Sprung

When you realize, while storing your bike for the night, that somewhere in the course of the evening, one of your beloved winter gloves has gone missing, the question immediately springs to mind: Was it worth it?

Was the moon-watching, star-gazing, trail-riding, dope-smoking, story-telling, fire-fucking, song-singing evening out on two wheels a fair trade for one of your most trusted articles of outerwear, a piece that has served you remarkably effectively for the better (that is, worse) part of two years, keeping your left hand pretty warm and mostly dry even on the coldest and wettest days and nights of the seasons?

And the verdict is: a resounding yes!

After all, you can always go to the thrift shop and find a replacement, albeit, in all likelihood, inferior, but there’s no place to purchase standing under a redwood tree with a dozen or so cyclists to regroup and wait out a hailstorm and then taking the steepest way down to the paved woodland trail before going mildly off-road in a successful search for a covered shelter that wasn’t even necessary by the time of arrival.

And even Amazon doesn’t sell snaking along the waterfront to a semi-officially sanctioned barbecue pit, the perfect spot for faculty to collaborate on the between-term research project into oxidation and inebriation on the first waxing crescent moon night after the vernal equinox.

So despite the fact that the miles-to-lost-article-of-clothing ratio was not all that high, the data show conclusively that the amount of fun generated by the overall shenanigans easily outweighs the amount of pain created by the misplaced mitten; Utilitarians everywhere, from good old John Stuart Mill himself back in the 19th century, to Peter Singer today surely agree.

Of course, self-recrimination figures in, and you get to kick yourself a little for not noticing until too late, but ultimately, it seems a small price to pay—and that doesn’t even take into account singing and dancing to the Jackson Five!

Balanced

I felt sure that our old friend the widowmaker would have blown down already in one of our winter windstorms.  But such was not the case, as it still grinned its evil Cheshire-cat mad squirrel grin down upon the assembled.  Moreover, a good deal of shaking and few lobbed logs did little to dislodge it, much to the relief, frankly, of anyone who’s bike remained in the general vicinity.

Which I guess goes to show that you never know just how sturdy the unbalanced are, after all. 

Case in point: yet another route through the woods to a sylvan glade where fire is evoked with less than half a container of the improved technology on a cool but perfectly dry perfect late winter evening, the last waning days of the last waning moon of the season, meaning the stars were out in their full Pacific Northwest glory—which some might say is damning with faint praise, but it’s high praise nevertheless.

We rode to the occasionally-visited view park out west and ogled at our fair city from its backside.  Or maybe that’s the front—it’s the water front, anyway.  Suffice it to say that the appetite of one’s eyes was perfectly sated, setting the table perfectly for the most constrained perspective later under the trees.

I will never tire of seeing my colleagues back lit by the orange and yellow glow of controlled flames in the woods; mighty thanks to our hunter-gatherer ancestors for figuring out the secret to making fire; how tiresome it would be if we had to wait for lightning to do the job.  And how difficult it would be to keep alive a burning brand on a two-wheeler.

As it is, we’re able to rely on an electric bike to carry the fuel in its potential state. 

Then, all we have to do is bring the illumination.  And for humans like us, that comes as easily and naturally as falling off a log.

Rolling

Dreams really can come true, as long as you’re willing to propose an itinerary and enlist a gaggle of cyclists to ride them into being.  And if Fancy Fred takes point on the route, you can even augment the original vision with unexpected trails through woods you’ve experienced before but never so horizontally.

Two wheels to four wheels, and both, it turns out, are pretty great, although, oddly enough, balance is harder when you’ve got eight under you than just a pair—especially at first.  But then, you get into the flow of the music and for a few shining moments, you’re all Olivia Newton-John in Xanadu, before, of course, pride literally goeth-ing before the fall—or, at least, a few seconds of hilarious and embarrassing arm-wheeling and leg-kicking to stay upright.

The proposed castle in the sky was to involve an infant, a murder site, and, perhaps, a slight violation of the traditional norm against paid entertainment and it all came to fruition, albeit with a few minor modifications.

No Michael Jackson scene was evinced as we pedaled by the presumably sleeping baby, but the playground where the high school drug deal gone bad took place had a serendipitous zipline to go along with its spectacular view.  Whatever ghost may or may not rest in peace there sure gets to enjoy a panoramic perspective on the vast industrial underbelly of our fair city, and we did, too, made even more marvelous by the all-but-full moon making the visible spectrum visible at its edges in the evening fog.

Unfortunately, the envisioned karaoke on skates wasn’t happening, but it hardly seemed a loss, given that one could still glide down a ramp to a bar where intoxication levels were monitored simply by the ability to order and consume a tallboy without ending up on your bum.

Nevertheless, a coda of singing did occur at the traditional venue; and, to top it off no rain until safely abed; dreamy!