Over Eastlake and Through the Hill

Musings of a mustachioed cyclist on New Year's, "Even San Francisco's messengers moan at Seattle's hills." That the frequent routes there are not in the most mountainous portion of the city I could not confirm, however after climbing Seattle's unavoidable hills every day I'm inclined to believe it.

Yesterday's trek: Downtown to the U-District and through Eastlake, up to Capitol Hill down to Georgetown and back up into Downtown. I could definitely feel the effects of the muscle atrophying snow and the corpulence of the holiday feasts in the climb up Roanoke.

Behind Gage Academy of Art I discovered a homeless man relieving himself while enjoying the hillside view of Lake Union. On a nearby bench was a pair of sneakers, one 30 year old bicycle tire and a sack lunch. After a polite conversation that ended in a din of accusation and counter-accusation, I managed to convince him that I was not a prophet nor had I any intention of stealing his food and I promptly fled the scene.

Off Broadway I may have managed to scare a few pedestrians with the cut of my jib and a caricature of Henry Waxman's 'mustache of justice' that is affixed to my bag, but wishful thinking makes me listless.

A. Reprieve

Apropos I should write this as Seattle is about to incur one of the mightiest arctic drafts in recent memory.

Bear witness readers. Canada is about to break wind and we on two wheels are ready to issue a collective shudder.

After a full year of cycling in this city and brief encounters with its bicycle elite, I have decided to throw some swill up against an electronic wall and hope for divinity or perhaps a free lunch.

Certainly there are enough jabbering bearded sycophants typing rubbish about which latest cog will launch participants into prostatic heights.
I'll be limiting myself to just the jabbering, bearded part.

This is about Seattle and those with enough grit to ride in it.

So ladies and germs, pack on your thermal underwear and some worn mittens.

For tonight, we ride.