Iron

photo by Apricot

These days, having fun feels like a political act, so it’s doubly fun to have fun, since not only are you having fun, you’re also fighting the good fight against fascism, intolerance, and perhaps, above all, bad taste.

Alcohol and cannabis-fueled bicycle shenanigans become not merely a good time, but, indeed, an aesthetic obligation, a sorely-needed poke in the eye of the powerful, an opportunity for revelers to manifest beauty in response to the ugliness and cruelty of the contemporary world.

Exhibit A: waffles, gorgeously created al fresco, courtesy of The JLC, slathered with Farmer Ito brand bud-butter, and consumed with or without toppings so heart-wrenchingly lovely that tears spring to one’s eyes—(or that could be a result of flying batter, marijuana smoke, or the tartness of the bathtub gin cocktails coming your way.)

Even for someone entering the seventh decade of life, there aren’t many things  done for12 years running (or, biking, that is), so it’s hard not to embrace the opportunity to keep the streak going even on an initially misty evening that, in the end, turns moonlit and dry, as if the weather gods themselves want to get in on the show, doing their best to enhance the artistic appeal of what is already a feast for the senses and an event for the ages.

Among my own goals was to avoid last year’s driveway tumble that resulted in two months of wrist recovery and I’m pleased to say “mission accomplished,” although I probably have the gyroscoping qualities of the bicycle to thank for that as much as anything, but that’s just the point, isn’t it?

To be grateful for that which protects you and makes possible all this useful useless beauty, that’s what I want to do, while at the same time having human-powered adventures that include tunnel-screaming and taillight streaming and which, in doing so, reaffirm the very nonsense that makes sense of all the nonsense.

Fight the powers that be.