Dicks

photo by joeball

Many will bemoan the loss of tradition, complaining about the way, for instance, that the true spirit of Christmas—or Superbowl Sunday—has been forsaken; and while it’s important to venerate that which has brought us here, it’s also vital to respond to the world as it is.

We live, as the Indian philosopher Krishnamurti reminds us, in a universe of thought, and it’s easy enough to take those thoughts as the only way the universe can be and so it’s good, I think, to allow the past to influence the present without being utterly beholden to the way things went before.

We can come to appreciate, therefore, how Santa eventually usurps Jesus (at least for the time being) or over time, how fries become burgers while the commemoration of freedom remains intact.

Think of what our human brethren around the world might give for the opportunity to pedal to even one such bountiful purveyor of local delicacies; but four? 

I marveled at the way bicycles braved routes built mainly for cars and nearly fainted when our friend Mr. Double-Truck was somehow avoided by dozens of tiny two-wheelers in Wallingford.

One of the characteristic human dilemmas is to rectify the map with the territory, the plan and the present, our expectations and reality; how we do so depends upon principle.

Democracy may be, as Churchill put it, the worst form of government except for all other forms that have been tried, but that doesn’t mean it works in situations where nobody really knows what he or she wants in isolation.

That’s when it’s sometimes better to simply stipulate, based on a standard of inclusion, what comes next.   (Even if an Angry Hippy is literally begging for an alternative.)

Because, after all, it’s much easier—in keeping with the Descartes’ well-known admonition—to change ourselves rather than the world at-large.

And in the end, if you get to swim one last time in this summer’s lake, you do.

Forecast

photo by joeball

There are lots of good reasons to miss a ride—illnesses, wedding anniversaries, band practices—but in my experience, the weather is almost always a poor excuse.

Which means that deciding to stay home based on merely the forecast of inclement conditions is surely a road to regret.  Moreover, it’s remorse of the worst kind: the type that emanates from something you didn’t do rather than something you did. 

After all, it’s one thing to feel bad the morning after for carrying on the Nutpunch Park tradition of nutsacking a relative stranger in the balls, but it’s another experience altogether to be kicking yourself (in the nuts, no doubt) for missing the opportunity to be there enjoying lightning strikes and bulletballs just because you looked at colored maps on the internet earlier in the day.

Apparently, pretty much everyone knows that the bark of the Douglas Fir tree is resistant to fire, but it seems there are some folks who forget that human beings are not made of sugar and while—as any Angry Hippy will attest—rust may never sleep, it moves slowly enough that even a sustained drenching is unlikely to result in the immediate destruction of a steel bike much less one constructed of aluminum or carbon fiber.

Elsewhere, thunderbolts skipped off the helmets of motorcyclists, but on the favored platform suspended above the Superfund site not a single one of Zeus’ throws hit its mark, which I realize has nothing to do with rubber-soled shoes but I like to believe so, anyway.

And should you think you’ve seen it all, here’s a surprise: a locked gate and the unprecedented teamwork of two-wheelers, including burly touring rigs, being passed over barbed-wire fences, so no one, not even drunken nutpunchers are left behind.

Sure, the final spin home is drenching, but at this point, you’re feeling very little pain (and only a modicum of regret, just as you might have predicted had predictions been predicted.

Dive

photo by joeball

It’s as corny as a Celine Dion song sung by a unicorn on a rainbow, but it’s true: sometimes it’s not about where you go, but how you get there.

Greenlake is as mundane a destination as there is, but when you arrive via a spin around the Ghettodrome, a climb over Queen Anne, and a thrilling descent which takes you across the Aurora Bridge in the so-called “bus lane,” it’s as special as anyone could hope for and at least as unusual as nachos in the park, an experience that in more than half a century on the planet, I’ve never ever experienced before.

Advice is, almost by definition, trite, but I offer it to myself on these occasions and am reminded never to pass up a chance to swim when it presents itself.

Forty eight hours before, you’re floating on your back under a full moon in the Caribbean Sea, but paddling about in a city park pond is equally glorious in its own way since, among other things, it doesn’t require twelve hours of travel time in aluminum containers but rather, is reached simply by snaking through one’s hometown astride a steel two-wheeler.  It may not be a glowing turquoise paradise, but all the elements are there for a live to be lived as fully as possible, hackneyed and pedestrian as that sentiment surely is.

But, of course, it’s not all old hat: pretty soon you’re arriving by bike at a splendid old local watering hole you don’t ever recall drinking at before, and it’s even got a self-styled “deck” in the back where Soccer moms strategize about how to get their kids to school and ballet lessons before being descended upon by a dozen or so beer drinkers who laugh loudly enough to drown out their conversation and earn the friendly ire of the joke-telling bartender who runs the joint.

And then you’re riding home, one more destination whose journey is that, too.

Leap

photo by joeball

The important thing is that no one broke a neck—not their own, nor anyone else’s.

Few things, I expect, would put a damper in one’s evening more effectively than having to see your friend or acquaintance hauled from a lake, limp and bleeding, and reduced to eating through a straw in a wheelchair for the rest of his or her life.

Fortunately, (and perhaps somewhat surprisingly), there was none of that, in spite of the slipperiness of the dock, the wonkiness of the ramp, and the intoxicated enthusiasm of riders as they hurtled towards the water on a brakeless BMX bike that wobbled and fishtailed on the plastic wood walkway.

My heart was in my mouth more than once as I could envision wheels sliding sideways and heads hitting corners, but instead of worst fears being realized, it was all good fun until someone loses an eye—and since no one did, “Woo-hoo!  Spring Break!” (To quote the departing Dr. Tittlefitz, who, if I recall correctly, didn’t cycle off the ramp, but who is pretty much doing the same thing in his life as he leaps headlong into the Midwest, Godspeed, sweet prince.)

Presumably, mad math skills could compute trajectories of flying two-wheelers, but even the most innumerate among us can calculate that bikes, beer, (a few) costumes, sun, swimsuits, and peer pressure will add up to times that might require something more like 3-D IMAX to really capture on film.

We may all be living the best action-adventure buddy-comedy neo-noir musical extravaganza ever and it’s in surround sound smell-o-vision, too.   No one knows how it’s going to end, but it seems like a scene where the hero rides his trusty steel horse off into the sunset ought to be in there somewhere.

Flames shot out of the top of the chimney at Gasworks and the shelter smoldered but didn’t ignite.

That’s some Oscar-winning performance, the role of a lifetime, no dry eyes in the house.

Grapple

photo by joeball

All I ask is that I never get inured to this nonsense, that I never fail to be utterly gobsmacked by the over-the-top inanity of it all, and that I’m always giddy and gleeful a the gleeful giddiness glowing before me in rainbow Technicolor when Everclear is mixed, slides are slipped, and vegan Jell-O in a kiddie pool provides the perfect venue for what turns out to be some pretty serious rasslin’ when bike nerds in bathing suits go at it for real.

