pragmatist philosopher William James writes: “Sobriety diminishes, discriminates and says no; drunkenness expands, unites, and says yes. It is in fact the great exciter of the Yes function in man.”

Combine that with bicycling and you’ve got a double-yes; add a bonfire on an abandoned highway somewhere deep within the industrial outskirts of a mid-sized metropolis, throw in half a hundred featherless bipeds including a handful just visiting for fun, stir with a mild spring night on which the predicted rain showers never developed, and it’s like, “Yes, yes, yes, yes yes!”  Really.  Yes.

Even the West Seattle Low-Level drawbridge operators gave their assent to the proceedings, waiting, contrary to their traditional wont, until the entire group crossed over before closing the gates to open the span for a passing barge.  This made for an especially festive re-group at the usual spot and was probably part of the reason why there was a minimum of grumbling even though the subsequent route along the Duwamish included an abrupt about-face due to a loop that didn’t.

The gas station mini-mart operator was nervous about his bathroom key but still managed to survive our massive provisioning which included three, count ‘em, three containers of Girl Scout water, all of which, not surprisingly, were used (and misused) up before the night was out.

No one died or fell over on the tricky ascent along and across the scary highway and only one BMW driver decided to be more annoyed than he needed to be.

There’s something especially gratifying about sourcing one’s fuel at the site and the recent relatively dry weather made that relatively easy—aided, of course, by the aforementioned petroleum-based accelerant.

Fred said yeah to boiling a beer can or two of the stuff; a junked shopping cart consented to a moment of flaming glory; and most agreed that leaving early was slower than staying late; yes, yes, yes indeed.

Sunday, May 15, 2016

Eleven

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.

Friday, May 6, 2016

Via

When you get to do something you've never done that you've long wanted to and will probably never get to do again, you don't need 327 words to remember it; a single (compound) sentence is plenty.