Once again, home

I rode my bike home from the University for the first time this year tonite.

You bicycle and motorcyle riders out there will agree with me when I say that riding a bike or a "bike" gives you prime access to the smells.  Be it hot asphalt, fresh hay, the smell of a river at night, or that ethereal smell of alpine fir at the top of a mountain pass - you get it in a way that those poor folk in their cars never experience.

The Burke-Gilman trail runs along the Ship Canal for much of its path from the University to the marina.  And for much of that length, it is fresh water in the Ship Canal.

But once I pass the Locks, it's salt water on my left.

And when I do pass the locks, the smell of the sea, high tide or low, makes an electric connection with my soul.  I know I've written about it before, but tonite it was a new experience all over again.  When I smell the salt water, it is an overwhelming feeling of  home.

Once again, home

The absolutely last, final bike ride home

Last nite I rode my bike home.

End of the road

Now, that in itself is not at all unusual - I do it all summer, and most of spring and fall.  In early spring and late fall, I don't make the entire ride - I ride from Shilshole to the Ballard Locks, and put my bike on the rack on the front of the bus - this is enough of a ride to be invigorating, and it keeps Jane from having to fire up The Beast just to deliver/pick me up at the end of the bus route.

But last nite, the bus didn't come.  I don't know what it is with the 46, but it seems to be the most unreliable bus in the system.  So there I stood at the bus stop last nite, with my bike, waiting for a bus that never came.  "No problem!" I thought, "I'll just hop on my bike and ride home!"  Having the bike does give you a great feeling of freedom.  So I coasted down The Av and turned right onto the Burke-Gillman trail.

Whoops.  

Things are certainly different from the last time I rode the trail, earlier in the year.  There are leaves everywhere - slippery, wet leaves.  As a thin sheet covering everything, and in wet, sloppy drifts that try to grab your wheel and pull it out from under you.

And it is dark.  I mean really dark - the trail is not lit, and so the only light is what filters in from nearby street lighting.  And my little headlight?  Well, it is more of a "please don't hit me" light, warning oncoming traffic that I am there.  It does almost nothing to illuminate the route.

There is not much traffic - bikes or pedestrians.  But what there is, is a real problem.  Many of the oncoming bikes have headlights that are seemingly as bright as car headlights - they blind me...  to the trail, and more importantly, to the pedestrians.

The pedestrians and joggers are the real concern - they are very difficult to see (why do so many wear black coats?!) - literally impossible to see if there is an oncoming bike with one of those very bright lights.  But blessings be upon you pedestrians/joggers that have retro-reflective stripes on your outer clothing!  My flashing headlight makes those stripes flash back at me, as if they were internally illuminated.  Those stripes really work!

It is a good thing that I have ridden the trail so much in daylight - there are several places where the trail curves and where it is simultaneously very dark.  Without the daytime familiarity, and with only my weak "don't hit me" headlight, I am certain that I would have been off in the weeds (or worse, splash!) in one of these corners.

I have two criteria that I use to determine whether or not I'll leave the boat on my bicycle in the morning:

• Can I get to the bus stop reasonably dry?  I don't want to start the day in wet clothing, and
• Is there frost on the dock?  I don't want to start the day in clothing wet with saltwater either.

So, aside from the scary dark experience last nite, those two criteria are closing in.   I am hereby declaring that the biking season over, for me anyway.  The bike goes into storage this weekend.

And the skis come out.

The absolutely last, final bike ride home

Evening in paradise

We live in a wonderful place.

Jane met me at Ray's Boathouse for happy hour after work - she walked and I arrived by bicycle from the University of Washington.

Can you imagine having half-price drinks and half-price entrees in a setting like this and then walking home?

Yeah.

