Imperfecdt

Sure, in the perfect world, (assuming, contrary to old Dr. Pangloss, it isn’t this one), the first swim of summer would be on a perfectly clear day with temperatures in the eighties, but if it takes place on a comparatively cool and overcast evening on which the early-season water temperature was a degree or two warmer than the air, that’s plenty good enough.

And yes, of course, on the ideal Thursday night out on two wheels, no one from the group would miss the start, leave early, or be dropped or misplaced, but when, thanks, in part to the new technological beacon as well as old skool cellular phone calls, everyone eventually convenes, then what’s to complain about, really?

And no doubt, if one was scripting life to have all the dials turned up to eleven, then the single-track meander through the woods would be longer, greener, would include a water element or two, and the only sounds you’d hear would be the chirping of birds and the ratcheting of pawls, but even with a soundtrack and the dust, it’s plenty rad, especially given its urban setting and accessibility.

Moreover, one can’t deny that the Platonic form of campfire isn’t composed of logs made from pressed sawdust engraved with the name of that fragrant city to the south, and probably doesn’t involve the combustion of fluids best left to internal combustion engines, but honestly, you’ve got to admit that with enough lighter fluid and sufficient determination to see flammable things in flames, the minimum bar for success has not only been achieved, but surpassed.

Agreed: a sunset where you can watch our nearest star descend all the way to the horizon, sparking that mythical “green flash” is the one you’d hold up as the apotheosis of such events, but surely one which paints the entire western sky achingly lovely hues of purple, fuchsia, and pink and makes cardboard cutouts of the city skyline ain’t half bad, either.