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.
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.
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