Another Safari

The Poet Laureate was up against a grant deadline, so I was taking my time getting to her place to give her time to break those desk chains and get out and ride. I understand Workaholic Mode, I get in it sometimes even without the mission technically being 'work.'

It was an indecently beautiful evening, the kind of weather I forgot existed when I was commuting at 2ºF, riding on snowpack through Fairfax, pumping through intermittent February rain on the way to Smithville.

Well, if you could overlook the wind, anyway. Coasting down West Pennway, where I normally hit 30 mph with little effort, I looked down to find out I was doing less then nine miles per hour. Something about fighting a headwind like that made me think fondly of beer.



I stopped at the Scout. I visited the skateboarders in the park there, kids who don't have the same aversion to falling down I do. These guys fall dozens of times in a row trying to get a particular trick down. On concrete. Without helmets or any other protective gear beyond jeans and t-shirts.

I'd have taken more pictures of them, but they already had a photographer on hand and they wanted to know what I wanted to 'use the pictures for.' One had also asked what was up with my bike, all the stickers and spoke cards, and he didn't seem satisfied with my explanation that it was just a way to get to and from work.



I guess it's a two-wheeled human-powered graphic design portfolio in addition to being transportation and a workout, but the gap between us was too deep. It wasn't just a generation thing, I didn't relate well to these risk-monger types when I was their age.




But I met tres amigos in the Westside neighborhood who were less judgmental of my ride. Except I was, as I say, really in the mood for a beer after fighting epic headwinds, and I thought these three buddies were in front of a place I could buy some. The store was closed, though, so I had to settle for a photograph.

It's okay, I wanted a brew but I'm a sucker for folk art.



So then when I met up, at long last, with the Chocolate Fairy, she diagnosed the way I was spending my evening.

"You're on a safari," she said. I hadn't realized it, but it was true. I was collecting interesting photos.


I know from my cycling journal that, at the time, I mainly noticed the brutal headwinds. And that I had a couple of those beers I was so keen on after she bought us a sixer of Boulevard Pale before we stopped on the lower deck of the Central Avenue Bridge.

But without those notes, I don't even remember the wind. I remember meeting a couple of the homeless guys I ate dinner with the other night, and I remember some of the things I saw that made me stop and reach for the camera.

I got a bunch of other trophies I got before the safari was over.