If you ever catch me yawning, rolling my eyes, or making comparisons to previous events when this crazy shit is going down, I respectfully ask for a kick in the pants or possibly a nutpunch just so I never forget that it’s unforgettable every time—even if many of the participants will have trouble remembering the details afterwards.

Any of it would be more than enough which is why all of it can almost seem insufficient, but only for an instant until you recall that nowhere else in the Universe is this commonplace or expected, much less unprecedented and unbelievable.

Those kids on skateboards flying down Second Avenue among the disco bike horde had their peak moment and that was only 2 minutes into things.

People come out of many a woodwork to witness for themselves that such hijinks exist, but it’s those sights you can’t unsee—like naked bowling balls hurtling down the plastic-coated lawn or headlocked hillbillies thrashing like alligators in chunky green goo—that are hardest to believe your eyes over.

Seattle has a long tradition of Seafair shenanigans, and I like to think such escapades as these fall squarely into that exalted history; we may not be pirates “kidnapping” beauty queens from local diners, but surely future archeologists unearthing plastic bits and bike grease will have to conclude that the local customs were certainly uncustomary, in spite of the fact that you can almost, over time, become accustomed to them.

Classic

photo by joeball

Hopes fulfilled.   Expectations exceeded.  Sunset and moonrise.

And, I swear, a tailwind in both directions.

All you have to do is stick with it, keep pedaling, and yet another outdoor venue appears, complete with its very own celestial moment, whether that’s  our favorite local star lapping up the lazy waters of the hometown lake as it sinks behind the nearest ridge of our fair city or the dirty toe of a moon sliding sideways across the western horizon like a bouncing ball in the cartoon musicals.

You won’t find any of this in the palm of your hand, but it’s right there for the grabbing on your bike.

This one was a summer classic from the start: Second Avenue en masse; grandeur over the city bridge; shadow cyclists animating beside you on all the fences.

There was tunnel-yelling at the top and bottom of your lungs, too.

I laughed aloud at the absurd beauty of the Lake Washington crossing: that frog-like sound the cars’ wheels make an accompaniment to water-skeeters on two wheels. 

Try to capture THAT on your device; you have to make a photograph with your heart instead and even that’s just a snapshot of the comprehensive 3-D Surround-Sound reality.

The Island’s marble raceway over and over; how many corkscrews can a corkscrew screw if a corkscrew can screw screws?

Perfect timing for the endo-less beach arrival: sunlight gilding the waters for plenty of time to get wet and pruny while emulating otters.

Some aerobics, then provisions, then another beach, this one complete with a folksinger, are you kidding me?

Consensus achieved and the lights twinkled and blinked westward, still in shirtsleeves after eleven.

You can cite the particulars of what becomes a classic most: miles ridden, beaches taken, strokes swum, beers consumed, jokes told, lies believed, overhead orbs admired, but it still fails to tell the whole story. 

For that, you need to be there embodied, dripping and squirming, like a newborn, born anew.

Bullish

Photo by joeball

“Nothing lasts forever” the Queen song tells us, but it seems to me that there are some memories at least, that must be—for all intents and purposes—everlasting and eternal.

I know, for instance, that the image of nearly three score cyclists, resplendent in dress whites with red sashes and bandanas, clustering into a candy-cane colored peleton while ascending from the evening’s starting point will abide in collective unconscious forever.

And I’m sure that the mental snapshot of the same dozens of riders mingling by the water in two main groups, one wetter, one dryer, (but both pretty well soaked in the fruit of the vine) will never fade.

And doubtless, the sight of men with horns on their heads charging and grappling on the grass in the soft light of a high summer evening is burned into the brain for all time, try as one might to make it go away somehow, some way, some day.

Anticipation becomes actuality at last as we don our once-a-year outfits to honor an untraditional tradition that’s become traditional itself. 

Untraditionally, though, the route, after corkscrewing through parts of town perfect for bystanders to point and cheer, went east to a more pastoral setting than usual, but one better-suited than in years past to bottle-rocketing and sangria-showering.

I got to swim and dive from the dock that says “No Swimming No Diving” for the first time all summer and was rewarded by water warmer than air.

I got to yell at the top of my lungs for as long as I wanted and earned a morning voice like Harvey Fierstein for the fun.

I got to go overboard on the wine-sloshing and feel remorse for my behavior upon arising.

Fleeting moments certainly; so Queen’s right: they won’t last forever (unlike the wine stains on our whites).

But the memories?  They, on the other hand, will remain etched in our minds forever—try as we might, with some, to forget.

Blast

Photo by joeball

The huge fog banks hugging Eagle Harbor, from which Lee Williams surmised pirate ships would be emerging to board our Bainbridge Island-bound Washington State Ferry vessel, had nothing on the massive smoke screen that crept in on something much bigger than little cat’s feet—namely several hundred dollars of Chinese-made military-grade ordnance manufactured to commemorate the birth of the American Republic—to the parking area of the Suquamish reservation at Agate Pass on the Olympic Peninsula as sweaty bicycle riders launched explosives skywards, earthwards, and sometimes even eyewards for probably as long as the battle of Lexington itself may have lasted if not the subsequent skirmish at Concord, as well.

In spite of the fact that the putative organizer of the event “yes, but no’ed” at the 11th hour, the small troop of almost non-duplicated named cyclists (two Matthews) managed to not only leave Westlake Center in time for beer at the pier, but also, thanks to the Nuclear version of the aforementioned double-Matts, get a little bit of trail-riding in on the way to the Native American fireworks stand.

A small contingent even braved the interior of the Clearwater Casino Resort to enjoy what the bartender called “pounders” of beer in the Beach Rock Lounge where Ladies’ Night apparently means that the DJ is female since no other patrons of any gender seemed to be attendance at the time.

But perhaps the loveliest aspect of the whole experience is how the miscreants offered at least a respectful gesture of effort to clean up after themselves by organizing the spent explosives into a trash bag (at least those not launched into the woods and nearby highways) before pedaling away to the cheers of gratitude from fireworks purveyors who seemed not a bit disturbed by the carnage they’d just witnessed.

A fast spin to the boat and then, back on the mainland, nightcaps without singing for once capped the evening.

Still, plenty of fireworks all around, yo-yo-yo-yo, pop-pop!

Capacitor

A capacitor, if I understood tehJobies explanation, as he pointed it out to me in the technological bowels of the space-age music bike, is a device that holds a charge so as to deliver power instantaneously when the overall energy needs of the system call for it, in order (and here I’m probably paraphrasing) to ensure that the requisite highs, lows, and overall output is maintained at the desired face-melting levels for as long as necessary.

.83 metaphor much?

The capacities of your average summer solstice Thursday night bike ride are never exceeded, not, anyway, when you get to circle a soaking Ghettodrome while the bike-mounted sound system drowns out the fountain’s philharmonics and you’re having to calibrate your distance from the sonic cycle’s subwoofer so that you’re not blown off your saddle by decibels alone.

