Short But Sweet

I generally think that something is better than nothing.

Like, if it’s Valentine’s Day, giving your loved one something commonplace, like a bottle of wine, is better than ignoring the occasion altogether. Or if you really should be grading papers instead of puttering about with self-absorbed essays, then at least downloading one of the pieces of student work to your computer is to be commended. (There, that’s done.)

Or a few miles with your bike gang to a nearby tavern and just a couple beers instead of the usual long slog and alcohol poisoning is enough, at least, to tide you over until next time.

And in the process, because the moments are fewer, you get to savor the memorable ones just a little more.

Stopping for freshly-frosted cupcakes in a driveway/parking lot off of Westlake was not to be missed, especially when the Jamieson’s whiskey came out, prompting visiting Irish rider Joe to break his pledge not to drink anymore.

And I always love riding on the deck of Fremont Bridge, something I only do in groups; pedaling next to the Pugsley and feeling the subsonic bass hum of its tires on the metal grating was especially fine.

We congregated at Mike’s Chili in Ballard, where FHR organizer, Derek Ito, could work his strangely effective brand of salesmanship on the owner in the attempt to acquire free food for the race. And lots of uncomfortable laughter from being bombarded with the Tourette’s-y vocal stylings of the inimitable J while downing a couple pints in my defense, then, as I was leaving, falling prey to the oldest trick in the joint: above the bar is a hand-lettered sign that reads: “YCJCYADFTJ.” “What’s that mean?” I asked the waitress. “Your curiosity just cost you a dollar for the jukebox,” was her reply.

I ponied up, happily enough; after all, I had already gotten my money’s worth: the menu says clearly that the price of “Abuse” is “free.”