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Who knows how to socialize anymore, really?  

All it’s taken is nine months of quarantine and isolation to override a lifetime of hanging out with friends and loved ones so that, before you know it, you’re opening up your mouth to all sorts of information and stories probably just as well left unsaid in the name of connecting more closely to connections made over decades (well, at least two) just because of overexcitement (and liberal applications of Farmer Ito brand cannabis) occasioned by a non-atypical bike ride from the usual meetup spot through the admonition by St. Ignatius to “Go forth and set the world on fire” along Seattle’s oldest bike path to down behind the stadium and over the river and through the woods to not exactly Grandmother’s house, but definitely one in which a kooky grandma could—and maybe does already—live.

It’s sort of amazing how easy it is to lose your beer for a while even in a relatively small space, (although one large enough to afford the appropriate social-distancing around a relatively large fire hot enough to make its container glow red-hot), but that’s a small price to pay for the chance to keep looking for it amidst the assembled; just being near human beings rather than little square pictures of them on your computer screen these days sparks joy, even without a Rainier in your hand.

What an odd first week of December this year, with nary a drop of rain, so missing out on a bit of pedaling along on even perhaps the most mundane of all the possible routes would have been a real loss.  As it was, a solid handful of actually fairly responsible citizens, plus Derrick, as well, enjoyed some up and down, a modicum of gravel, and an enjoyable climb (at least by my route) to our final destination.

A good time was had by all; that’s enough said, unlike ‘round the fire, where gums keep a-flapping.