Beauty

The Danish philosopher Soren Kierkegaard identifies three forms of life—the aesthetic, the ethical, and the religious—available to us in our ongoing attempt to escape the universal human condition of despair.

The aesthetic life is lived when individuals relate to themselves. Such people focus their attention on personal considerations and seek out novel experiences of beauty and pleasure. The ethical life is lived when individuals define themselves in reference to other human beings. Such people live lives of duty, and seek above all else to serve others. Finally, the religious life is lived when individuals relate themselves to something which transcends their own self, other people, and even this world. Such people “rest” their identity in the absolute.

For Kierkegaard, the religious life is the superior life, the only way of being that really allows someone to overcome despair; one does so by taking the necessary “leap of faith” into believing in the existence of God.

Sure.  Whatever.

I mean, far be it for me to criticize such an eminent thinker, especially one generally considered the first Existentialist, thereby pretty much paving the way to the dominant cultural worldview that essentially characterizes the contemporary world.

Still, I think the old brooding Dane gives short shrift to the aesthetic life.  

After all, human beings have been gifted with such a remarkable array of senses, all of which allow us to perceive beauty in its endless multifarious forms; and if that’s not a religious experience, and one which enables us to overcome despair—even for a few moments on a snowy evening in the Pacific Northwest—then what else could be?

No matter where you looked, (or listened or smelled or tasted or touched) atop the tippy-top of the snowy mound, beauty abounded.  Even the Space Needle showed off.

Fun—itself a kind of spiritual awakening—was had by all and laughter slid all the way down the icy hill again and again.

Good God it was grand.

Holidaze

It surely was a Christmas miracle where the weather was concerned.  

The day stopped being a miserable day right at the same time the day stopped being miserable.  Coincidence?  Of course.  Or synchronicity.  Both.

But it was a Holidazed Davezaster when it came to almost everything else, including right from the start, an unintentional ditching by the very person who was going on about not being ditched, but oh, well, reuniting felt so good on the first of several unnecessarily upward routes that normally one eschews because who doesn’t prefer longer and flatter rather than shorter and steeper, right?  

And yet, in spite of that, we seemed to be taking the worst of both options much of the time although that probably did get us to where we were going with utmost efficiency, a phenomenon far different than most of the rest of nearly all of the evening. 

It’s pretty easy to get lost in Magnuson Park, especially when you’re following the taillights of people who don’t know where they’re going either; fortunately, at least one person understands how the future present works and besides, there’s a limited number of places you could be headed for, even if a park shelter isn’t one of them.

Meanwhile, I’m still puzzling over how it’s possible to be a rule-breaker when there are no rules; somehow, it seems to happen, paradoxical as that is, which is probably the point.

Prudence suggests embracing half the opportunity, waiting a few hours and seeing what happens.  But sometimes the prudent thing to do is be imprudent, better to go overboard than merely dipping your toes.

The moon certainly held nothing back; not another night all year long that was longer for it.  Every time I gazed up from start to finish, there it shone.

And above all, success: all the way home and into the drive with rubber side down.  Not really a miracle, but kinda miraculous when you let it be.

Happy holidaze.

Climb

Gravity reminds us that “Whatever goes up, must come down,” but it can take a little while for that to happen when you’re repurposing a concrete structure meant to hold automobiles into a marble raceway for bicycles.

It warms ye olde cockles of one’s heart to turn such strange artifacts of our fossil fueled car-centric economy into a recreational habitat for two-wheelers not once, not twice, not thrice, not four, but five separate times in a single night.  (Admittedly, four was but a mere one flight up, but still…)

Designers of parking meters probably never planned on their being used so often as poles for locking bikes to; it’s unlikely that paper clip manufacturers expected their products to serve as ear cleaners with such regularity; and who’d a thunk coffee cups would find their ultimate purpose to be for holding pencils and pens rather than a roasted bean beverage?

By the same token, the architects of parking garages probably never had in mind that their concrete structures would spark such joy among cyclists by functioning so well as a way to get the blood flowing and body warming by turning left like a NASCAR driver and corkscrewing upwards floor after floor.  

And it’s doubtful those structural engineers could have predicted what a perfect spot for drinking beer and laughing together that the top floors of their structures would become, especially on a surprisingly dry evening in the Pacific Northwest during the rainiest part of the year.

Sunday afternoon wayfaring sessions sometimes yield Thursday evening ideas; as I learned at the proverbial knee of a wise not-so-old Joeball, it’s good to have a couple of previously-scouted locations in one’s back pocket; you never know when they’ll come in handy on a night when nobody really is yelling loudly for some such path here or there.

And who doesn’t love an outdoor living room just minutes from home? 

See the fun defy gravity and keep rising but never fall down.

Smoke

Common lore tells us that “smoke follows beauty.”  

