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.
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