Bridges
Poor South Park! Mean old King County went and closed down their bridge! And now, that means there’s only eight left in the neighborhood!
Actually, I do think it sucks about the South Park Bridge, but that didn’t mitigate the enjoyment I experienced crossing and re-crossing the Duwamish River again and again on our ramble south last evening, a Tuesday night so warm and beautiful that I couldn’t resist the unusual decision to tag along on the less-popular of the two regularly-scheduled .83 rides of the week.
Some cyclists do what they call “pass hunting;” big apparently in Japan and France, that’s where you ride up mountains looking for elevation markers to indicate you’ve completed that ride; when you tally up a hundred or so, you get a pin, supposedly.
The new thing, then, is going to be “bridge hunting.” That’s where you wind around a local river looking for all the ways to cross it; I’d already been over five or six of the eight we did; there was one, though, a pedestrian bridge with a dry-rotting wood deck (which made for an interesting descent) and another on Boeing property, prominently labeled “No bikes” that were new to me.
The pace was brisk, perhaps a little bit too much like bike-riding for my taste, but with only six of us—even though one was Sketchy, who never met a gravel shortcut he didn’t like, even one heading right for the SLUT—it made sense to concentrate more on pedaling than some of the ancillary delights of bike gang, although we did end up at Loretta’s where the beer was cold, the fries were warm, and the Hamm’s beer sign waterfall never stops flowing.
I had let it be known around the home front that I’d be home by 10:30-ish; this was met with much skepticism; but guess what? Near South Park, you can easily cross 8 bridges, drink 2 beers, and still be home before 11:00.
Actually, I do think it sucks about the South Park Bridge, but that didn’t mitigate the enjoyment I experienced crossing and re-crossing the Duwamish River again and again on our ramble south last evening, a Tuesday night so warm and beautiful that I couldn’t resist the unusual decision to tag along on the less-popular of the two regularly-scheduled .83 rides of the week.
Some cyclists do what they call “pass hunting;” big apparently in Japan and France, that’s where you ride up mountains looking for elevation markers to indicate you’ve completed that ride; when you tally up a hundred or so, you get a pin, supposedly.
The new thing, then, is going to be “bridge hunting.” That’s where you wind around a local river looking for all the ways to cross it; I’d already been over five or six of the eight we did; there was one, though, a pedestrian bridge with a dry-rotting wood deck (which made for an interesting descent) and another on Boeing property, prominently labeled “No bikes” that were new to me.
The pace was brisk, perhaps a little bit too much like bike-riding for my taste, but with only six of us—even though one was Sketchy, who never met a gravel shortcut he didn’t like, even one heading right for the SLUT—it made sense to concentrate more on pedaling than some of the ancillary delights of bike gang, although we did end up at Loretta’s where the beer was cold, the fries were warm, and the Hamm’s beer sign waterfall never stops flowing.
I had let it be known around the home front that I’d be home by 10:30-ish; this was met with much skepticism; but guess what? Near South Park, you can easily cross 8 bridges, drink 2 beers, and still be home before 11:00.
posted by Professor Dave at 10:57 AM
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