Downhill

 I “raced” in this year’s 26th annual Dead Baby Downhill; according to my t-shirt stash, this is the 17th time I’ve done so.  (“Racing” for me entails trying to get going as quickly as possible after the Roman candle explosions mark the start of the event, so I can be near the front at first and enjoy being passed by racer after racer after rider, thereby enjoying seeing as many friends and acquaintances as possible along the way.)

As always, the event was a blast, the high point of the summer bicycle social scene (such as it is—or isn’t) and as is not unprecedented, I think I was a little too overexuberant in my celebrations, so that for a good part of the evening, I merely sat quietly by my bicycle, with eyes closed waiting until I felt confident in my ability to make it home safely—which, I’m pleased to say, I did—for the 17th time running (or, that is, riding).

Kudos to the organizers and all the volunteers, and the Chaotic Noise Brigade and other performers for pulling it off with such joy and aplomb.  The world may be going to hell in the proverbial handbasket, but it’s nice to know that, along the way, there can still be times like this when collective action by disparate individuals makes for shared delight all around.  

Perhaps it is, as they say, a case of merely rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic, but you’ve got to admire how lovingly those chairs have been set up and how joyous is the musical accompaniment.  If it comes to it, I’ll go down with this ship, no problem.

The weather was ideal, the route spectacular, and the hilltop starting point under the airport flight path accessible via light rail without climbing at all.   Is there any way things could have been better?  

Maybe only if I’d have stayed awake a little longer and seen a little more.