Nowhere

On last night’s .83 ride, we spent some time on the so-called “Bridge to Nowhere,” the unused and apparently abandoned section of freeway overpass at the north end of the arboretum in Montlake. It was a lovely evening, with ochre and pink cotton-candy cloud skies at dusk—we’d even seen a rainbow earlier in the evening—perfect for bike riding and beer drinking. And something about the post-apocalyptic quality of an empty elevated roadway just added to the beauty of it all.

I’d been to the BTN, also called, I’m told, the “Ghost Ramp” on several occasions, but never when it was still light, so I never so much appreciated its desolate charm. This gives me hope for our post-oil future, when we’ll have no end of such places to gather together enjoying the sun-drenched concrete giving up its warmth as twilight descends.

I love the concept of a bridge to “nowhere,” because, of course, it does lead somewhere, just not anywhere that people, at least people in cars, are headed. When the several dozen of us were languishing about, slapping mosquitoes that rose from the marshy lagoons of Lake Washington below us, we weren’t “nowhere;” even in my slightly intoxicated state I knew I was in some place that existed as an identifiable location in space—athough probably not on Google Maps.

When I pointed this out, someone mentioned that old Buddhist (or is it George Carlin) saw, “wherever you go, there you are,” and there was no doubt this was true: each and every person standing or sitting there was there, even if our minds (well, mine, anyway) weren’t entirely present.

If this is the bridge to nowhere, I wonder if we, having followed it, were all in the middle of nowhere, a funny concept, not unlike the idea of being at the center of the universe.

But that’s what we were talking about later, when some of us were in that new bar, Smith, on Capitol Hill.

Free

The peak moment for me on the .83 ride last night was near the end of the evening when the remaining cyclists were enjoying a final nightcap in a pirate skateboard park off of Alaskan Way. I was lying down with my head resting on the gently curving side of one of the homemade half-pipe ramps gazing up at the stars, but the image was one I couldn’t resolve. The celestial sphere seemed to be quilted somehow, with thin lines like metal cables partitioning it off into sections. “What the fuck is with the sky or am I just really stoned?” I mused aloud.

The two guys within earshot of me burst out laughing and so did I as I realized my question was answered by my asking: it wasn’t the sky I was looking at at all; it was the black painted underside of the viaduct!

Ooops.

Safe to say, I’d achieved the level of disengagement from the ordinary I’d been reaching for all evening.

Which is roundabout way of saying it’s probably good I rode the Quickbeam on the freewheel side of the rear cog after all; doing so allowed me to concentrate a little less on the mechanics of riding and more on experiencing transcendent weirdness in last night’s route.

We took the Longfellow Creek trail from near the West Seattle Bridge to White Center, a charming off-road meander highlighted by Aaron’s carrying on the front of his Baksfeits a Lazy-Boy recliner chair he’d picked up off the street.

After the designated southwest-end taco truck stop and requisite pitchers at the Pacific Rim Brewery, we piled into another forest-trail adventure, an wooded overlook somewhere above Delridge which afforded a dynamite view of the Duwamish industrial zone as long as you didn’t fall off the edge of the eroded cliff, which remarkably, no one did.

One final safety stop during a mechanical on the route back downtown and my night—and night sky—was made.

Adventure

I’ve been asked what the hell I’m doing drinking, smoking, and riding bikes with kids half my age and less—and I’ve asked myself that, too.

All sorts of none-too-flattering answers could be given, I’m sure: it’s my midlife crisis; I’m denying my age; I’m just a creepy old guy, and maybe there’s an element of truth in all of those.

But I think the real reason I’m drawn to these regular .83 rides is the opportunity to infuse my staid, middle-class (and middle-aged) existence with some small sense of adventure.

T.S. Eliot said, “Old men should be explorers,” and I agree. When I’m not making at least minor discoveries in my life, having at minimum a few unexpected explorations, I start to feel really old and in the way.

