At 1:00am, as Jupiter courts a waning moon in a clear sky, I charged home half buzzed on roads I alone owned and it reminded me of what is so brilliant about the bicycle. Nothing could do that commute faster. A gilet and some arm-warmers were just enough to keep the brisk air away, but also not so much that you didn’t feel light and fast.
Talk about your epic xc ride. Missed my pals in the parking lot, so rode alone. Got lost. Got reoriented. Found some mud. Climbed and climbed and climbed. And climbed. Bombed the raddest bermed-out trail. Then got lost again. Ate my banana. Stumbled across a fireroad going slightly in the right direction, sensed it was, and big-ringed it for home. Then, while apexing a corner like Ken Block on amphetamines, I nearly plowed into the most massive buck alive, like King of the Forest Lord of Stags kind of size, at terminal dirt-road velocity, necessitating a series of dramatic wobbles and sketchiness to recover without incident. Thankfully I found a paved road and only had to time-trail the mountain bike to the car for around an hour, arriving just as it got pitch black, somewhere around 10:00pm. Was in awe at the dramatically large and full blood-red moon looming on the horizon, balanced perfectly on the very tips of trees as I rounded a corner and was greeted by yet another unrealistically large animal of the elk or buck variety. What does it all mean? Only the Yosemite Double Rainbow Hippie knows. A sign of fertility, I’m sure. Very hungry for beer and Food From Mexico.
Said Jamie, after soccer, when we were driving up and down 4th Ave in Kitsilano, dodging the elderly and infirm, as well as flocks of families with buggies of children, while looking for a place to park my freaking land-yacht Subaru wagon. It was tense. I had missed a couple of juicy spots and Jamie was getting grouchy, hilariously.
“This is embarrassing.”
But, in the end, it all worked out o.k. We parked. No people got run over. We bought beer. And, previously, my knees held up, both of them. I made a couple of decent – and quite polite – tackles, and also tactfully refrained from sweeping my right leg, scythe-like, through the 3-foot tall midget guy that came out to play. I thought that was decent of me. One ballsy fellow though, that’s for sure, so hats off to him to getting stuck in.
Will there be more soccer in the future? There might. There just might.
According to the stats that WordPress collects, there are around 40 odd people (+ or -), that wander in here every day. Who are they? No clue. What do they want? Wish I could answer that. Why do they, to a person, never leave a single comment? Gawd only knows and he ain’t talking. (Aside from you, Mr Austin Texas MK Ultra Cab Driver – your comments are the best comments anyone could ever ask for. Thank you.)
And the point of all that is this. That’s right. There’s no point. I’m like a have-a-point-nihilist today. Must be Vancouver and it’s smarmy smartypantsness. So anyway, paint your walls black and turn it up. The Stampede sucks. So does rain. Slayer is in the chapel, people.