I love the smell of napalm in the....wait, wrong movie. This is my life, no surfing (yet). Just a scene repeated since last Wednesday---no need to get up and go to work. So what calls at 10:00am? A ride on the Capital Crescent Trail. Hey, it's in-between rain squalls at the moment.
The trail is great at 10:00am on a Thursday. Just a few biker superheroes, some joggers (and one damned fast, honest-to-God runner who I think might have been running at about the pace I was riding), and assorted others ambling along with, as Chuck Berry sings "no particular place to go".
Before I knew it, I was down at the boat houses in Georgetown, watching the 'ere-do well skulking around the skulling hulls and tuning up for their mid-day rides on the Potomac. We're all hoping for just a little more time without rain.
On the way back, once I left the trail, I snaked through some neighborhoods just on the Maryland side of Western Ave. I wanted to avoid Massachussetts Avenue as they are working on the road just east of where the CCT trail crosses. Due to the construction, there's only one lane going up a steep hill, and I didn't feel like being "that jackass on the bike" holding everyone up as I inched up the incline. So I ducked into some fetching side streets to try and connect back to Western and over towards Tenleytown.
Tucked away on Allan Drive, amidst the familiar brick colonials and bungalow houses, wow! A house like the cover of Yes albums circa nineteen-mega-ballad. It was huge and gray and, well, not a right angle in site. It's like when Eddie Murphy, as detective Axel Foley in Beverly Hills Cop II, "steals" a house by pretending to be a building inspector. He shouts to the workers: "Stop! Stop working! Didn't you all see the revised plans? The homeowners don't want a right angle on this whole place. If they want to live in a donut, that's their perogative". So was the visage before me. A house that was the very mist itself; part oversized hobbit hovel, part Lego set piece that no-one knows how to use.
The trail is great at 10:00am on a Thursday. Just a few biker superheroes, some joggers (and one damned fast, honest-to-God runner who I think might have been running at about the pace I was riding), and assorted others ambling along with, as Chuck Berry sings "no particular place to go".
Before I knew it, I was down at the boat houses in Georgetown, watching the 'ere-do well skulking around the skulling hulls and tuning up for their mid-day rides on the Potomac. We're all hoping for just a little more time without rain.
On the way back, once I left the trail, I snaked through some neighborhoods just on the Maryland side of Western Ave. I wanted to avoid Massachussetts Avenue as they are working on the road just east of where the CCT trail crosses. Due to the construction, there's only one lane going up a steep hill, and I didn't feel like being "that jackass on the bike" holding everyone up as I inched up the incline. So I ducked into some fetching side streets to try and connect back to Western and over towards Tenleytown.
Tucked away on Allan Drive, amidst the familiar brick colonials and bungalow houses, wow! A house like the cover of Yes albums circa nineteen-mega-ballad. It was huge and gray and, well, not a right angle in site. It's like when Eddie Murphy, as detective Axel Foley in Beverly Hills Cop II, "steals" a house by pretending to be a building inspector. He shouts to the workers: "Stop! Stop working! Didn't you all see the revised plans? The homeowners don't want a right angle on this whole place. If they want to live in a donut, that's their perogative". So was the visage before me. A house that was the very mist itself; part oversized hobbit hovel, part Lego set piece that no-one knows how to use.
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