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Wednesday |
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| Dead squirrel in back alley, fur plastered to pavement by rain was a bad omen, then Michael lost his contact up his eyeball over breakfast. After watching the sockeye pick their way up the current at Chittendon Locks we took turns rolling down the grassy steppe. Michael was the first to roll today and the last after glugalugging the last of the second bottle of Bigfoot Chardonnay. He strapped helmet in place and charged down steep and bumpy Gasworks hill to see the dancers, resulting in a multiple somersault endo which dug up 15 yards of divots with Sarah's recently refurbushed Trek 330 and caused an eyewitness kid to exclaim it was better than the X Games. He cracked the helmet and pretzeled the rear wheel but lived to tell about it over Fat Tire pitchers at the Pacific Inn and managed not to mangle the mango in his pocket. | ||||