Sometimes the purr of your chain and the squish of your tires in the wet is enough; other times, it’s great to have a soundtrack, especially when the drizzle turns to a downpour and passing busses fill shoes with gallons of rainwater.

Fortunately, there are places for nights like this in our town and our very own homeless Prometheus to bring the fire to life; too bad references get confused and he goes all Icarus on things; moral of the story: you fly too high and get sticky-fingered around people’s bikes and a neon-colored solar flare will burn you outta town fast as any capacitor delivering its charge.

You don’t get your liver eaten by eagles for all eternity, then, but you do miss what happens when fizzy drinks and roaring flames combine with sonic booms to send shirts and knickers flying and what had been simple sausage fest somehow morphs into a real banquet on the dance floor.

Miraculously, Jobydrinks do make you better-looking and more intelligent; same for everyone else, too; that’s that capacitor  again, delivering just the burst you need when you need it, and even when you don’t.

Solitaire

Cycling is essentially a solitary endeavor, so it’s perfect when, after a while in the saddle, you get to arrive at an outdoor location crawling with several score others who have also pedaled their own two-wheelers to get there.

And it’s made even better (if better than perfect is possible) when there’s more beer than will be drunk, enough wood to eventually shoot flames through the fireplace chimney, and such a long-fading summer sunset that a waxing crescent moon grins on the horizon throughout.

Because plans change and neither my phone nor its operator are smart, I ended up riding farther north along Elliot Bay than necessary, but because this afforded such abiding views of sailboat flocks gliding upon rainbows, I realized that I wasn’t really in a hurry after all.

And when, turning around, the clouds became M.C. Escher geese and giant teddy bear heads, there was no doubt in my mind that what was out there to be observed mattered more than alacrity.

Besides, you’re never behind schedule on a bike; as long as you’re riding, you’ve already arrived.

The long way around Alki to high school hijinks parklands is almost too short when the Olympics cast shadows on the underside of heaven; in spite of missing camaraderie, I sort of liked I had only myself to look out for and could pay less attention to the road before me than the drama above. 

A decided lack of “YOLO” at the beach for this time of year, I thought, but that was more than made up for by those who realized that everything they could possibly want at the moment was spread out right there before them.

Granted, in another week, we’ll have a whole extra minute or two of daytime, but it’s hard to understand why anyone with lighting would pass up a chance to savor every lumen possible.

I understand the impetus to ride, though, solitary perhaps, but never alone with your bike.

Flare

Half a loaf is better than none, and a little bit of a lot is still a lot.

Even if you’re slightly off-tempo all evening, you can still enjoy the music and lyrics, especially if the opening chorus is a welcoming cry able to turn a week’s worth of frowns upside-down.

So what if you miss the sunset; there’s still the illuminated grins of two-wheeled stumblebums as they trickle from the beach in waves.

Who cares if you’re not in time to see the proverbial green flash; you still get to follow a flare that floats down like a parachuting inspiration for much longer than can reasonably be expected.

And why worry if there’s only time for one beer at the de facto clubhouse; when you put it all in perspective, it’s plenty.

For starters, anyway.

If you can’t unlock your bike you’re not allowed to ride it home; however, when you find yourself in that place where you can’t even find it, you know that, like this, even halfway is far enough.

Venture

The devastating tornado earlier this week in Moore, Oklahoma, is, to me, evidence that it is logically impossible for an all-powerful, all-good God to exist.  If He were really omnipotent and omnibenevolent, He could have and would have stopped the twister short of destroying that school and killing those kids.

However, there are mid-spring evenings like this most recent Thursday in Seattle that make me believe there could be a supreme being of some sort who’s awfully strong after all, and does try His best to do the right thing when He can.

Suppose at the cost of Tornado Alley, you’re able to manifest a world where toy boats go full size on a body of shimmering water that gets to be witness to an almost full moon rising and a fuzz-rock sun setting simultaneously. 

It’s not creating a stone so heavy you can’t lift it, but still, it ain’t bad.

Perhaps all-powerful is too much to ask for.  Perhaps it’s sufficient to be awesome enough to create a protected bluff high atop a continent’s near edge with options like a path through the woods for adventuring on as a means of access.

And maybe all-good sets too high a standard.  Maybe it’s enough to have made possible landscapes that turn golden as the day comes to and end and beer in cans that can be consumed by upright mammals who use language to communicate in the afterglow.

The Universe doesn’t ask for more from itself, so why should observers?  Enough is already too much to be believed, so how about simple gratitude for all that is?

Bottle rockets get old and turn loud but the experience of experience always is new. 

A fire might have been nice, but God knows, there are times when holding off the rain all night, just for benefit of some miscreants riding bicycles in a second-tier city on one tiny corner of the globe is plenty.

Who says miracles aren’t real?

Ribbit

photo by joeball

There’s probably way less difference between the conversations of frogs and those of humans than we think.
 
I know that if you wander off is a bit, you’ll find a sweet spot distance at a balance point between the two where the sounds harmonize perfectly, in pitch, tone, and volume. So why not subject matter, too?

Also, it’s clear that we have no more influence, via our thoughts, on the world than does the impetus behind all that croaking. Listening to the echoes in my mind, I surely can’t tell the difference between what I was hoping for and what actually happened.

Perhaps it is the case, as was pointed out, that the only real distinction between ourselves and our amphibian brethren is that we can make fire and they can’t. I’ll buy that. That’s the spark of human consciousness.

Culture’s ability to pass along the message of fire is probably, as Prometheus’ tasty liver illustrates, its number one accomplishment. So, why not, as tehJobies seemed to suggest while hefting the box of Duraflame logs, maximize BTU’s whenever possible?

One thing’s for sure: the higher the flaming Jenga pile rises, the louder our own singsong becomes. I’ll bet the same thing’s happening throughout the melodic marshlands.

The next moment is forever around the corner, so it’s remarkable when one can be sufficiently immersed in the symphonic cacophony that the present sounds are plenty for future and past, as well.

Frogs become princes become frogs all over again.

It's all about being there as it unfolds, especially if you get to be surprised.

Stephen said that if you think of Professor Dave with your heart, he’ll eventually appear and while I’m not sure that always happens, I do love the idea of hearts with minds, because, after all, what else are we expressing as we pedal to conflagrations and circle about noisily than those thoughts which form in our core and rise to the surface in unison, unbound?

Vivid

Photo by joeball

One of the longstanding questions in philosophy has to do with the metaphysics of color.  You can ask the traditional “if a tree falls in the forest” question about it: suppose there were no beings in the world with the ability to perceive color; would the world still be colored?

Imagine a long time ago, (even before Derrick was drunk) before there were any living things; was the sky blue and the sea green?  If the appearance of color depends upon the experience of an observer, then apparently not.

But it’s hard to believe that even if no one had been around to observe it, that the colored pencil shadings of the evening’s slowly-setting sun would not have been equally vivid.