So what’s particularly satisfying about setting out on an evening ride with the bike gang is that, more often than not, I don’t really have a clue about where we’re headed or what’s going to happen.

Last night, for instance, about twenty of us swarmed from Westlake Center in a disorganized mob that somehow re-congregated at Dick’s Burgers near the Seattle Center. Then, after those who wanted them got their meaty gutbombs, it was off down Western, racing traffic towards the Magnolia Bridge.

Another stop in lower Magnolia for beer and Slim Jims, then it really got interesting. We pedaled up into Discovery Park and then dove down a very steep and dark hill to the water, where we rode single-file along the trail to a secluded cove.

Quaffables were quaffed and then came the most adventurous part of the night: we hiked up through the woods, at a fairly furious pace, carrying our bikes to the top of the hill we had descended earlier.

It sort of sucked and was nothing I would have done on my own; I’ll bet few of us will ever do it again.

But there’s no denying it was an adventure.

Decompartmentalizing

The acquaintances in my life are separated into four fairly distinct groups: I know the teachers I work with, the yogis I practice with, the cyclists I ride with, and the rest—fellow parents, old friends, and neighbors—who I guess I mostly drink, eat, and hang out with.

There doesn’t tend to be much overlap among them.

The yogis, for instance, I hardly ever see outside the studio—and I know only a handful of names—even though with many I have had this strangely intimate but totally detached experience of bending and sweating profusely together three to five times a week for half a dozen years or more.

As for my fellow instructors, all of whom I really appreciate and deeply respect: our time together is pretty much restricted to school. In five years, I’ve only been to one of their houses; I’ve never opened my home to any of them.

My cycling buddies are another class altogether; although Mimi’s met them at the FHR and Jen made the acquaintance of several at the Patchkit, for the most part, their realm is a completely different orbit I travel in.

So it was particularly swell for me last night when, on the regular Thursday evening .83 ride, I had a chance to see two of these groups—the cyclists and the teachers—together in one place for a while.

.83 rode from Westlake Center, over freeway and down Interlaken to Montlake and then up the Ravenna ravine through Northgate with a stop at the Taco truck and ended up at the Pinehurst Pub where a group of Cascadia teachers was celebrating the end of quarter with beer and conversation.

Our wild bunch of around twenty cyclists arrived en masse and pretty took over the joint to the delighted cries of the table of teachers. I felt like the Marlon Brando leading the cavalry, a weird combination to be sure—but so was the one in the Pub.

FHR

photo by Denny T.

Every parent thinks his or her kid is the bomb; I’m no exception, but I have especially strong justification for my belief as illustrated today by her full-on rocking of the Fucking Hills Race, .83’s 33 mile-long checkpoint race on Bainbridge Island that follows the same route (and day) as Cascade Bicycle Club’s Chilly Hilly Event.

Mimi got right up today at 7:30, even after going to bed at 12:30 last night. She assured me she’d rise no problem because the race was something she wanted to do. And she was true to her word.

It took virtually no cajoling to get her onto the tandem by 8:15, even in this morning’s chilly drizzle.

We arrived at the sign-up location in time to get one of the few remaining pirate flags which we affixed proudly to the back of our bike and enjoyed milling around and ogling bikes as we waited to board the ferry for Bainbridge.

The race started near the Winslow terminal and we began threading our way through the throngs of spandex clad weekend warriors on their fenderless Treks and Cannondales, making solid progress on the flats and uphills, and major gains on the downhills.

The route was pretty up and down, with a few fairly serious steeps. At least twice I suggested we get off and walk, but the girl would have none of that; we pedaled up even the steepest grades and flew on the downhills.

About halfway through there was a rest stop; I was ready for a break, but my pint-sized stoker egged us on.

The last four or five miles were a test of my legs, her butt, and our shared wills, but we persevered, finishing a respectable 33 out of 40 or so, and would have done half a dozen places higher had we not gotten lost near the finish.

“Pretty good for my first race,” was the kid’s assessment; I’d say way fucking (hills) better than that.

