Because

Why do anything, really?

After all, we’re all going to be gone in a couple hundred years so what’s the difference?

On the other hand, everyone loves Ferry Whiskey, even those who prefer not to indulge.

What I kept thinking most of the time was that it’s a little lonely to be alone but that you’re never really alone on an island since so many of your loved ones are also a ferry ride home from home.

I was also mostly glad to be pacing at my own pace since that meant pretty much any Porta-Potty was fair game, including those that belonged somewhere off-road but which enabled the appreciative peddler to appreciate peddling even up those hills that people with expensive bikes and uncomfortable shoes had to walk up in spite of what they had spent and endured.

I saw of a lot of miserable people but I only felt awful for half a second when half of the world was left behind; after that, though, it was all about appreciating the older growth and perfect air-conditioning; of course conditions might have been different, but I’m pretty sure there couldn’t have been anything less to imagine complaining about..

If you put your name in a bunch of times, it turns out you’re more likely to be picked, at least when there’s a dearth of options beyond the ideal Cheetoh Jeezus that rained down deliciousness after being carried on board instead of being left unattended and exploded, I guess, as opposed to having a carbon fiber handlebar raked across the baldness alongside the bay.

You missed it if you missed it, but, of course, you didn’t miss it if you didn’t. 

What I mean to say  is that the FHR isn’t the same without the FHR, but even without it,  it’s still the same and even better.

The island remains darling; the boat ride is still ineffable; the Sun Deck always shines; Fucking Hills Race, Fuck yeah.

Irrational

A rational number, I recall from 7th grade math, is one that can be expressed as a ratio of two numbers, like 1 to 2 for ½.  But I was confused, until I looked at the internet, about a number like 1/3, that—while it can be expressed as a fraction—cannot be represented as a non-repeating decimal number. 

Now I know, however, that as long as there’s a pattern that repeats, even if it does so endlessly, the number counts as rational, (contrasted, for example with π, whose decimal digits never follow a repeatable pattern even when calculated to the new world record length of 2.7 trillion places.)

All of which is to say that even though Thursday night rides may extend towards infinity, and even though there are destinations that come up with greater regularity than others, nothing is ever quite the same over time and therefore, we can conclude, that rides are—using the favored mathematical terminology—irrational (although one hardly needs even seventh grade math to confirm that).

And what this means, I thought, as I alternated between the redneck and artisan fires at our sylvan destination last night, that the longstanding question about whether—if indeed our Universe is but a vast simulation—“is it digital or analogue?” has a solution (or rather, it doesn’t but that’s just the point).

Point being: it’s neither and both, since neither digital nor analogue can fully represent the simulation’s fully irrational nature.

And this makes me more inclined than ever towards the view that we get in the non-dualist Advaita Vedanta where, more or less, Pure Being and Pure Consciousness, Atman and Brahman, are one, and that’s what each of us are, as well, “Thou Art That”, Tat Tvam Asi, just like it says on tehSchott’s formidable calf.

In other words, I’ve made my peace with two fires.

After all, they’re really just one, and while that may sound irrational, at least it never ends.

Thermal

Here’s one thing we learned: when the Zombie Apocalypse hits, don’t stock up on Pres-to-Logs; instead, commandeer as many clean-burning Tacoma Firelogs you can get your hands on.

Here’s another: all the accelerant in the world (or, at least in the bottle), doesn’t do a bit of good if you can’t achieve ignition.  (So, carry matches, maybe, during World War Z).

And finally, (although most probably knew this already): Once the flames are hot enough, pretty much anything will burn, including PBR cans pretending to be Rainiers, wet cardboard coated in plastic film, and even, surprisingly, not only little pucks but entire logs of overcompressed sawdust that seemed, initially, entirely unable to fulfill their vaunted claims about how many BTUs they produce under conditions of full combustion.

The wild weather of the last few days probably contributed to the relatively sparse turnout, but those hardy (or just stubborn) souls who were willing to ignore reports and simply show up and ride, were treated to a blustery but mostly dry evening with a  full moon bright enough to yield the relatively rare phenomenon of moonbow in the mist; our planet’s favored satellite peeking through bare branches overhead, like a celestial yoke nestled in its multi-hued albumen, evoking the occasional howl from humans feeling their ancestral animal roots.

Having fought the headwind for a couple hours on my way home from school to Westlake, I was delighted to have the gale at my back as we headed towards the tidy town of Magnolia; northwest along the Elliot Bay trail put the full force of the wind at our service; for a few shining moments, I was a beast, a cannibal like Eddy Merckx, taking full credit for the power of my pedaling, like those privileged Republican motherfuckers who were born on third base and go through life thinking they hit a triple.

Honestly, anyone can set the world on fire, once it’s already ablaze; even Pres-to-Logs burn in Hell.