If that’s true, then all of us, standing and sitting around the beach fire on the fifth night of Hannukah, following the day the internet didn’t come to an end as predicted, are beautiful, since no matter where you went, the plumes would find you.

And who am I to doubt the aesthetic judgment of mostly unreacted air, carbon dioxide, and water, mixed with a variable amount of mold spores, volatile organic compounds, and aldehydes?  

I do know, for sure, that the natural setting itself was particularly lovely, with a charcoal and graphite sky overhead to the east and the longest of low tide beaches stretching forth towards the west.

In fact, you could walk out so far onto the windswept sand bar that the entire shoreline expanse of Shilshole Bay, from Magnolia to Ballard and beyond was visible to your left, while simultaneously viewing all of Elliot Bay to downtown and Alki on your right, as if you were some sort of demi-Moses parting the seas of Seattle.

Maybe that was Mother Nature’s Hannukah gift of mixing together a soup of Biblical tales; who knows?

One thing’s for certain: if there is a God, He (or She, or They, or It, and All of the Above), must be pretty used to smoke following His (or Her, or Their, or Its) terrestrial handiwork, because this pale blue dot of a planet is some looker.  

No matter where you set your eyes, as you rotated and revolved about vainly trying to avoid being the subject of that old Platters’ song, they were filled with visions of loveliness, all four of the traditional elements doing their part to satisfy and surpass even the heartiest of appetites for exquisite splendor.

And Air, fire, earth, and water were made even more gorgeous by the bittersweet truth that the only way out was up, that little portending ugliness which heightens the beauty by contrast.

Tailwind

I have long believed that the tailwind is the proper metaphor for privilege: you never notice it when it’s behind you, but you can’t help but notice when it’s in your face.

With that in mind, it certainly was a privilege to be out riding bicycles this most recent Thursday evening as all the Anemoi teamed up to privilege everyone who joined with a mightily powerful tailwind which propelled the small, but cheerful peloton speedily across the Aurora (rhymes with “a horror”) Bridge at a pace plenty quick enough to prevent even the most impatient of drivers from honking and swerving in pearl-clutching dismay.

A privilege, indeed.

It was almost as if the sky itself was eager for a dry bike gang gathering, as the rain tapered off as meet-up time approached and the wind rose to pretty much denude even the stubbornest trees of their bright fall foliage.  For the first time in weeks, the rain pants stayed in their bag and even the jacket was able to be tucked away after climbing and alcohol did their warm-up act.

It turned out to be an actual ride, despite some of the usual loud voices and route hijackers not being in attendance, with a jaunt through the woods, some sweet BMX-style pump-track riding, and a fire, of sorts, albeit one lit by propane and confined to a metal box, but hey, that counts in my book, especially when beer is drunk around it and conversation and stories ensue.

When people say “check your privilege,” it seems to me that it can be understood in at least two ways.  First, as in “check it out:” be aware of the ways in which race, gender, and so on give you a leg up.  Second, as in “coat check:” check your privilege at the door and don’t use it.

With the wind at your back, that latter may not be possible, so be grateful, at least, and kind.

Short

Short ride.  Short beers.  Short report.  

Not quite the eponymous .83 miles, but close.  

A full night's worth of wet, in any case.

New rain booties FTW.

Bridge

American statesman and civil rights activist John Lewis, for whom Seattle’s impressive new piece of cycling and pedestrian infrastructure is named, was famous for advocating “good trouble, necessary trouble” in order to achieve positive social change.

And while the aims and purposes of Thursday night bike rides have little in common with the admirable ends that Congressman Lewis devoted his life to, those words of admonition are quite apt and have served as a lodestar to many, if not all, of the bicycling and bicycling-related activities undertaken out on two wheels en masse for the last decade and a half or so.

The word “trouble,” I’ve learned from the internet, has the same root as the word “turbid,” from Latin turbidus "muddy, full of confusion," from turbare "to confuse, bewilder;” it’s all about stirring things up, which seems about right in light of the sorts of behaviors that typically comprise a night out on two wheels with many of the usual suspects and a heartwarming handful of relatively new blood.

None of us, though, no matter how long we’ve been manifesting such good trouble, have ever before had the opportunity to pack into a light rail car going north like that.

Moreover, the magic flyover of I-5, seen for the first time is mind-boggling and—while not nearly as iconic and culturally significant as the Edmund Pettis Bridge (which also, ought to be re-named for John Lewis, don’t you think?) over which Lewis made real “good trouble” on “Bloody Sunday” in March of 1965—is nevertheless a quite remarkable instance of forward-looking civic infrastructure to be celebrated, as well.

During the nearly three decades I’ve made Seattle home, there have been some notable civic improvements, including the aforementioned light rail, a new bridge across Lake Washington, and, of course, the legalization of recreational cannabis.  Most have occurred in the fifteen plus years in which I’ve regularly pedaled with my preferred gang of good troublemakers.  

