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!
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