A Fine Disaster
Getting fifty-some alcohol-fueled cyclists fifty-some miles north and west across open water requires dedication, commitment, and plenty of beer, all of which were on display for the last twenty-four or so hours courtesy of Ben Countrywide: The Fourclosure, this year’s version of the annual two-wheeled clusterfuck that celebrates the birthday of .83’s self-styled president and resident angry hippie.
When the call went out of a 9:30 meet-up, I thought it was kind of overdoing it, since surely we wouldn’t take more than five hours to haul our sorry asses up to South Whidby Island State Park, meaning we’d arrive at our campground early enough we’d have no choice but to do something awful like play Frisbee or even worse, take a nature walk.
Fortunately, though, tumbling the huge clattering carcass that was our conglomeration of riders took way longer than that what with multiple mechanicals, many a stop for regrouping, and at least one accident involving a dog, a derailer, and a trailer, and we eventually didn’t roll into camp until almost eight hours after our initial meeting time.
Everything was just as shitty and wonderful as a person could hope for; we got rained on hard enough early in the day that our mettle got tested, but most of the time, I didn’t even have to wear any plastic at all, wool was just fine.
Whidbey Island was doing its best Middle-Earth impression, especially when we rode en masse over a hard-packed trail atop a levee way out in the middle of a beautiful nowhere of Puget Sound tidal pools.
My peak moment was one of delicious suffering: climbing another of the last long hills to our campground, sun breaking through the pines, I popped a piece of chocolate in my mouth and as it melted, little flashes of joy exploded like flashbulbs all around.
And this was before the fun even started, fire and firewater into the wee hours; unforgettable to any able to remember.
When the call went out of a 9:30 meet-up, I thought it was kind of overdoing it, since surely we wouldn’t take more than five hours to haul our sorry asses up to South Whidby Island State Park, meaning we’d arrive at our campground early enough we’d have no choice but to do something awful like play Frisbee or even worse, take a nature walk.
Fortunately, though, tumbling the huge clattering carcass that was our conglomeration of riders took way longer than that what with multiple mechanicals, many a stop for regrouping, and at least one accident involving a dog, a derailer, and a trailer, and we eventually didn’t roll into camp until almost eight hours after our initial meeting time.
Everything was just as shitty and wonderful as a person could hope for; we got rained on hard enough early in the day that our mettle got tested, but most of the time, I didn’t even have to wear any plastic at all, wool was just fine.
Whidbey Island was doing its best Middle-Earth impression, especially when we rode en masse over a hard-packed trail atop a levee way out in the middle of a beautiful nowhere of Puget Sound tidal pools.
My peak moment was one of delicious suffering: climbing another of the last long hills to our campground, sun breaking through the pines, I popped a piece of chocolate in my mouth and as it melted, little flashes of joy exploded like flashbulbs all around.
And this was before the fun even started, fire and firewater into the wee hours; unforgettable to any able to remember.
posted by Professor Dave at 7:10 PM
2 Comments:
Jeez, how was the trip home? Did anyone have to have mommy come pick them up in the van?
Almost.
I left early to make it back to town for a softball game; missed the biscuits and gravy for breakfast and the mass depart.
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