An Eyeful

It’s a good thing that, unlike our stomachs, there’s no limit to the amount our eyes can consume because if we did have eye-bellies, mine would be, after last night, so distended by all I saw, that I’d have to take off my shoes to raise my eyebrows, or something like that.

It was a visual feast from 5:30 in the afternoon when Mimi and I first arrived at the Comet Tavern for the Dead Baby Downhill and Messenger Challenge sign-ups, all the way until I finally closed my peepers sometime long after midnight but thankfully slightly before the birds starting singing in the AM.

As usual, it was a vast clusterfuck of crazy cyclists and fucked-up bikes (or vice-versa), although this year, for the first time (at least the route we took, following many dozens in front of and behind us), there was a fair amount of uphilling on the Downhill, as we skirted the western ridge of Beacon Hill in order to get the final bomb down Lucille Street to Georgetown, and my eyes drank in the panorama of so many two-wheelers stretched out in both directions as far as anyone could see.

Subsequently, there was the Fellini-movie mayhem of the after-party, everywhere you’d look something or someone else to ogle at, eyes gleaming with excitement all around, among my favorite sights, a glowing SurlyKat, flush with pride at her victory in the Lady’s Division of the big race, oh yeah!

And then, eyes (and that’s not all) were popping at Ben’s bachelor party, a sedate affair where about a dozen fellows sipped drinks and toasted the groom on his impending nuptials; at least, that’s how I saw it.

Later, I made my way back to the DB festivities in time to catch the Bicycle Belles’ performance; some said they weren’t at their best, but I didn’t see it, my eyes were only filled with the three-dimensional splendor of bike-love beauty for all to see.