Waffle

photo by Denny T.

Last night,.83 conducted this year’s version of what is now an annual tradition (“tradition” meaning anything you do twice): the WWW or Winter Waffle Wide.

Some thirty riders loaded up their messenger bags, panniers, and Xtracycles with flour, eggs, syrup, camp stoves, waffle irons, distilled spirits, and cases of PBR then rode to a park on Mercer Island that, for some strange reason, features—in its picnic shelter—electrical outlets that are full of juice all year long. There, batter was mixed, butter was melted, and dozens of waffles made and consumed.

I missed the start of the ride from Westlake Center because I was at school listening to a frightening lecture by Red Cavaney, who is CEO of the American Petroleum Institute. As you might expect from someone who is the public face of Big Oil, his talk was mostly about how we’ve got to all pull together as Americans to ensure that we have a steady supply of burnable hydrocarbons for many years to come. The good news, from his perspective, is that if we can just get Congress to lift those silly restrictions on drilling in the Gulf of Mexico and Alaska, we can count on being able to keep sucking crude from the ground at an increased rate until way off in 2030, by which time, he assured us, “technology” will have found a replacement energy source that conveniently will use the same infrastructure already laid in place by Exxon, Shell, et al.

By the time he was done, you could have powered a Hummer off the steam pouring from my ears.

A bike ride through the streets of Bellevue, then west on the I-90 trail to Mercer Island was an ideal pressure release; to then come upon my fellow cyclists creating a shared outdoor feast was perfect.

I had forgotten all about Red Cavaney by the time I finished my first waffle; way before the bottle of Maker’s Mark was spent.

Greenlake

I partipated last night in the regularly-scheduled post-Critical Mass Greenlake Race. It’s held at midnight on final Friday of each month, the same evening that the usual parade of “Massholes” (I can use that word; I am often one myself) takes place.

Riders race a lap around the lake, generally unlit (well, their bikes are; participants themselves are often well-lit), the winner being the first cyclist who can make it all the way from start to finish, avoiding late-night joggers, dog-walkers, homeless people with shopping carts, and in the summer, lawn sprinklers and garden hoses.

The first time I raced, last summer, I was under the impression it was all good fun, and, while it is, some of those boys (and the occasional girl) are really serious about the competition. In my career, I’ve come in second to last, last, and yesterday, in a personal best ever, third to last.

And I will note that in the January 2007 race, for first time ever, I was able to see the taillights of one group in front of me for two-thirds of the way before they completely disappeared in the distance.

It was a lovely—if slightly chilly—night for a bike ride. The half full moon was bright behind a veil of fog and there was virtually no wind.

The ride over to Greenlake, slightly cannabis-enhanced, was just enough of an adventure while still allowing the reflective space to think of all sorts of fleeting ideas for teaching, writing, and making the world a better place.

As cyclists were massing for the start, another rider, Jeff, asked our organizer, Derek Ito, if there was time to get stoned before we took off. It was clear that we’d be gone before he could pack a pipe, so I whipped out a joint.

“Ah! Professor McStoney comes through again!” cried my fellow rider.

I may not be known as a fast cyclist, but at least I’ve got a reputation.

This?

photo by joeball

I rode out with the .83 gang last night—a slightly disjointed tour of the west side, from downtown to lower Magnolia, then across the locks to Freelard, up and around the hill to Golden Gardens, back to Ballard for bar-drinking, then finishing up around the Fremont firepit before coming home.
I got pretty stoned pretty early and so, between the pedaling (or, I guess among), had all sorts of deep thoughts that elude me now, but I did fantasize about a vast US government-sponsored program to put bikes on the streets of political hotspots around the world.

Suppose, for instance, instead of spending 300 billion dollars on tanks and bombs, we spent just a pittance of that—say 300 million—and flooded Iraq with people on bikes. Suppose it took five thousand bucks to send a bike and rider to Baghdad for two months; three hundred million dollars would put sixty thousand riders on the streets; wouldn’t that do more to create stability and peace than our current policies?