For the British empiricist, George Berkeley, the solution is easy: to be may be to be perceived, but, fortunately, God’s always around doing the perceiving.  And since He never closes his divine eyes, color—and for that matter, shape and number—are always there.

And this, perhaps, is another way of saying that even way more earthly—and far more myopic eyes—like my own, are opened ever wider with every aspect of the ride, starting with the impressive sight of Long Island Ice Teas (‘not for the faint of heart,” according to the bartender) to bike gang flags flapping in the breeze to fires that make their own pit as if by magic.

Ultimately, there’s more to see than meets the eye, which is, perhaps, another way of noticing that perception involves a more robust conception of sight, one that includes the feel of the air on your skin, the pounding in your eardrums at another yelled “YOLO,” the scent of burning wood, (that wisely ends up not migrating after all to another location,) and even the taste of various intoxicants that contribute to an already intoxicating night out on two wheels.

You gotta see it to believe it, and even then, it remains unbelievable.

Bounty

photo by joeball

“Don’t believe anything anyone tells you” is paradoxical advice. 

So, we may as well disregard anything we tell ourselves except the suggestions we don’t endorse—like throwing mini-kegs in fires and only regretting the errors we fail to make.

Which is why, in part, I’d have been kicking myself had I not taken the opportunity to pedal south after a lovely dinner en famille to link up with the ride even though doing so required a mini-bushwhack through the trees following a wrong turn in an area I thought I knew as well as the back of my hand, but I guess it’s more like the back of my neck.

Anyway, the assembled miscreants were easy enough to find, especially as I pedaled closer and could hear repeated cries of “No, Derrick, no!” wafting on the breeze. 

That drew me to where I could see the figures around the fire but not the preferred line of egress.  Ultimately, the direct route seemed the most efficient, if not the most prudent, and while I skittered a bit on unseen roots, I was soon rewarded with a hearty hello and imbibables that made the lovely evening even lovelier.

Picnic tables were groaning with bounty and it seemed like most folks had a pretty good head start on me even though the aforementioned meal included generous portions of the selfsame libations as those arrayed about.

I edged my way into a number of conversations while keeping a watchful eye out for flying marshmallows and exploding beer cans.

For once, suds held out longer than fire and I tucked one for the road into my bag as yet another mini-mortar exploded over the lake signaling five minutes to departure one more time.

A zesty jaunt on Lake Washington Boulevard and a reasonably protective pelaton along Rainier led to a fairly large contingent invading the favored karaoke joint near midnight. 

I had the requisite arrival beer and then headed home, no regrets.

Bountiful.

Humans

Photo by joeball

I’m sure that other animals (and even plants) are great and everything, but you’ve got to hand it to humans above all.

You tell me of any other species that invents a contraption like the bicycle, which allows you to pedal the length and breadth of a mid-sized American city with some three dozen other of one’s ilk to stand around a bonfire above a great body of water on a night where the moon’s so bright it cast shadows and air’s so warm it just tickles.

Frogs, I’ll admit, are pretty cool and when they all croak in unison it’s as musical as it is deafening, but can they build trains able to carry a frighteningly immense supply of fossil fuel energy in linked boxcars and build a pedestrian bridge over the tracks so you can leap about like a slightly less-evolved primate and scream at the top of your lungs as it roars by beneath you?

And of course, you’ve got to respect the birds of the air, wheeling and darting as they pick off swarms of gnats at sunset, but show me where any of them can squirt lines of flammable liquid onto flaming coals and still successfully avoid self-immolation, as does homo sapiens,

Nor do I deny that all the fishes in the sea are amazing, but none of them, I promise you, can make beer and put it in bottles that make it portable and provide the perfect projectile for launching at freight trains that strangely, do not even crush quarters as they clatter over them on the rails.

I challenge all of creation to wait as patiently as did our collection of human beings for the lunar worshippers to finish their ceremony before an integration of yin and yang took place via colored sparks and glowing embers.

Sure, we’re a cancer on the planet that’s destroying ecosystems and ruining the atmosphere, but as the Man in the Moon proves, humans rule. 

Brief

If, as Shakespeare suggested, brevity is the soul of wit, then this year’s Filmed by Bike entry had, if not the substance of cleverness, at least its spirit. 

Ninety seconds goes by pretty quickly (except at the dentist) and so even if you’re squirming in your seat, it’s over before you know it, which was kind of what happened this weekend.

A picture is supposedly worth a thousand words; let the above video, then, count for the remaining 327.

Vista

Statistically, it’s unlikely that I will actually live to be 112 years old, but even if I do, I think it’s even more improbable that I will ever see a last Saturday in March as lovely as the 2013 edition, whose clear blue skies and unseasonably mild temperatures were the perfect backdrop to the 327 Words Halfway There (Livin’ on  a Prayer) Vista Time Trial.

Some half a hundred cyclists 

came out to savor a bouquet of some of the finest views in all of our fair city and compete for magnificent prizes from incredibly generous sponsors and friends, including Jagermeister,  Brooks Saddles,  Bill's Off-Broadway, Haulin’ Colin Trailers, 2020 Cycle, Defeet, Swrve Cycling, Vapolution Vaporizers, SKS Germany,Walz Caps,  Microcosm Publishing, BaileyWorks, Peddlar Brewery, Swift Industries, Bombus Bikes, T Leatherworks, and Alchemy Goods,

Ben the Angry Hippy ended six years of frustration by finishing first—at last—with a time of 1 hour, 23 minutes, and 32 seconds, and finally being able to raise the coveted Vapolution as his own.

Newcomer Sandra Wayman took First Lady with a stellar run of 2:07:25 and making off with a charming little saddlebag from Brooks, so darling it almost didn’t find its way into the prize pile—but alas, conscience prevailed.

In keeping with tradition, the trio of Wang, Tom, and Janelle rolled in after first DFL David Mattuzca, had already claimed last place, thereby earning the coveted honor of Double-Dead Fucking Last and the sharp Jagermeister caps that went along with it.

But, of course, everyone was a winner on a day like this one, none the least being race organizer yours truly, who remains in constant awe of the willingness of so many weird and wonderful human beings to engage in such a random event for no other reason than the sheer experience of it (and, of course, in BTAH’s case, the Vapolution).

My life, if hopeful calculations are correct, may only be half over, but with days like this, it’s already complete.

Tradition

Can you have a tradition of ignoring tradition? 

Because if you do, how can you honor it without failing to do so?

But this is just the sort of paradox one comes to embrace after so many Thursday nights out on two wheels.  You realize that of all the places you’ve ever been to, there are even more you’ve never been at, in spite of how memories abound no matter where you ride.

I was all ready to abide by past patterns and preview Saturday’s route, but it’s just as much a nod to history to not do so and besides, having ridden the course so often of late, my eyes were hungry for something different, so northward ho, happily.

Momentarily, from the Safeway with an invisible bathroom to a caged-up stop in the middle of a neighborhood, one could almost, at first, forget the charming  bumble through the new South Lake Union mess and Ye Olde Eastlake Path and Toboggan Run. 