Coincidence? No trouble.

Succour

 

It’s not unprecedented for pizza to be delivered to a bike ride.  

The various permutations of Joetown, for instance, have typically included the arrival of boxes of America’s favorite Italian import and I seem to recall tehJobie’s largesse resulting in the consumption of baked slabs of wheat with cheese and tomato toppings out in the woods somewhere, although maybe I’m mixing that up with the time Chinese food appeared as if by magic in Frink Park.

However.

I’m pretty sure that never before have the slices been handed out by a man in full business casual with a sweet sportcoat to boot, and I’m absolutely certain that this is the first time the delivery included a perfectly serendipitous portion of cruelty-free ‘za as if ordered up specially to carry by e-Dadbike to the home of a vegan comrade still recovering from that testosterone-fueled crash of last summer.

It’s nice when the Universe takes care of you this way, so you can so easily extend a bit of succour to a friend; all too often, as they say, “shit flows downhill;” so it’s quite delightful when, by contrast, it’s reasonably tasty victuals that roll from the higher-up spots to the lower-down ones, and to the extent that such sustenance might contribute to the aforementioned friend’s full recovery, so much the better.

Good deeds done, one earns the right (apparently), to misbehave a little bit, out-hoboing the hoboes in their own backyard with guerilla flames and public intoxicating.  

And if once is just too much, then twice is doubly justifiable, in another spot that lends itself to precisely this sort of appreciation for the natural world and our old buddy Prometheus, who, legend has it, made it all possible in the first place.

Bless his eyes.

Surely, human beings’ main purpose on the planet is to care for each other, (and, by extension, the natural world), when, in doing so, one also cares for oneself, that’s outta this world.

Equal

from skyatnight magazine

Tradition, such as it is, often finds the Thursday night bicycle ride heading to that favored bluff above the railroad tracks alongside Puget Sound north of Elliot Bay on dates closest to the astronomical change of seasons.  

On the longest, shortest, and most equal days of the year, it’s not unusual for the usual group of miscreants to risk collarbones and front teeth on a path through the woods in order to congregate around what’s undoubtedly among the best of officially-sanctioned firepits in our fair city, so as to drink from aluminum cans, man- (and sometimes woman)-splain each other on topics of shared interest, and, sooner or later, pass judgment on the inevitable fire-fucking that inevitably fucks with the fire, no matter what.

Never before, though, has this relatively common occurrence included an impromptu concert by  couple of amateur musicians on what are officially known as melodicas, but which all agreed are better known by the more generic term “mouth organs” (although there was that time our old friend set up a computerized karaoke machine with Bluetooth speakers so the assembled could croon along to Livin’ on a Prayer in the moonlight), which just goes to show that the appropriate balance of the new with the old emerges pretty naturally when night and day are almost perfectly equivalent at this time of year.

For the next three months or so, every nighttime grows longer; ain’t nothing we can do about that, so it seems appropriate to find that ideal fulcrum on which to teeter-totter one more time before descent into the darkness.

Another new parking lot, an unprecedented (and markedly superior—albeit superfluously vertical) route to the bridge combined with the tried-and-true provisioning stop and those hamburgers that go way back: the new and the old meeting in the middle just as light and darkness embrace as equals twice a year.

And an early departure, balancing innovation and familiarity, too much and not enough, ideally once more.

Simple

The Big Dark is coming: Seasonally, of course, as the days get shorter, the nights get longer, and our fair city’s annual gloomy half-year approaches (that is, arrives), but also probably from a global climate standpoint, as our planetary environment continues to degrade and the effects of anthropogenic climate change manifest themselves with extreme weather events, forest fires, and millions of human beings displaced from their homes as a result.

What this means—apart from the likelihood of increased spending on consciousness-altering substances—is that every day we’re alive has a pretty good chance of being among the best days we’re going to experience before we die.  As everything careens downhill, today probably has more potential for good things happening than tomorrow, next week, or, almost certainly, three decades from now.

So may as well make hay while the sun shines, as they say, where “hay” means riding your bike across town, down steep hills, and over gravel with a  couple dozen other cyclists, and “sun shines” means having a fire in an officially-sanctioned public fire pit in a park at the top of a hill among a grove of American Chestnut trees, while standing around quaffing quaffables and chatting about the British Imperial Raj, the relative merits of various bike parts, and reminiscences of the humorous errors in judgment of people’s previous selves and how little has changed in their current incarnations.

The doo-wop group The Drifters famously sang about the fun they’d be having under the boardwalk in 1964; it’s nice to know that 57 years later, a different assemblage of drifters can enjoy the amusement which follows from being atop the wooden slats; those oldies crooners noted that they’d be falling in love from below; and while that amorous result is no certainty in the present day overhead, one’s heart can’t help but swell to the beat of bike tires on wood.

Simple truth: yesterday may often surpass tomorrow, but today’s pretty good, too.