Evening in paradise

Olfactory, meet Limbic

Scientists who study these things tell us that the olfactory lobe of our brains - where the sense of smell derives - is closely connected to our limbic systems - the seat of emotions.  I have no doubt of this, nor should you.  All it would take is one whiff of your high-school sweetheart's chosen perfume, and all the uncertainty, self consciousness and confusion of those times would return to you in a rush.  And women are very much aware of this.  (Ladies: if you would render him helpless, find out what perfume his high school sweetheart wore and use it yourself - he'll never know what hit him).

Of course, I can have no way of knowing if this would work with the gender roles reversed.  But if it did, what would the guys do - try to obtain a pair of sweaty gym socks from her high school sweetheart?  (I think you see why I am not much of a success at matchmaking.)

I was struck by the close connection between the olfactory and limbic systems again tonight, while riding my bicycle home from the University.  As I have written before, just as I came to the Locks, the smell of seawater (yes, it really does have a distinct smell)  filled my nose.  And my emotions rose.  I stopped pedaling like a crazy man in some kind of race and slowed down.  I was overcome with a kind of calm, relaxed  joy.  The emotion that filled me (and it *did* fill me) was one of wonderful homecoming, like you got in college when you returned home for Christmas break. 

Do you feel it too when you go to the sea?  And where does this come from?  Is it a harkening back to our early origins?  Is it the emotional equivalent of the fact that the composition of our blood is almost exactly that of seawater?  I don't think we can know, since emotion is beyond reason.  But I do know that, living on the water as I do, I get to experience this every single night.  It never grows old - it's been happening to me now for 11 years, since we moved Eolian out to Shilshole.  And it is wonderful.  Absolutely and indescribably wonderful.

So guys, maybe you could take advantage of this.  Instead of the old gym socks, you might want to go with a judicious application of seaweed, rubbing a little behind each ear.

Let me know how it works out for you.

Olfactory, meet Limbic

At a certain point

When the weather allows, I use my bike for my commute from the University of Washington. It is about a 6-mile trip, so it is not a terribly taxing ride, but when it is warm, it seems that it is a long hot pull up on Shilshole Avenue in Ballard to the intersection at 24^th. I am always hot when I get there. Thankfully, that is the highest point between Ballard and the marina, so from there it is level or slightly down hill.

That is, once I leave Ballard heading west, the character of the ride changes - it is more relaxed, more easy going.

And at a certain point, at the Locks, there is a not-so-subtle change. The smell of the air changes from baked asphalt, mown grass, dust, and becomes scented with the sea.

There is nothing like it.

Scientists say that your olfactory lobe is wired deeply, back into the more primitive parts of your brain. I believe it. I know that the first whiff of the sea brings a relaxation in my neck and shoulders, a little smile, and often an involuntary sigh. And an emotional lift. The thought, "I am home," with all the connotations of belonging, of comfort, of contentment washes over me. Whatever problems I have had at work fade away right there.

I admit it: I am a slave to my olfactory lobe.

At a certain point

Final Thursday

Last Thursday, we rushed off the dock right after I got home from work (delayed, unfortunately, by a blowout on my bicycle tire) - across the Sound to Port Madison. Nevertheless, we barely had the anchor down and dinner started and it was dark. Not "city street" dark, *DARK*. There are no streetlights on the water. This will have to be the final Thursday run to Port Madison this year.

Dinner was fabulous, if a little sad because of this (I always get maudlin at the passing of the summer). Jane picked all the crab we still had in the freezer (it was getting a little old), and I made crab cakes - yum!

Crab Cakes

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• Pick the meat from 5 or 6 medium rock crabs
• Add two eggs
• Crunch up a half a line of saltines or so and add it
  
• Add a big blob of mayonnaise
• Season with Old Bay or shrimp boil (my favorite), or...
• Mix it all up completely
  

Spoon the mixture into a hot pan with a tablespoon or so of olive oil, shaping it into patties - pat them down until they are perhaps 1/2" thick. Fry until they are golden brown on each side.

Makes 4 6-8" diameter crab cakes

Other things you might consider adding to the mix:

• chopped celery
• chopped bell pepper
• squeeze in a clove or two of garlic
• chopped dill weed

Final Thursday