But not quite. 

Because when all the blinkies unblink, there you are, on a ballfield, at night, enjoying the National Pastime—of some nation, somewhere, under some God or gods who clearly know what holidays are all about.

And then, you pedal back into the past for an opportunity to wax nostalgic by emulating the beloved tradition of steering around pedestrians on a dark lake path at night, albeit this time with nary a naked roller-blader to be (not) seen.

Later, in a fondly-remembered park shelter complete with burning twigs, I wondered with Lee Williams when thinking gets to be thought of as thinking; if we’re just talking brain activity, then the distinction can only be normative, not descriptive.

That’s why it doesn’t matter how many sights you see; it’s how you see the sights.

Predictably, the moon is full every month; that doesn’t make it any less thrilling when it finally pours forth from the canopy.

Just like your paradoxical Thursday tradition: traditionally untraditional.

Trainspotting

You’ve waited at the railroad crossing while the train is in the process of coupling: it goes forward, endlessly, then “no way!” backs up forever, then “you’ve got to be kidding me!” forward again as time stands still.

That ain’t nothing.

This time, in a wait so long it ensures that by the time you’re free and across the bridge, riders are already streaming from the bar, the long line of rail cars does the coupling dance, then waits as a massive freight train rumble roars past laden with mind-bogglingly huge shipping containers groaning with machinery that makes you feel like a little kid playing with Thomas the Tank Engine and dispels the annoyance of being stuck for a little while, anyway.

Afterwards, to your utter amazement and consternation and the surprising acquiescence of a cab driver who sits through the entire twenty minute—I kid you not—ordeal, the original train goes through the full coupling cycle again, which by now simply fascinates by contrast to the weather, which hasn’t repeated anything all day long.

Light rain in Bothell, clear by Kenmore, winter at Matthews Beach, hailstones like frozen peas.

I geared up under the park’s cedars and then, peddling towards the U, chuckled at shivering squids who’d dived right into the gale, heading north.

Spring break begins just like March: in a like a lion, out like a lamb?  We shall see.

Currently, this is what we do know: there are trains and there are trains but all of them seemed especially busy on this, the first full night of the season.  I was even stopped by a six car locomotive I’d never seen in action before, chugging right up the street (it seemed to me) in front of the entrance to the low level West Seattle bridge.

Rendezvousing with the ride, rumors of a far north route quickly thinned the herd.  But, as it turned out, the evening’s theme prevailed. 

Of course: the Boxcar!

Cheery

The first daylight meet-up of the season means that winter is over even if saying so jinxes you.

By now, the probability of lowland snow approaches zero and the moon responds with its best Cheshire grin.  A perfect scoop of cloud reveals springtime just to the west.

tehJobies advises an ill-advised route through the Market and off we go.

One never tires of blinkies through Myrtle Edwards nor of Featherhead flying over hill and dale nor of bombing through the bridge cage to Magnolia.

It turns out the Dravus QFC is a convenience store, which really seems apt.

Parking lots look the same even to those who know where they’re going; second time’s a charm, though.

To be towards the rear and see beams of light pour out over the dunes is more than enough.  To arrive in one piece all you could ask.

Our hunter-gatherer ancestors would have been proud of the fire-making teamwork.  They would have envied paper but emulated shavings.

Old ways are the new thing.

Cherry wood makes for a cheery little blaze, especially when the atmosphere’s lungs breathe so deeply.

The rain shadow shortens a bit as the fuel is consumed; pretty soon you’re following Fred to the apparent delight of frogs everywhere.

Some places in town masquerade as their crosstown analogues; now that’s success!  With a swell bomb downhill, to boot!

Where you think that you’re headed is not where you’re going but when everyone arrives that’s where you are.

And afterwards, you make it home with all your pieces intact. 

There’s a model for an evening of cycling, one that never fails.  With a fire in the center, it’s hard to go wrong.  And when you do it en masse it’s guaranteed to amuse.

Behaviorists say that happiness is nothing more than behaviors that communicate happiness; if that includes communicating with yourself I agree.

Our internal states are both inscrutable and incorrigible; on nights like this, the external ones, too.

Unique

You could ride your bike halfway around the world like our new friend from Downunder, BlakeAndy, and not have a single other opportunity to experience what, around here, is fairly regular, if not downright commonplace: meandering through industrial wastelands on two wheels with several score like-minded ne’er-do-wells and fuckups, bursting lungs on what appears to be a freeway overpass complete with an eyes-closed pray-to-God crossing of those lanes halfway to the summit, then single-tracking through the woods to an abandoned gravel roadway where the firewood’s free, the beer is cold, (well, cool, anyway), sparks rise like libidinous angels in the night, and eventually, as the embers coalesce to cheery heartwarming coals, everything is as illuminated as a medieval manuscript, only better, since in this gallery, the portraits’ fire-dancing eyes follow viewers everywhere as the circle of humanity draws closer.

Seansweeny was telling me about a yoga class he went to that included dance music and a DJ and my initial reaction was well, that’s just too much, but then I was reminded that if beer is good and biking is good, then beer and biking is even better, so why not?  And adding a bonfire and stars just serves to enhance; perhaps there is no limit to augmentation after all.

In his objection to St. Anselm’s Ontological Proof for God’s existence, the monk Gaunilo asks us to consider a perfect island, that by Anselm’s logic would necessarily exist; but since it doesn’t, Anselm’s argument is allegedly disproven by reductio ad absurdum. 

Anselm responds that unlike God, who is infinite, an island is finite and so can continually be improved upon by addition, thus Gaunilo’s analogy, and by extension, his objection, fails.

But what if the island reaches such an ideal state that any addition would be subtraction?  Perfection might be a point achieved when conditions are balanced just so.

If that’s the case, then biking halfway around the world is but a short uphill pedal to God.

Strategy

The whole point of life is to make plans that you eventually come to let go of.

Most of the interesting stuff that happens happens when predictions go awry.

So, for instance, even though the Whiskey Stop ends up being cancelled due to maybe a megaphone, and the hope of catching an earlier ferry is quashed because the creativity of dock workers succumbs to shapes from Detroit and Tokyo, the result is that everyone’s together as imagined, even though no one had any idea things would look or sound like this beforehand.

It’s a shame that all our expectations and plans don’t come out exactly as expected and planned for; on the other hand, it’s way better than forecast to achieve results  that are completely unexpected.  To that end, we do what we can, in spite of the fact that that which we’re unable to do defines each of us more clearly.

It’s harder, actually, to get what you don't want than what you do; that’s why it’s important to thank the Universe every day for fucking with us.

Pain is relative and fleeting; what sticks around, by contrast, are examples of people trying to do the best that they can in difficult situations.  When you allow your eyes the panorama, you see fields of neon ablaze. 

I came to believe in the parade of  Peep’s, but who cares, really?

