Moveitfred unloaded the bikes and then leaned against Sexy Minivan with a cup o joe and watched the hoards arrive while the painfully slow process of registration, filling tires, and figuring out there to stash the lunch tickets ensued.
For many attempting this dash to the east end this is the one and only bike ride of the year. This is a ride where one can literally spot spongy housewives dabbing spider webs off their bikes with tissue. Also, plenty of this: a dude pulled in next to Moveitfred in an Escalade with a spotless Madone strapped to the back. He told his buds across the lot that he "just got it" the previous night over at the local Trek-n-Go across town. Man, Moveitfred'd like Trek dude's cash register take day before this thing. Moveitfred would buy a shithole in the mountains and leave all y'all the fuck to figure out what to do with this world....
But, back to business. Moveitfred got his crew stable and relatively pleased before inching out of the lot. One of the most terrifying 5 minutes of Moveitfred's life was negotiating Sexy Minivan out of that lot as dozens of once-a-year bikers wobbled around and compared chainring tattoos. But y'know, good for them and their fat asses.
Moveitfred got home to rouse the kids and figure out how to pack Sexy Minivan for the ride out east. He saw the note left by Mrs. Moveitfred that contained these words:
"Don't forget the brie."
Are you fucking kidding Moveitfred? The brie? Sometimes Moveitfred thinks there must have been a moment in time he completely missed when his life took a radical about-face.
Reluctantly Moveitfred packed the brie, his bike, and all the beer he could squeeze into the cooler, threw the kids in the car, and drove. Long drive short, Moveitfred did the Hamptons Crawl for much of the drive before finally arriving at the end point, but not The End, where Mrs. Moveitfred would conclude the pedalfest.
Brie intact.
When Mrs. Moveitfred triumphantly arrived at the beach Moveitfred gave her a peck on the cheek, the keys to the car, and notification that Moveitfred was about to unload his very red Serotta and be gone "a long time." The clambake/briefest beach bingo would have to go on without our hero.
Moveitfred's intention was simple. He wanted to kill a couple of hours roaming around the east tip of things until it was about time to pack up and head home. Pretty much sums up how Moveitfred rolls. And along the way he saw incredible things.
First significant stop, the bar at the Memory Motel for a beer.
Moveitfred can't think of a time he's ever stopped mid-ride for said beverage, but figured the Memory Motel was just as good as any place to do it. A few crusties and surfer types swilling as well, but in the end not as significant as Moveitfred thought it might be. He can't be faulted for imagining a life-changing experience, can he?
Next, another lengthy stop on the sunshiny bluff at Camp Hero where a shitload of fish were getting murdered.
Cheap sucks onshore couldn't reach them.
After nearly passing out and tumbling off the bluffs to his death, Moveitfred roused himself from his buzzed half-life snooze and back on the wheels. He continued out to what the natives call "The End"--that point of symbolic entitlement that says you have reached the conclusion of all that matters--and then latched onto the tailwind for a spirited hammerfest back to Hither Hills.
Where, thankfully, the brie already had been consumed and most of the crowd had dispersed. There's your end of summer.
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