Bonus

from space.com

Honestly, when the evening begins with a corkscrew spiral to the top of a previously-untopped parking garage commanding a spectacular view of the sun setting over the Puget Sound (and a peek inside the kitchens of several urban condo dwellers), everything subsequent is playing with house money, so to speak.

It’s all bonus time after that, whether it be:

1) a quick spin around the traditional mini-velodrome, 

2) a relaxed refreshment stop on the roof of another parking structure, this one festooned with multiple vegetable plots and not one, but three, tiny backyard lawns, perfect for reclining with a cold one while marveling at the crepuscular conjunction of the waxing crescent moon and an extra-bright Hesperus, 

3) a short, but suitably terrible hike-a-bike on the way to the “easy” route towards Seattle’s largest city park, 

4) a thrilling descent of a hill that is way steeper going up than down, or 

5) a congregation and conflagration waterside under the starry heavens with ample space and time for everyone talking at once, often in violent agreement about topics of shared interest and eventually communal exasperation.

Once again, nature’s bounty proves ever bountiful, especially when enhanced by the pleasures associated with experiencing them via bicycle.

Naturally, as the traditional structures of civil society continue to fray, it becomes more incumbent upon each of us as individuals and as members of the groups of which we’re part, to create our own shared rules and norms.  When primary among such rules is that there are no rules, things get more complicated.  

That’s when it’s okay for sticks to come out to enforce some modicum of common sense, but also the time to be reminded—typically by the common sense challengers themselves—that it’s been proven time and again that more than enough turns out to be just the right amount in the end.

The bonus, in other words, isn’t really a bonus, after all.  

Too much, once more, is just enough.

Fresh

Lake Washington, 1957

A newborn infant will be my age in the year 2085.  What will our fair city be like by then?

Will people still be able to ride their bicycles past homeless encampments set up alongside the International District or will the whole area just be tents and tarps and stolen bikes?

Will they be able to congregate on the rocky shores of Lake Washington on the north end of Seward Park and enjoy the holy grail of both fire-lighting and water-immersing on a perfectly clear late summer night or will the pebbles have disintegrated and the water turned to goo?  Will there even be stars visible overhead with forests scorched all across the West?

Maybe things will be better, who knows?  I’m pretty sure, for instance, that the water quality in Lake Washington is superior to how it was in 1957; there’s surely less sewage in it, as attested by the information gleaned from a highly-reliable source that not a single swimming beach from Kenmore to Renton was closed yesterday for excess fecal coliform.

Will there even be geese in six and a half decades from now?  And if so, maybe they’ll all be fitted with aerial porta-potties that process their poop before it finds the ground or water, why not?

I’ve heard that the bicycle was developed, at least in part, due to the die-off of horses following devastating feed-crop failures in the wake of the volcanic explosion of Mt. Tambor in 1815; so maybe human ingenuity will save us.  

Maybe today’s newborns will ride their solar-powered flying two-wheelers to the shores of a pristine Lake Washington through a city that provides housing and sustenance to all people everywhere.  Maybe they will ignite a non-fossil fuel burning conflagration alongside the water with a  wave of their hands, whose leftover coals will cool automatically and immediately with a snap of the fingers.

I hope the best for them; if they’ve got it as good as us, that’s great. 

Thanks

Maxfield Parrish, "Ottauquechee River"

You know you don’t deserve this, right?

So, that’s why you’ve got to be grateful for every single instant and instance of it, including even the part where testosterone and the internal combustion engine combine to make things a little scary along the busy asphalt you generally eschew when all by yourself but are delighted to have the opportunity to experience efficiency upon while in a group of two-wheeled miscreants.

It’s easy to feel overwhelming gratitude for the Maxfield Parrish version of the Chinese handscroll painting done by nature’s own Bob Ross as you gaze through the overhanging willow branches perfectly framing the waxing gibbous moon shining brightly on Jupiter and Saturn across the sky.

Besides its own intrinsic beauty, you just have to remember that our fellow living creatures in hotspots across the globe like Haiti and Afghanistan and Dixie, California and on and on and on have the same view of the heavens, but theirs hasn’t been arrived at via bicycle and also doesn’t include simultaneously getting to immerse themselves in the weightless wonder of warm and enveloping lake water while staring up at it.

So it’s okay that the intended parking garage view is inaccessible and that surely some other possibilities aren’t entirely maximized; any misgivings are just gilding the lily, so to speak; any imperfections are like those intentional “kill holes” in the bottom of traditional pottery that not only lets the soul of the dead pass through but which also, I’ve been told, is so that the work won’t offend the gods by challenging them with a perfect human artifact.

Because honestly, whatever it is that makes everything happen could not be more generous with its grace than it is, especially to such undeserving subjects as all of us everywhere are, so what else is there to do than cry “halleluiah kyrie elaison allah akbar om namah shivaya fucking-A baruch hashem thank you Jesus Goddamn yessiree wowie zowie lord have mercy amen.” 