Especially when you get to stand around the prize pile for long enough to become  a trope; honestly, I think that I’m supposed to steer clear of the assembled loot, but at the same time, one does, in the name of efficiency, at least—have an obligation to identify what hasn’t been chosen so as to pick wisely.

But that’s the point, exactly: that-which-is changes constantly, so you can never really predict how things will turn out. 

Nevertheless, you can be certain the FHR will be grand, although in a manner you’d never have imagined.

Batter

Photo by Joeball

Even if it’s true, as tehJobies surmised, WE are getting old,IT remains as new as ever, and time stands still in honor of the 8th Annual Waffle Ride, returned this year to its traditional time of year when the Sun is in Aquarius.

The promise of free carbohydrates compels even better than free beer as three score cyclists set out from Westlake on a crystal clear evening that one wag called, in deference to New Orleans’ upcoming “Fat Tuesday,” Seattle’s “Get Fat Thursday.” Hah.

In spite of—for those not affected, anyway—the requisite culpability-free bike crash en route, the yearly horde successfully descended upon the Island Oasis and proceeded to produce breakfast at night in under an hour with not a single broke breaker.

Take it as an illustration of the principle that everyone is happiest when they’re helping each other, which is why tehJobies gets to consistently enjoy too much of a good thing.

Langston opined that this was the shortest fair-weather .83 route ever; even if that’s true in terms of mileage, it’s false when it comes to experience. Keep in mind that the ride is almost a decade long even before starting and that before it was over, there were two bridge crossings, multiple tunnel-screamings, innumerable paths along routes unfamiliar to many, and countless intangible places that pedaling parties can take you.

At the end of my night, as I lay in bed with the smell of bakeries wafting through my nose and the dulcet tones of tehSchott’s moving karaoke rendering of “Stand by Me” drifting through my brain, the phrase “Fun is work” bubbled up in my mind and it occurred to me that the phrase is a palindrome--if by “work” we mean something like tehJobies’ tireless efforts at the irons.

And I realized that by such tautologies that the Universe comes into being; something from nothing, existence via identity.

Looked at that way, such fun ain’t old, it’s eternal.

Suds

Photo by Joeball

Everything is a metaphor for everything.

Mist, for example, represents our inability to see what’s right in front of our face.

Destinations remind us that getting there is an arrival itself and being in one place a way to continue the trip.

Daniel Featherhead’s cantilevering split bike stands for the simple truth he does everything biking better than you.

And beer illustrates that we are all just bubbles in the common vat, froth on the shared primordial soup, self-aware suds arising from a single container that holds and is holding everything everywhere always.

And thanks to the fine folks at Peddlar Brewing, it’s all free!

Sometimes, there are miles and miles to go before the libations flow so liberally; on other Thursdays, you’ve barely broken a sweat and already you’re in your cups.  I’m pretty sure that never before, though, have so many ridden so little for so many pints; and I’m absolutely certain it’s unprecedented to do so in a place where you get to walk behind the bar and tap the keg yourself.

Of course, it’s not how far you ride, but how far the ride takes you.  And when you can stand around with a bottomless Solo cup of pale ale, the potential for movement is, like the amount to be drunk, limitless.  Metaphor, no?

The Angry Hippy conjectured that matter and energy precede time; the Kantian in me resists that: my mind’s categories make it harder for me to imagine an event outside time than a thing without dimension.  That said, one does experience timeless moments, especially when a ten o’ clock curfew really means 10:30.

Unless there are beer cells, there would be no beer.  And yet, without the beer, there would be no beer cells.  We’re individuals, of course, but only against the backdrop we share.

No riders, no ride.

Yet without a ride, there are no riders.

Metaphors become metaphors for metaphors.

And still the beer flows freely.  For free.

Sufficient

I don’t ask for much: only everything!

There’s got to be exuberance,  collective motion, and surprise, all wrapped in an enigma inside a riddle around a conundrum.

Or, a short bike ride will suffice.

One good thing about steep hills is  you can pack a lot more riding into a much shorter space.  When you go up and up, time, rather than distance, becomes the salient variable.

The yoga sages contend that a person only gets so many breaths in a life; that’s why there are techniques to slow the breathing; doing so makes you live longer.  Maybe the analogue is that there are only so many breaths you get on a Thursday night ramble; if you use them all up climbing, you’re done.

I don’t ask for much: only everything!

So when life offers less than I imagine, I need to see more of what’s there.

And then, I’ll notice, for instance, a classic rendezvous, an authentic hors categorie, and a bar that sells Rolling Rocks for just two dollars a piece.

That alone would suffice, and apparently did for those who went south.

For the north-facing group, though, there was more: a mechanical without incident, a route across the high bridge now made safer for riding and more difficult for suicide, and then, the crème de la crème, Fancy Fred’s best impression of Joeball’s wayfaring as we skirted the zoo along the so-called, and perhaps aptly-named “Elephant Path,” to much lower on Phinney Ridge than beforehand, but still worth it.

I don’t ask for much: just everything!

Adventure.  Self-inquiry.  Downhills that bring life to your senses.

And then, there was a long solo ride home, connecting up, ultimately, to just about exactly the spot I’d detoured on my ride from school to connect up.

Going in circles, sure, but they’re big enough ones that rather than repeating, you’re just never ending.

I don’t ask for much: just everything.

Life.  Eternal recurrence.  And eventually sleep.

Luminous

Photo by Joeball

One of the translations of the word “yoga” is “union; “yoga” which comes from a Sanskrit word that is almost a cognate of the English “yoke,” is about yoking together and forming a union between opposites like light and dark, good and evil, mind and body, the in-breath and the out-breath, and everything that is and is not everywhere and nowhere all in the same instant and for ever and ever.

Which is exactly what this year’s annual OMG Christmas Tree Fire ride was like as it combined the highest flames of the year with the lowest tide of the month to manifest a union of heat and cold, water and fire, bikes and booze, lies and truth, Dead Babies and live wires, all wrapped up under a moonless new moon evening with stars, believe it or not, on a January night in our usually gloomy Emerald City by the Sound.

tehJobies wore a silver fire-resistant space suit and made it rain fire and snow ash as he piled one more Christmas memory after another on the conflagration; at maybe a tree a minute for about two hours, I’d say a hundred to a hundred and twenty all told, most hauled by human power, at least from the brewery in Ballard.

Right at the bottom of the exhale, in the stillness before the inhale, or right at the top of the inhale, just before the exhale begins, that’s where yoga happens, they say, which is analogous, I think, to how you could find that perfect spot between being singed by the flames and frozen by the air but only by performing a kind of rotisserie action that spun you slowly around the circle, rotating and revolving like a planet about its star.

Embrace paradox: the colder it is, the warmer you feel; the darker the night, the lighter the mood; the more you drink, the soberer you become; less planning, finer results; many bikes, one ride.

Union.

Random

I believe in taking the nonsense seriously, so that means if your choice comes up, you might as well find a way to honor that outcome, even if the interpretation you would have put on it was different than everyone else understood it to mean.

