Rocket Race
I took third in yesterday afternoon’s Rocket Race, an outer space/space travel-themed alleycat organized by .83-er, Denny, who—in real (non-bike) life—is an actual rocket scientist.
Heeding my own oft-ignored advice to refrain from getting stoned until AFTER the race resulted in my choosing a pretty good route, enabling me to achieve podium status, beat all the girls, and achieve by far the lowest negative number should you subtract my age from my finishing position.
The race took us to seven stops, all of which had something to do with the heavens or things blasting off heavenwards. Even the start: Denny set the 21 riders on our way by launching a water-bottle rocket; we had to wait for it to take off and land at the race lift-off site on Kite Hill in Gasworks Park.
At the first stop, the Greenwood Space Travel Supply Company, we had to fill out a “crash report” and have it signed by the woman who worked there. With racetosterone flowing through me, I rushed through the report, failing to really give it the attention it deserved. Fortunately, my narrative description of the crash, “Sorry. I blew it!” earned me a signature, even though I left most of the form blank.
My next stop was the Fremont Rocket, where I atoned slightly for my prior haste by helping another rider find the information we were required to put on our manifest.
I hit the Mars Bar before the Space Needle; then from Seattle Center, to the Army/Navy store where I was “punished” for incorrectly identifying a fuel tank as a rocket by having to slam a shot of whiskey.
I rocketed by the last three stops—the Comet Tavern, the Satellite Lounge, and Lloyd’s Rocket—on the way to the touchdown site where I drank some beer and inwardly glowed bright as the full moon at my finishing position before launching myself back home to my own happy little crash pad.
Heeding my own oft-ignored advice to refrain from getting stoned until AFTER the race resulted in my choosing a pretty good route, enabling me to achieve podium status, beat all the girls, and achieve by far the lowest negative number should you subtract my age from my finishing position.
The race took us to seven stops, all of which had something to do with the heavens or things blasting off heavenwards. Even the start: Denny set the 21 riders on our way by launching a water-bottle rocket; we had to wait for it to take off and land at the race lift-off site on Kite Hill in Gasworks Park.
At the first stop, the Greenwood Space Travel Supply Company, we had to fill out a “crash report” and have it signed by the woman who worked there. With racetosterone flowing through me, I rushed through the report, failing to really give it the attention it deserved. Fortunately, my narrative description of the crash, “Sorry. I blew it!” earned me a signature, even though I left most of the form blank.
My next stop was the Fremont Rocket, where I atoned slightly for my prior haste by helping another rider find the information we were required to put on our manifest.
I hit the Mars Bar before the Space Needle; then from Seattle Center, to the Army/Navy store where I was “punished” for incorrectly identifying a fuel tank as a rocket by having to slam a shot of whiskey.
I rocketed by the last three stops—the Comet Tavern, the Satellite Lounge, and Lloyd’s Rocket—on the way to the touchdown site where I drank some beer and inwardly glowed bright as the full moon at my finishing position before launching myself back home to my own happy little crash pad.
posted by Professor Dave at 11:36 AM
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