Classical

One of the best parts of not knowing where you’re going is seeing the possibilities eliminated; it’s like the tumblers of a lock clicking into place as one after another, the options fall away. 

At first, you might be on your way anywhere, but then, it’s surely the Ghettodrome, but isn’t, even though the pedicab plays the perfect mash-up of Hendrix and Hanson as a candidate soundtrack for the spin.

And then, you could be heading to Queen Anne or Discovery Park, albeit with a Locks-walk, but pretty soon, you’re not, as even Fancy Fred’s penchant for hills falls by the wayside and there you are, crossing the bridge on the grating, despite a little water on the rails.

Ironically, as fewer and fewer destinations remain in the mix, more and more potential is released, and by the time there’s only one place you could really be headed, the likelihood of anything at all coming to be expands.

The Haulin’ Colin front rack is perfectly designed for the classical Thursday night load: a bundle of wood and a half-rack of Rainier fit perfectly and balance just right. 

Combine that with plenty more fuel tied to a score of other rigs, and a six-pack of accelerant tucked away one place or another and there you have it: all that’s needed for what is certainly is the first visit of the season, if not the year, to what may construed as default perfection; in other words, if you can’t decide where to go, don’t decide at all; just let the water show up through the woods and hear that train a’ comin.’

The almost-new moon was a smile and a wink as it set in the west and even Mars seemed at peace with a night sky that only sprinkled once and that, as a way to cool the ascent.

Ultimately, there was only one option: nothing that could possibly have happened didn’t, and all that might have did.

High

Before the internet, there was no easy way of fact-checking the authoritative pronouncements of your know-it-all friends, so back when Sammy Albano asserted that the origin of the slang term for marijuana, “420” was that the numbers were the California State Police code for a pot bust, you never questioned it—and, in fact, authoritatively pronounced the assertion yourself on numerous subsequent occasions.

And even though the claim turns out to be false, the error never compromised the enjoyment of celebrating the number, whether, specially, on April 20th, or more typically, on any given day of the week, precisely, (give or take a few hours either way), at 4:20 in the afternoon.

Which just goes to show that you don’t have to be correct to have fun or, more broadly, that it’s better to be happy than right, as they say.

I take this admonition as a reasonable guideline for Thursday night bicycle riding where, most of the time, mistakes are opportunities for enjoyment, meaning, of course, that they’re not really mistakes at all, except that then thinking of them as mistakes is, but then isn’t, but then is, paradoxically all over again and again.

See how you think when you enthusiastically celebrate the day right from the start through the traditional middle and then at the Superfund site park, which is, itself, appropriately enough, high above the ground, too?

It was an unprecedented full house for a while, with Joes over Kevins but attrition evened the score, although the Shuttup variety sported enough outfits for at least two more of his namesakes.

To my knowledge, no nuts were punched at Nutpunch Park, although we did get to savor the pleasure of exiting the site from the side door.  A few subsequent destinations were authoritatively, but erroneously, asserted before one more perfect skyline hove into view.

The stoner theme carried on with videogames, or in my case, a groovy pedal home to fall asleep on the couch.

Gift

You know the rules about following people:

Ben and mountains; Fred and gravel roads; Garth and “rain shelters”--all to be avoided.

Let us now, though, add an additional admonition:

Do not follow K-Sep up the steps!

A person comes to acquire a few guiding principles in the course of a long life, such as:

•    If you can’t unlock your bike, you’re not allowed to ride your bike, or
•    If you ride to the bar, have a drink at the bar, or
•    Always carry an spare brake cable on a bike camping trip

And, of course:

•    You don’t carry your bike, your bike carries you

All that said, the velo-portage up the back stairs to Pigeon Point was, afterwards, reasonably well worth it, not the least because it afforded the opportunity to bitch about it for minutes, lay a punch square on the sweater logo of the aforementioned ride leader, and best of all, gain access to a variety of trails on Joeball Ridge—although it should be noted that without the eponymous guide to said trails, one is apt to encounter a good deal more backtracking and route-aborting than with him.

At the traditional pee-pot-beer stop beneath the bridge, Joby mentioned that, given the meteorological expectations of the endlessly damp last few months, the evening was a gift, and even had the weather not cooperated so well with a warm dry twilight featuring striated bands of color on the setting sun horizon and a waxing gibbous moon that glowed behind contrails as night fell, it would still have been a benediction.

After all, when you have bestowed upon you a sufficient number of loops through the woods that even your cannabis-infused brain begins to recognize familiar climbs, and you’re bequeathed as a destination your very own pagoda in which to share libations with friends, and you’re also given the opportunity to plummet through the woods before heading home, that’s a fine bequest; put a bow on it!