Move

Who knew how hard it would be these days for a gaggle of bike-riding miscreants to find a spot to burn a few bundles of wood and drink beer and tell stories and lies to each other without violating COVID protocols, reasonable norms of responsible behavior, and a healthy sense of self-preservation?

I mean really, even though anything goes and a person can pretty much set up campsite wherever they want of late, it still took us exploring two different locations and considering several more before we just agreed “what the fuck, here is fine,” and created a brand-new firepit at the far end of a park that barely a month ago we were able to enjoy not one, but two different “official” spots for burning stuff.

That said, no complaints and all’s well that ends well; the teenagers got to keep breaking the Governor’s guidelines for numbers of assembled at the fancy spot high above the lake and the recently-minted denizens of the park shelter were able to keep hiding behind their tarpaulin, while the handful-plus of us who arrive by bikes got to surround a cheery glow, occasionally enhanced by cans of burning aerosolized Girl Scout Water to solid rounds of mansplaining, misrepresentation of the facts, and occasionally, tidbits about each other that nobody else already knew.

The weather was perfectly perfect all night long for a January evening in the Pacific Northwest; I was convinced it kept getting warmer, but that could have been the effect of pedaling up and ingesting alcohol.  All I know is that my fingers were freezing in my gloves when I left my house, but on the way home near midnight, I didn’t even cover my hands.  Chalk it up to whatever.

Not to be forgotten was that it was the first Thursday night bike ride of the new Administration.  Good, bad, or indiffernt, at least Donald Trump no longer has the football with the nuclear codes.  So, huzzah, right?

Itch

There will be other opportunities to enjoy the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, (maybe as soon as June 2021), so you’ve got to follow the metaphorical tides instead and just see where the current takes you, and if that’s, at first, a beloved pea patch atop a refurbishing parking garage, then so be it.

Not everything has to be everything; everything is something, after all.

Afterwards, it’s not once-in-a-lifetime, but it is only a couple times a year at most, so when you ride in the lane rather than the sidewalk, and arrive at the Aurora Bridge via sidewalks and catwalks, that’s fully unprecedented and, given the overpass hike-a-bike, probably never to be essayed again, at least in this lifetime, so there’s that, as well.

And, I, at least, never remember ever having to abort from stopping by a Woodland Park park shelter because people are living in tents inside, but then, again, one doesn’t get out much these days, so it could be—and apparently is—quite commonplace.

Moreover, although it’s as much of a trope as drinking gin and tonics on a yacht, drinking beer and smoking weed at a skatepark never gets old, especially when you get to do so while reading almost set-designed graffiti like “Smoke Weed, No Haters,” yeah.

Finally, a nightcap at the brand-newish waterside park with the big yellow chairs has been done before, but the running total of such experiences is still way down in the single digits, so already beats in newness what it might someday lack in rarity; I’ll take that, as well.

TooTall, earning style points for showing up in spite of it all, noted that the evening’s festivities, such as they were, “scratched the itch,” and come to think of it, that’s all you’re ever looking for when all is said&done.

Sometimes, just the next thing is the thing; nothing we ever do is something we’ve done before; all rides, unlike excellence, easy as they are rare.

Torch

Covid Silver Lining, right?  You learn to find joy in much less.

Last year, there were at least three score of us, probably a hundred trees minimum, and hot chocolate with Everclear libations poured out liberally by stealth Elves and their families; the music bike boomed magnificently over the sands, and a full moon made the festivities that much more festive; massive good times overflowed with abandon as towering flames rose up to kiss the sky.

And then, there was that occasion, back in the Obama administration, where the conflagration was so big that it attracted the attention of Seattle’s finest and required a hasty egress to another festive location for consuming the rest of the carbon.

Good times.

Last night, by contrast, numbers were barely large enough to field a couple of softball teams—although still way larger a crowd, several folks pointed out, than any of us have stood among for months—and the total amount of holiday-themed fuel would hardly have broken a sweat on the man in the silver suit.

Still, it was all and everything a nice (or naughty) little (or big) boy or girl (or non-binary individual) could have hoped for as a nightcap to the holiday season.  Not only was there a solid dozen or so opportunities to marvel at how quickly pine trees ignite and turn to ghostly glowing skeletons, there was also, courtesy of our friends at Peddler Brewing, several cases of free Blind Date Beer, which would, I think, be a brilliant marketing campaign if it weren’t illegal—like so many things, after all.

Speaking of which, no doubt we did nibble around the edges a bit of what, strictly speaking, accords with the Governor’s regulations for outdoor gatherings, but it strikes me that people are so grateful for human connection these days, that, by and large, basic rules are respected and attended to.

Doesn’t take much to ignite joy; slow burn is plenty burn enough.