(Come to think of it, probably nearly anything would; imagine if the US just sent any person who wanted a job, gave them a couple of thousand dollars and a suitcase full of iPods.)

Here, in the cold cruel light of dawn, I’m not nearly as impressed with my plan as I was last night; still, I don’t imagine it’s that much wackier than whatever Gates is scheming to do at the moment; and it’s certainly less outlandish than what has been attempted these last few years by Rumsfeld and Co.

In amidst a couple dozen cyclists, especially fueled by cannabis, caffeine, and wine, I begin to believe that the two-wheeler really could save the world. I guess this would qualify as the paradigmatic pipe dream, but it’s pleasant enough to dream about.

I’m sure I overestimate the potential of the bicycle to heal the world.

No doubt because riding bikes makes me feel so much better.

Yogi

I

photo by Denny T.

was pretty hungover today at yoga practice. (Still am, in fact.)

I went on the .83 bike ride last night and had a wee bit too much to drink. (Now, there’s a funny concept, and one assessed only in retrospect.)

It was a great time, punctuated by two high points:

1) Gliding down First Avenue in tight cycling formation, hitting all the lights right on yellow, one after another.

2) Being led to a secluded observation platform on Harbor Island (I think), hanging out in panoramic view of the Seattle skyline, drinking beer and getting rowdy—at least insofar as people playing beer can baseball with a U-lock and engaging in random nutsacking qualifies as rowdy—while the miraculous Daniel Featherhead miraculously flew (apparently) to the beach below.

So when I woke this morning, dry-mouthed and headachy, at 5:30AM, I thought I might as well get up and go to the studio: I couldn’t feel much worse and perhaps I could sweat out the booze with a few stretches.

I usually practice at home on mornings-after; I tend to go easier on myself in the living room than the shala and I generally skip the inverted poses that really get the hungover head throbbing, but since tomorrow’s a moon day and because with all the morning meetings this week, I’d only made it to the studio once so far, I decided to ride over to AYS.

I’m never quite sure what the respectful gesture is: do I express my devotion to the practice by showing up in whatever state I’m in or do I stay home unless I’m relatively pure?

I was paranoid about sweating beer on everyone, but I couldn’t smell any and even Jen didn’t wrinkle her nose when gave her a good-morning hug back at home.

Oddly, I had a good practice, at least in terms of flexibility. But that could be due to the four Excedrin I popped before leaving the house.

Gang

photo by Denny T.

I ride from time to time with a group of cyclists who go by the name of .83, which I’m told refers to the total mileage covered in one of their early rides, cut short by cold weather and a warm bar. It’s a loose collection of relatively normal but somewhat offbeat folks who like to ride bikes, hang out together, and, as the website says, “tip back a cold one”—although I’ve seen no particular aversion to a lukewarm one, either.
On .83 rides, we tend to have a healthy disrespect for traffic laws; red lights are usually treated as merely “slow down and look” lights and stop signs as simply suggestions. I think this is okay, given that (as I read it) we’re out to have fun and be a bit naughty rather than exhibit exemplary cycling behavior, but also because it seems to me that the slightly higher moral ground one attains by urban cycling in the 21st century affords an agent the right to bend the rules a bit.

This is a contestable claim, of course, and turns on whether cycling does earn you a step (or in the case of .83, a stagger) up morally but consider, for example, last evening when, as a group, we violated the countywide burn ban by having an open fire in the Fremont fire pit. I argued that because, as cyclists, our carbon footprint was smaller than automobile drivers, we had a right to “spend” our credits on a fire. (It was pointed out to me, though than the ban is to protect against wildfires, not global warming.)

But still…

We capped off the evening with a dip in Lake Washington, which broke laws—or at least UW regulations—against after hours facility use and swimming in a boating lane (so the police who rousted us claimed), but no one went to jail or even got a ticket.

That’s because we rode bikes there, of course.