Tincture

There comes a time, I think, when bicycling just turns into something like Heavy Metal and its popularity achieves a kind of homeostasis where there are periods when everyone’s into it balanced with stretches when only those into it are into it and that’s fine because it means you get to enjoy quiet evenings when it’s neither drizzly nor rainy and never quite dry until the last leg home which, although early, had a full complement of greatest hits, including fire, noobs, and the outdoors in a park.

Andre remarked that 10 degrees makes a huge difference and he’s right: wait until it’s 63 Fahrenheit and that’s when our beloved tourist population comes out in force—which isn’t to overlook those who did the winter tour at 43—nevertheless, it’s clear that the difficulty of making either fish or fowl out of the conditions was somewhat confounding, at least if turnout is any gauge.

All I know is that the ride remains an intrigue even if that’s because it isn’t: at least you’re still out on your bike at night, looking at things a little differently and without hardly a worry.

And even though I know the route up through the trees well enough to be the one who first started plumping for it, I remain amazed by what a magical marble raceway it surprises me with every time. All of a sudden, there we were, in the shelter, and even the slimy wood was crackling merrily.

Nothing really happened but that’s the appeal. You talked to someone and wondered aloud. You stood around the warmth of a fire. You saw an owl.

It’s not what all the kids are doing all of the time but some sure do it most of the time and most probably will do it some of the time again but in the meantime, my time was all a local could need to make him wonder why anyone would ever just tour.