Sho(r)ts

The “doctrine of double-effect” is the somewhat contentious ethical principle that an act which has morally-problematic consequences can be justified if those consequences were unintended.  Assuming that the person performing the act was trying to do something good (or, at least, not something bad), they can be let of the hook, ethically speaking, if a less-than-ideal outcome ensues, just so long as they weren’t actually trying to bring that outcome about.

So, for instance, in medical ethics, a physician can justify hastening death for a terminally-ill patient by prescribing lots of pain medication; because the doctor’s intent is to reduce the patient’s suffering, it’s considered (by proponents of the doctrine of double-effect) to be morally acceptable for the administration of the drugs to bring about the patient’s demise.  The doctor wasn’t trying to kill the patient; that just happened as a “double effect” of the analgesic.

And while I’m not completely sold on the coherence of the principle, it does come in handy when, as a vegetarian, one needs to make an exception in the case of Jello shots.  You see, the animal wasn’t killed for the bones that go into making the gelatin; it was killed for its meat; the bones are a by-product, a “double-effect” of that killing, so Jello’s cool.

Same goes for the wearing of short pants after dark.  As long as those pants are intended for swimming, (or biking), they can appropriately be sported by an adult male even after the sun sets and a blood orange crescent moon rises over the Lake.

Coincidentally, both these examples were in play on this year’s version of the annual Jello Slip n’ Slide ride, modified, as per the ongoing pandemic, to focus primarily on the Jello itself slipping and sliding down one’s throat.

And, of course, the intoxication that followed was perfectly justified, since that was a double-effect of the primary intent to enjoy the fruity flavor and ingest healthy protein for the ride.

Stroll

 Walking your bike is dumb.  It doesn’t even make linguistic sense.  But you do notice more of your surroundings on foot, like that iridescent algae on the sides of the locks.

Appeasement might not be such a bad strategy when officials are all worked up.  So, unsaddling, why not?  

But downhill is different.  And if the intention is to make things better for everyone, then their rules should be re-examined.

Scientific principles prevail, in any event; no shortage of oxygen for the fire, even if smoke smokes ‘em out.

On the tip-top of the tippy-top, memories remembered, remember?

Suppose it were established that the entire community of consciousnesses has divided itself between human beings and most of everything else.  Wouldn’t the trees and natural cycles, for the most part, align themselves against us?  Can you blame them?

We’d have to have the rats and possums on our side, though. They do better with us, as do, probably raspberries and corn, for instance.  What an endless battle/dance it would forever be.  And maybe already is.

Don’t forget that what we really need to wonder about is: where does all the water go?

Measurable rainfall is a thing and one that, with any luck, we’ll have to get more used to soon.  In the meantime, though, both freshwater and saltwater can be sampled in a single evening, even if the later only goes over your toes.  

Technically speaking: two swims; no exaggeration whatsoever: two fires, one like some sort of signal beacon from a Tolkien trilogy, the other more of a cheery circle of increasing connection.  The good news is, no bikes went missing, no bones were broken, and not a single person ended up in jail and hardly even a talking-to.

Summer’s not over yet, no way.  Sure, it’s getting darker earlier, but that just means you’ve got to bring more of your own light to the party.  You know how it’s done; just keep on getting lit.

Mum

photo (still) by Joeball

 

Sometimes, it's just too beautiful for words.

Howl

Worst.  Route.  Ever.

Right?

Wrong!

All it takes is a posse of some two dozen cyclists to turn even the worst of roads into the best of all possible worlds, with views you would never see otherwise, descents you would normally miss out on, and a unique opportunity for commemorating an almost full moon among spirits and their tree guardians where for once, no treads are feared and both angels and fools rush in together.

Color me skeptical, at first, I’ll admit it.  

The promise of a northward sprint along Seattle’s most nowhere of geographies initially left me cold, even on such a warm summer evening, but the enthusiasm with which the plan was pitched—and has been, for a while—encouraged me to give it a shot, and by the time the perfect Seattle analogue of Monet’s Le Grand Canal displayed itself to the west while crossing the scariest but most panoramic of our fair city’s decaying infrastructure, I was sold.

Woo-hoo.

Efficiency is not the only virtue, of course, but it is a virtue, nevertheless; and reminds you that if it weren’t for so many fucking cars and trucks on the roads, all the roads would be grand.  We await the inevitable demise of happy motoring with impatience and glee.

And speaking of death, how about all those interred families who welcomed us to their bardo for snacks and conversation beneath the communal sequoia whose girth required nine humans for one shared hug?

If you had to pick between the horizontal tranquility of the departed in their graves and the vertical ravenousness of those poor souls plying their trade on the boulevard, which would you choose?

