The Long Way Home

We rode out on a levy on the way home. Riding a levy means riding a gravel road, and that's a surface I'm still learning to love. Gravel roads are made out of the shit you're supposed to sweep off a proper road.

Last winter, it seemed like every time we did one of these I was getting flats and finding little shards of flint or ceramic type stuff that had worked its way through the Kevlar in my Hardcase tires. It happened so much, I got to dreading gravel roads for more than the slipsy-doodle factor.

The experience was part of how I talked myself into buying overpriced bike tires, tires supposedly even more bomb-proof and invincible than those Hardcase Race Lites were.

I'm pretty sure, now that I think about it, that all the shards I found on half a dozen flats were eerily similar. As if they came from the same source. Say, a shattered ceramic tile I ran over some night without even realizing it. Those pieces could have worked their way through the tire at different paces and caused the series of flats. The pieces were small enough to be easily missed on a roadside tire inspection, and those tires were about cut to ribbons by the time I retired them (after over 3,300 miles).

Anyway, now that I stubbornly bought the single malt Scotch of touring tires, when Corinna suggests a jaunt on a levy, I figure I should do it. It's what I bought these Vectran-belted suckers for, right?

And the things you see down a levy road are worth even a flat tire.

We swung through the West Bottoms first, checking out the buffalo and what I think is claimed to be native tall-grass prairie, though I suspect it's just a bunch of invasive species run amok.

Maybe running amok is the idea anyway...

We saw the least original restaurant name I've ever seen, bar none. A hot dog joint called 'Franks' including an idiotic "TM" as if someone was gong to steal this genius brand. I miss Waldo's Wurst Wieners.

There was also plenty of home decor on offer in the Westside neighborhood before we even got to the Bottoms.

Including a plaque about the oldest park in the city. I had no idea, I've ridden past it a few times, thought it was more like a median strip. Named for a character with the unfortunate name of Andrew Drip.

The light was amazing, though low enough it dictated a tripod for most shots.

Some of the tags we saw were pretty awesome. It's kind of a shame that some of this art is so tricky to access. But then, if it were in a museum, a lot of the same people wouldn't bother to seek it out.

I'm sure the West Bottoms Renaissance will come to pass, though: you can't not love the view of the river at sunset, and there's no place out in the burbs you can close a day out with a vision like this.