Friday, July 15, 2011


tehJobies younger and handsomer doppleganger brother and I were talking about what makes a ride memorable and I think we concluded that there aren’t any set criteria.

Sure, a theme can help, even one cobbled together more or less on the spot in response to the postponement of another, and seeing a bunch of familiar faces mixed in with a healthy contingent of fucking noobs usually contributes, as does going to a place we’ve never been, especially one with a stunning view of downtown Seattle cradled among its vast industrial wastelands, but it’s not as if there’s an algorithm or recipe for what makes a Thursday night out on two wheels difficult to forget.

Which isn’t to say that the concept is merely tautological; that is, just because the experience sticks in your head isn’t enough to make it memorable and indeed, being unable to recall details is often a component of unforgettable times.

Nor do I believe that it’s purely subjective; there are well-established markers for the memorable—outdoor drinking, long-lingering summer evenings, a full moon eventually so bright it casts shadows—and I think a person could be mistaken about what’s memorable, especially if he or she were overly impressionable or, more likely, had less of an appetite for the sorts of imbibing that makes it hard for me, at least, to remember the particulars of what went down.

That said, it’s certain that the First, and Perhaps Only, Pointe Quatre-Vingt Trois Occasionally Annual Bastille Day Ride is one for the memory annals; I’m sure I will never forget (no matter how hard I try) the baguettes and bicycles, the panoramic belle vue of our fair city, and finally, back on mon velo for a spin to the semi-authentic French bistro and a couple more bottles of wine to cap the night.

Bogart and Bacall as Rick and Elsa in Casablanca will always have Paris, sure; this bike gang, I guess, Ella Baily.


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