Maybe both, if you could then snake through the woods to the water and wash away every so-called sin in liquid absolution turned golden by visually full lunacy.

Never say never, or always say all ways; the only route you’ll ever really regret is the one not taken.

Woo-hoo!

Smooth

 I’m sure that Noodles is correct and from an objective, scientific standpoint, there’s nothing molecularly aberrant about the water in Haller Lake compared to the H2O in Lake Washington or Lake Union, but I’ll nevertheless maintain that from the perspective of subjective experience, it really does feel different.

It’s smoother, I swear.  

You simply have to get in and breastroke with your eyes just above water level like an alligator and you can tell: you glide a little faster; the ripples ripple off you with softer undulations; every kick of your legs and pull of your arms propels you a tiny bit faster than normal.

It makes no sense, but there’s no denying it—as long as you’re willing to fully immerse yourself.

Which is, of course, generally true of many things in life, including Thursday night bike rides with plenty of the usual (and somewhat unusual) suspects.

I had a hankering for a two-lake evening, so after completing step one in the wake of the converted ferry party boat disgorging and engorging rich people at SLU, I was delighted to have a neighborhood guide for the northeastern reaches of our fair city to that once-a-year-or-so body of fresh water I knew was up there somewhere but certainly couldn’t have located on my own—at least not via such a pleasant route.

It turns out swimmers and fishermen can coexist happily since, as we’ve learned, it’s not the creatures in the water that are bothered by the shouts and murmurs of excitable humans, but rather, the beings living on the land surrounding it, especially those who wonder how long the noise is going to last.

The answer to that, we know, is: as long as it can!  Which is why a change in scenery is reasonably called for.

And once again, there’s surely no objective, scientific reason upon which to make this determination, but again again, there’s no denying what our feelings really feel.

Town

 It’s probably time for me to get a smartphone with GPS on it; as it is now, I tend to get lost on group rides into the woods fairly easily, especially in unknown parts under the influence of Farmer Ito Brand weed cookies.  This requires me to ask strangers how to get to places that mostly only bikes go to, which means they typically have no idea where I’m asking about.  The cashier at the gas station in Maple Valley was fairly helpful, though, although the second time I showed up asking about the same place made her kind of mad, in spite of it being sort of humorous if you think about it.

Thanks to old-fashioned address sharing, however, I managed to reunite with those I’d left with, as well as the slower-moving early-starters for the final push to Joevidtown, which turned out to be a remarkably pleasant riverside community populated with about three dozen familiar faces, including, at the time or eventually, the titular Shaddup Joe himself, Erin & Brian, Stephen & Rachel, Lauren, Langston, tehSchkott & Moira, Ross, Tictoc, Shahan, Tom, TooTall, Nurse, Rob, Wolfgang, Trino, Zach, Rez, Deja, Larry, Amanda, Aidan, Dan, Em & her pal whose name I forget, Jenelle, Fancy Fred, Gunny, Mark, Kaitlyn, Dada, Salt, and certainly a few others who are slipping my slippery mind as I write.

The weather was perfect; the route delightful, and the company superb.  I laughed a lot and went to sleep before 11:00 to the sound of the rushing river and cries of joy from assembled night owls.

On my solitary way home I realized I’d gotten off the trail Saturday just before the really nicest part of it, through the Maple Valley arboretum, so that piece was a special gift.

It seemed like the time on the Cedar River trail was a lot longer heading back; chalk that up to Farmer Ito and the diverting joy of riding to Joevidtown with so many friends.

Crossing

Here’s how poet, Sylvia Plath, put it about sixty years ago:

------------------

Crossing The Water

Black lake, black boat, two black, cut-paper people.

Where do the black trees go that drink here?

Their shadows must cover Canada.

A little light is filtering from the water flowers.

Their leaves do not wish us to hurry:

They are round and flat and full of dark advice.

Cold worlds shake from the oar.

The spirit of blackness is in us, it is in the fishes.

A snag is lifting a valedictory, pale hand;

Stars open among the lilies.

Are you not blinded by such expressionless sirens?

This is the silence of astounded souls.

-------------------

Not bad, right? Especially that part of the “silence of astounded souls.”

By contrast, all the astounded souls who crossed the water last evening made lots of noise—enough, in fact, to cause the purple-haired park ranger to contact Bellevue’s finest for a look-see.

Good news, however: the shenanigans of (chronological, if not psychological) adults pale in comparison to those performed by teenagers, who literally flip heads over heels from great heights while their elders do so only metaphorically.  Interest on the part of the authorities wanes, therefore, pretty quickly when the divers depart.

And maybe it’s only imagination at work, but it sure does seem like the water on the fancy side of the lake is more pleasant than its western counterpart; it’s not hard to believe that every morning those eastside municipalities send out divers with pinking shears to trim the milfoil; that’s how nice it is, really.

