Holistic

I choose to believe it was auspicious serendipity, rather than satellite telecommunications, that brought together the two contingents—one sweatier, one cuter—of the bike gang atop the far western heights of our fair city in the appropriately-named park at sunset, (or at least civil twilight), in the long lingering crepescule of a late spring evening in the Pacific Northwest.

Half of us—although who knew it was a fraction at the time—had done our best impression of responsible citizens, following nearly all the rules on the legally-mandated stroll through the local wonder of civil engineering, and, after visiting what might be the very first spot I’d ever ridden to of a Thursday night, exited just in time not to be locked in the Locks; reckoning, then, it being too early to decamp for singing, (and still possessed of at least a case of beer in bucket panniers on ice), we followed uphill to the western-facing viewpoint, only to be treated, in moments, to the southern exposure of nearly just as many riders approaching, familiar faces, one and all.

Of the very few things every human being on the planet has in common is that they were born, and while other nearly ubiquitous traits—such as liking deviled eggs and early Michael Jackson—might be more compelling, that’s surely no reason not to celebrate the occasion; and  if you can do so by pedaling somewhere lovely, drinking beer outside with comrades, and then assembling at a festive water(wheel)ing hole for singing and dancing with acquaintances and strangers, by all means, that’s reason to celebrate.

For this reason, and others, including their musical skills and wry insightfulness, I’m awful glad the event coordinator, Rza, was born, and it makes me glad to have come into this existence myself, because, after all, if I didn’t share this one trait in common with everyone else, then I’d have missed out on both halves of the whole damn wonderful thing.