That just goes to show you how difficult and surprising is human communication.

It was a somewhat lugubrious congregation on this off-week at Westlake so it seemed like an early bar made sense and, indeed, Georgetown turned out to be an excellent choice as it provided an apt destination for both the Lazy and the Bikeless and also treated me to an unexpected visit with an old friend from a different sphere, a kind of consilience that I always appreciate in whatever form it turns out to take.

I will forever wonder whether my chit was really chosen randomly from among that dozen or so slips of papers with possible destinations written on them, (although I did wrinkle mine up—which my friend who is a physicist and engineer assures me does increase one’s chances of being selected—so it may not be that suspect, after all) but since my words, “Home and to Bed” were the ones presented to me as where we were to be headed, (and since, as aforementioned, the dominant interpretation was that this meant my home rather than each of our own individual residences) the prudent course of action struck me as to interpret the situation in a manner that might still enable me to achieve the spirit of what I had suggested.

And so, it was probably this little bit of selfishness that led to my crash on the bike path. 

“Bridges May Be Icy” says the sign, one of which may be in my backyard, awaiting transformation into public art.

As much as it’s a shame not to win what you’d hoped for, isn’t it somehow more illuminating to get what you’d wished that you didn’t?

Superior

photo by Joeball

As Dead Baby Terry observed at Westlake Center, my sister Deb’s cookies are really something special.  Any homemade baked good is appreciated to be sure, but when you sample one of hers, your taste buds do a double-take.  You’re all like, “Wow.  Mmm.”  And you make the little involuntary sigh of pleasure that impels you to reach into the bag for another.  This is something I’ve long known about her culinary artistry and it’s always a pleasure to share it with others for their enjoyment and edification.

Come to think of it, many a Thursday night ride is like that, too.  You show up at Westlake Center thinking, “Okay, here I am; there’s all those other bike-riding assholes; this should be relatively palatable as a way to spend an evening.”

But then, you get out on the route, which includes and unprecedented Home Depot stop and a stirring jaunt through the industrial bowels of the city to a destination whose bonfire potential requires no importing of fuel whatsoever, and as the flames rise higher and the conviviality grows louder, you realize that, as a matter of fact, this is way better than you imagined it might be; your heart does a double-take and remember you should never ever take this shit for granted because it’s really quite remarkable even if you’ve done it before, more or less.

The full moon was so bright that it produced a barely visible spectrum in the mist surrounding it and gave us all moonshadows to follow if we wanted to notice.  I took the opportunity to scream at the top of my lungs for a bit and dance around like Stinky Pete.

Eventually, the flames died down and the beer ran out so it was up and down the hill and over the much-missed Airport Way Bridge to the old standby singing joint.  And even though the karaoke machine only showed background radiation, not words, it was still superior to predictions.

Wassail

It was a genuine Christmas miracle, as the skies, which had been spitting rain all day long, cleared up just in time for Santa and his attendant gang of cycling miscreants to depart Westlake Center fueled by holiday spirit, holiday spirits, and a spirited mix of holiday tunes blasting from tehJobies’ soundbike, whose dulcet tones were a joy to the world within earshot as we wended our way through some of the more populated areas of town via routes and pathways accessible only to those on two wheels or behind the reins of a flying sleigh and eight tiny reindeer.

In fact, the sole cloud cover all evening was precipitated by the decision of an especially festive Derrick to light a campfire underneath the park shelter roof thereby creating an inversion of greenhouse gasses that did little to warm our tiny corner of the planet but managed to momentarily blot out the shimmering stars and glittering quarter moon that were in evidence to anyone on the outside looking up.

Plus, the world didn’t end as predicted, an outcome that would have been particularly a shame given how much hot water there was to consume, thanks to the shared efforts of Santa’s thermos-bearing helpers.

It’s been a somber holiday season so far, due in no small part to the senseless tragedy in Newtown, Connecticut, last week, but there comes a time, I think, when the memories of those lost and their loved ones are appropriately served by a reclaiming of the festive mood, and so, while it seemed to take a little time for the toddies and tunes to make holiday magic happen, there’s no doubt that most in attendance were lit up like Christmas trees by the time we pedaled westward to Freelard for a nightcap or three.

Santa Claus is coming to town and we are admonished not to pout or cry; when he’s with you on a bike ride, though, who needs any such reminders?

Christaster

There’s not much I really want for Christmas: world peace, full funding for higher education in the state of Washington, a new 650B wheel with a Son dynamo hub, because other than these, I’ve already received all that any nice (or naughty) little boy or girl could ever hope for in the form of yet another successful Point83 holiday Christaster, orchestrated with singular aplomb by the Angry Hippy, whose attention to detail in the golf-themed race course ought to put him right up there with Tiger Woods himself even though the mood of the event was more in keeping with your John Daly modes of consumption and excess.

I mean, you’ve got to love a race that features not one but three separate starting points, the second of which is designated as “finish” on the map.  (And if starting at the end isn’t an apt metaphor for these sorts of bike-fueled shenanigans, I don’t know what is.)

As for me, even though a slight overindulgence in holiday baked goods left me too distracted to complete the entire route, I did manage to achieve all desired three outcomes for the course: getting lost in the woods, experiencing the magic discovery of lights like Galadriel’s elves in the forest, and, ultimately, making it to the finish line for hot toddies and Reindeer Games.

I eschewed the eggnog-chugging, cigar-puffing, and lake-swimming, thereby eliminating any chances I might have had for a much-needed mulligan but no matter, victory was mine in the end, as I garnered a Lifetime Achievement Clappy Award for waiting longer than anyone else in the vicinity has even lived for marijuana to finally be legal.

My white elephant gift-bag pick was a winner, too, filled with variety of analgesics certain to come in handy on many occasions, although, perhaps surprisingly, no Advil or Ben-Gay is called for this morning, an eventuality I attribute mainly to the therapeutic effects of holiday cheer as embodied by another successful Christaster.

High

It’s not as big a deal as the long-awaited legal sanction for the basic human right to marry the person of your choice even if he or she happens to be the same sex as you, but there’s still something significant about what Timothy Leary called the “Fifth Freedom”—the right to get high”—finally being embodied in law and thus, worthy of being celebrated, naturally on two wheels, and especially when December’s monsoons hold off the entire evening despite being forecast by meteorological prognosticators all day long.

In full OCD mode, I was determined to get to the highest point in Seattle to commemorate the occasion, and bless what Mom used to call the “pointy pea-picking hearts” of my cycling brethren for indulging me not only the initial ascents but also the entire dance card of activities I felt one needed to complete before leaving the room, including even more ups and down just so ice-cream could be eaten in spite of the fact that the inclusion of a munchies stop is, to more than one expert in the herbal art of consciousness derangement more stereotypical than actual—a point that didn’t stop yours truly from scarfing down two oddly-delicious scoops of salted caramel at the pinball parlor.