And if that weren’t enough, consider this lagniappe: turn your head around while crossing the water back and witness the full Strawberry moon emerging from behind the lakefront ridge.  I’m not sure that this counts as one of the “expressionless sirens” Plath was writing about, but it sure was blinding in its valedictory pale hand.  

“Stars open among the lilies,” sounds about right to me, too.

Agog

We live in a paradise, aesthetically speaking for sure and almost certainly from the standpoint of options for recreational experience, as well.  There is no end of natural beauty to admire and many of the human constructions are worth looking at, too, while shaking your head in wonder at the endless ambition of our species to keep building upon building.

You don’t want to get too comfortable at the first lookout point because there’s still so much to see, the prime example being all of the mountain in the distance that’s probably the main reason all of this is here the way it is, as our ancestors in the area no doubt knew much better than any of us—even given the view we’re afforded beneath the power lines.

The most enjoyable downhills are typically followed by the worst (that is, best) uphills, but it’s worth it: how else will you find yet another descent, this one all the way to the water that’s another reason for this existence, as again, those here long before us attested to by that very existence itself.

The first swim of the year is an event to be celebrated, as it will, one hopes, portend many more immersions before the season runs out.  You know the drill: air and water essentially the same temperature, a cold beer consumed and simultaneously drained; that this joy is ephemeral makes is even more joyful, a paradise, evanescing, indeed.

A color that’s shut-your-mouth lovely in the western sky would be unspeakably horrific were it a bruise on your body, which just goes to show that context is everything.  If you were dreaming this life, you’d have to believe you were dreaming.  That you’re living it is an unimaginable dream of its own.

It’s no surprise that things splinter at the end; too many options and not enough names.  Each of us, though, retains some of all of us; this much is too much for anyone.

Patience

It’s pleasant to observe how the 1% live; apparently, you get to drive your Cadillac Escalade or whatever right up to your corporate suite at the football stadium; also, apparently, the poor wage slaves hired to keep an eye on things from the security of their glassed-in booth at the entrance have been brainwashed by their corporate overlords to believe it’s their responsibility to make sure no two-wheeled miscreants sully the panorama by riding around and drinking beer on the rooftop platform; the good news there is it means that a mere fifteen minutes into the evening’s festivities, you’ve already been rousted out by some semblance of authority so, for the rest of the night, you’re playing with house money, so to speak, and even if there are no other occasions for breaking stupid rules, one of the main criterion for success has already been met, which means it’s not necessary to be locked into the dusk-closing park just for the hell of it; nor does it become a requirement to start a fire in someplace where the odds of detection and early extinguishing are increased by time or illuminated regulations; instead, one finds their way well into the woods and an all-weather spot, pretty much custom-made for just the sort of warming glow to take the chill off a cool, dry, and moonless late-spring night, only a week or so short of what would be the shortest darkness of the year, and standing around, finishing up the remains of the day, you can reflect on how it was and will be, all the way back to where it started, more or less, while continuing to enjoy this version of things, which, once again, has its own unique charms and souvenirs, none the least of which is yet another chance to glide slowly back the way you came, savoring the late-night view of all you’ve seen before so many times, but never tire of seeing like this.

Chicanery

You’ve got to love the Americans with Disabilities Act not just because of the protections it provides for people with special needs, but also for the ancillary benefit enjoyable by “able” bodies on bicycles in the form of switch-backed wheelchair ramps affording two-wheeled access up and down a couple of our fair city’s most urban parks; chicanery through concrete chicanes, so to speak.

Brotorff’s right when he says “No plan is the best plan;” instead, you can just have a notion to sort of dead reckon to the next spot, be it a never-before-visited parking garage, a Teletubby parklet overlooking sports stadiums and highways, a neighborhood pea patch beneath an awe-inspiring pink and golden late spring sunset, an unprecedented visitation of home and hearth, a hidden footbridge over that unexpected ravine, a bar, believe-or-not, and what turns out to sort of be some condominium complex’s waterfront barbecue patio; somehow, you end up at each of these for a while and that turns out to have been the unplanned plan all along. 

Sometimes, it’s not about getting somewhere, but rather, about seeing where you get to on the way; a whole evening can be spent heading towards the place you’re heading for, which means, I guess, that the whole time you’re out, you’ve already done arrived.

I admit to squirminess when the clock starts a-tickin’; it’s all too easy to take root with the familiar, so you’ve got to keep some momentum, even if the inclination is towards the unknown.

Hope springs eternal, or at least for a handful of hours, at least with a vague notion of what’s in store next.  I like being surprised by the surprising; I’m similarly amused by the amusing, and all along, what’s thrilling keeps on thrilling me.

They say cultivating gratitude helps keep a person happy; I’ll buy it.  And besides, it’s easy to be grateful for what makes a person grateful: chicanery abounds, no plan planned for at all.

