Went to the Welcome Home Heather party at Bicycle Works in San Anselmo, all dressed up.
There were three or four people working on bikes, (or chilling) but no suspenseful surprise party atmosphere.
“Am I too early for Heather’s surprise?”
“That was last week”.
Rode back into the black evening. Even half-deaf, the cricket racket reaches me as I glide along on my Breezer. My silk polka-dot smoking jacket billows behind.
Oh, how can life get any better than this?
Guess I’ll check out the bicycle speakeasy, where celebrations take place behind closed doors.
Tonight, the door was thrown open, so I was able to cruise into the standing throng without dismounting, but a gruff man blocked my ingress.
“Private party.” Guy isn’t a cop, but he sure acts like one.
But I don’t care! My career was based on crashing a seemingly private party.
Something about the NOT ALLOWEDness of it.
I can count on winning enough of ’em over with my …uh…glamorousity? Partisanship? Particularity? Party of the first part?
Something like that.
So I just dismounted and parked the bike in the back, the way my friend MM who owns the place intended.
This evening, Murph was not to be found–our local bike club was hosting a low key celebration of trail building . The IMBA crew is in town co-ordinating two dozen volunteers to improve the Olema trail up in Pt. Reyes.
I will be there, having enjoyed their party and all…