Along the way, we surprised a charming young couple who weren’t aware that their trysting spot was one of the evening’s destinations and were also flabbergasted ourselves by the pink-lipped biker chick who felt compelled to remind us that White Center was her turf in a manner that, I at least, (in the state of mind I found myself), couldn’t really determine whether was intended as friendly or not.

In the end, though, mission fucking accomplished, as evidenced not only by the facts of the case themselves but also by the unprecedented experience of desiring no more elevation as we pedaled away from High Point even though, according to John Law himself, I had every right to partake.

Elfin

The Monkey was telling me that he expected to feel poorly in the morning while I tried to convince him that this was no reason to modify one’s behavior the night before, and although my powers of persuasion no doubt left something to be desired, I do think I set a reasonable example of my point, as evidenced by the empty wallet and creative bike parking in the storage shed that greeted me in the A.M.

But it was to be expected, as the holidays kicked into full gear beginning with a winter wonderland at Westlake and culminating with Sugarplum Elves in the coffee house on Capitol Hill.

In between, there was a mass ride on the Aurora Bridge, plenty of whiskey at the playground, and a couple of noobs lured into the fold despite the challenge of hauling around a gallon of milk.

When I was about 8, I had a dream that I was running down the street, ahead of all the kids in my neighborhood, including local god, Steven Harrison, a seventh-grader, who ruled the cul de sac.  It took me years to figure out that it hadn’t actually happened, but the memory lingers on and occasionally gets re-animated by moments like the one where suddenly, thanks to my favorite short cut and a dawdling pelaton, I found myself at the head of the pack as it emerged from the I-5 Hobo Trail.

Holiday magic!

Not surprisingly, I didn’t make it back with my calendar, so I’ll just have to suffice with memories, hazy though they may be.  Fortunately, the velocipede is a gyroscope once it’s moving and the lizard brain’s survival mode knows the route home, so there’s still some functioning gray matter for pictures of blinking tail lights high above Fremont and piles of bikes framing singing Elves to reside in.

Never fear the morning the night before; what we remember tomorrow will always make what we did tonight well worth it.

Elemental

You get to ride bikes through the woods at night to a secluded beach near the northwest corner of the continent where the waves, though just squirrel-sized, are actually crashing on the shore, stand around or apart from a cozy fire drinking beer and telling lies; the stars are out and rotating gently around or so it seems from your vantage point on planet Earth; you’re there long enough that the tide comes in, the flames die down, and eventually, you’re treated to a long solitary uphill that’s just familiar enough to be sufficiently confusing to turn into a nice little adventure on the way out of the park and eventually to the bar where friendly faces abound.

And you might have passed that all up for what?  Sports, television, or the internet?

I suppose I could understand the first option, at least if the Steelers were playing, a fun fact about my character that the Angry Hippy duly appreciated when we chatted about the bleeding of Black and Gold at the Boxcar, but even a hometown victory pales in comparison to the Big Dipper overhead and sand beneath your feet, arrived at via two wheels, under the cover of a chilly, but remarkably dry, November evening.

Plus, there was the futuristic thrill of pedaling over the luminous space-age magic carpet not just once, but twice, including what may be the new go-to route home from Magnolia, especially after dark.

For tens of thousands of years, our hunter-gatherer ancestors in the region probably gathered at the very same spot we did; you could feel their ancient spirits among us (or maybe that was just me, celebrating the passage of Initiative 502, albeit a month or so early).

Suffice it to say that homo sapiens’ evolutionary connection to the experience of flames on that windswept corner of land by the  Sound go way deeper than even the bond one might feel with a Steel Curtain.

Immaculate reception, indeed.

Spectrum

Standing around the fire’s dying embers talking about the late afternoon’s double rainbow—which, to my way of looking at it, arched from Windermere to Kirkland for over an hour on my ride home from school—with Darcy and Paul, both of whom had documented their views of the phenomenon on cellphones, it occurred to me that I’d found the perfect metaphor for the human psychological condition:

We’re all at the center of our own rainbows.

Wow. Heavy.

Photographic evidence demonstrated that the same heavenly arc that to me spanned Lake Washington was, from another standpoint, over Lake Union, and to another, behind Beacon Hill.  So, even thought I thought the pot of gold was to be found somewhere around Magnuson Park, someone else would be just as certain it lay near the Hutch and someone else, insistent its location be by the Jose Rizal Bridge.

And this would also explain why there are some many treasures to be found in our fair city; case in point, the aforementioned blaze in Seward Park, upon which I happened thanks to the directions of vintage bike gang rider, Evil Mike, whose path crossed mine as I pedaled down Lake Washington Boulevard in search of drunken bike idiots.

It was a jewel of an evening, the waning gibbous moon shining diamond-bright in its center, several dozen bike riders loosely arrayed around a cheery campfire in the southern part of a Northwest city, each and every one, like me, at the center of his or her personal rainbow.

Even Joeball.

And then, eventually, as the coals’ glow faded and the beer ran out, it was back north, until like moths to their proverbial flame, we arrived en masse (albeit in stages) at the International District clubhouse where Dead Baby Terry and Fancy Fred with the Professor Dave Orchestra customized the Commodore’s hit ballad “Easy” in three-part harmony, heard, of course, from within the central perspective singer’s personal audio-visual rainbow.

Wow.  Heavy.

Masked

As we rolled from Cal Anderson Park, the Caped Crusader asked me whether I was following Fred Flintstone or Elwood Blues; “Neither,” I intoned from behind my witch’s nose and pointy hat, “I’m following a dream, Oh Masked Marauder, following a dream.”

And indeed it was—or became, anyway—one of those chimerical eves where fantasy and reality collide happily and even though at least half of the assembled showed up as pseudo-hipster bike dorks there were still enough fright wigs and fancy hats to make for the sort of annual Halloween-themed shenanigans that this fellow in a dress, anyway, has come to look forward to at October’s end out on two wheels.

Pooh Bear and Ronald McFondle were nowhere to be seen, but the latter’s alter-ego, Bob the Cat-Tree Builder, easily held the fort, as evidenced by his money quote: “Ya wanna get hammered or nailed?” a question that neither college co-eds at Dick’s Drive-In nor flamboyant crooners at Changes Bar dared answer.

On some rides, the miles melt away like butter, on others, you barely break a sweat even in a polyester frock; but sometimes those are the ones on which you cackle with glee all night long, crossing streets by foot to crowd into a place made famous for 21st birthdays but which, it turns out, welcomes pretty much anyone anytime and where the single drinks are doubles and where—despite the fact that most others of those taking the microphone could actually sing—the Karaoke-J still took a moment to thank our gang of loudmouths and Blues Brothers for showing up to play.

It’s been a long time since I’ve made it to the nub of the evening, where bedraggled revelers scoff at local ordinances and build pyres from palettes but this chance was too good to pass up; and although I wasn’t there to see the flames die, I did see them rise as the Dark Knight lay down for a nap.