Nettles

In her epic (the traditional sense of epic, as in “narrating the deeds and adventures of heroic or legendary figures or the history of a nation,” not the “epic” of “moderately all right, average at best), novel of Seattle’s history, Great Son, Edna Ferber (best known for Giant, made into the movie with James Dean and Elizabeth Taylor), writes that our fair city is “too much of everything.”  It “suffers from giantism,” with two man-made canals, two ample bodies of water, two mountain ranges, and “seven hills higher than the classic seven hills of the Eternal City.”  The place is “fantastic,” “absurd,” “thrilling,” and “majestic.”  “We’re the city of Seattle in the state of Washington, and like the fella says, we’re all there is.  There isn’t any more.”

But, of course, you don’t have to curl up with Ferber’s novel to realize this (although doing so is highly recommended); all you really need is to ride your bike along Elliot Bay in the long lingering light of a late spring evening, portage through a surprisingly well-groomed hobo trail in the woods, and make your way among the preternaturally-tidy streets of Magnolia to end up, finally, on a bluff overlooking the Puget Sound so as to admire 360 degrees of awesome, including a couple of sundogs above the water as a visual lagniappe to top it off.

And that’s just the beginning!

Later, you get to congregate in a forest glade and enjoy a warming glow coaxed from available windfall (and a healthy dose of Girl Scout/Boy Scout water), not just one, but two, (in keeping with Ferber’s observation) doses of amazing; talk about “giantism,” indeed; this would have to be extra-giant giantism, if you ask me.

A solid effort all around, including unexpected scooters and an absolutely thrilling descent on the way home.

No doubt there are other places in the world with such bounty, but I’ll take Seattle: fantastically, absurdly, majestically thrilling, twice over, once more.

Enough

 Enough is enough is enough is enough.

Getting rousted by the cops is plenty, as well.

Let science inform our choices.

And remind us to go to bed.

Mornings after a night out on two wheels can be surprising.  If you get up early enough and do all the usuals, you can make it into the day before feeling hungover.  

Same goes for destinations the night before: the park is never quite exactly where you expect it to be, so it’s good to have local expertise to guide you towards the place you thought you wanted to get to all along.

Spruced up, or maybe just especially lovely in the crepuscular glow through the windows of the luminous squat warehouse across the way, the former gas station artifacts made first-time visitors gape in awestruck wonder and those who’d been there before think “Yep.  This is fine.”

It makes a big difference when there’s someone who cares about and for the garden; the bearded irises, in particular, put a smile on one’s face.

Nature, they say, abhors a vacuum, which is why, I believe, pedaling fools rush in to fill the void created by some sort of civic project that turned the former RV parking lot and homeless community back into just a bit of industrial wasteland by the waters of our fair city’s Superfund site river core, where cardboard and sticks could be coaxed into igniting palettes for just long enough to attract the attention of authorities who were ultimately far more interested in seeing our taillights in the distance than making a fuss.

Once again, thankfully, privilege is a privilege.

Subsequently, there was scattering towards points north and east.

Perhaps someday I’ll tire of the way the right combination of effects and causes makes the final hill home not quite so steep, but for now, and in the foreseeable future. I’ll keep being satisfied with this much of enough, enough being enough, enough of the time.

Resourceful

Nature is healing herself in response to the pandemic: lilac runners are shooting up in the garden, the grass needs mowing every couple of days, and my sunflowers and potatoes are happily reaching their fronds toward the sky.

Not only that, but human beings have begun appearing in greater numbers at the usual time in the usual place than in many a month; I know we’re not out of the darkness yet, but these glimmers of hope give one hope for a more hoped-for tomorrow.

Plus, further evidence of making lemonade out of life’s lemons: 

1. Scavenging “firewood” (I guess any wood is “firewood” if the fire’s hot enough) from a hole in the ground that used to be the world’s slowest supermarket;
2. Sourcing firestarter from a convenience store rack of auto-supply products; 
3. “Discovering” a new and actually quite reasonably-placed firepit on the shores of our fair city’s fairest watering hole; and
4. Reinventing a midnight tradition by holding it earlier in the evening and on bikes with electric motors rather than fixed-gear drive trains.

The 18^th century British Empiricist philosopher, David Hume, wrote: “Let the course of things be allowed hitherto ever so regular; that alone, without some new argument or inference, proves not that, for the future, it will continue so.  In vain do you pretend to have learned the nature of bodies from your past experience.”

In other words, we can’t predict the future from past events; just because the sun rose today, yesterday, and all the way back to the beginning of time, doesn’t guarantee that it will do so tomorrow; we can’t be certain about any of our scientific predictions, no matter how accurate they have been so far.

That said, I’m not surprised the evening’s events abounded in such nonsense and shenanigans; every other time I’ve broken Rule #1 and listened to You-Know-Who, things have gone this way; no reason to expect they won’t next time, either, as well.