I Like, Like It

One of my favorite things to see is a bunch of bikes piled up outside a bar; it gives me hope for the human race.

So, I was a bit sad this evening when I rode over to the Elysian and there weren’t any cycles there; that is, to paraphrase Yogi Berra, nobody was there, it was too crowded.

Now, I’m not saying that folks who don’t ride bikes to their destinations are any less cool than those who do; I’m just trying to communicate that, for me, if you show up on a bike—even if it’s a Magna from Costco or wherever, you’re got the inside track to being my friend.

I have this idea about a party I want to throw: it would be out in the woods, or at least some location somewhat removed from most other places, and anybody who came there on two wheels would be invited. Basically, this is the way .83 works; not that newcomers are always welcomed with open arms (well, not if they’re boys, anyway), but a person can pretty much count on the fact that if he keeps appearing, keeps riding, and isn’t too inept about fixing his own flats, then he’ll be tolerated, at least.

I myself have been doing this for almost three years and even though I’m this weird old guy whose taste in recreational stimulants skews more towards the smokeable than the drinkable as compared to the majority of the group, I’m only rarely ostracized, and usually that’s more in my head than reality.

Someday, I hope, I’m going to write this book, Everything I Need to Know I Learned In My Bike Gang, and it will talk about how lots of the things about life that I’ll want to recall on my deathbed will have happened on Thursday nights while out on two wheels.

In the meantime, though, I’m going to keep pedaling around looking for bars with bike piles outside.