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Subject: Friday Ride Rpt.: The Blue Angels
I know I'm late, but it was too cool an adventure to use the New Short Ride
Report form.
Instant Balkanization
The players were El Jefe, Muleman, Shed-nooky, Walt, the Professor and moi.
It was apparent that it was going to be a diffuse ride, the Easterners
professing a desire to head south in honor of Fleet Week, while the
Moronites
determined that they were best suited for the rigors of Boy Scout. (Rumor
has
it they almost saw a topless person, but that can't be proven.)
Our quest was Slacker Hill and a ringside seat for the famous Angels of
Blue.
Walt joined Muleman and me as we took the easiest route south. I can't
recall
much about the journey to Mountain Home. Perhaps nothing happened. Perhaps
I
am into denial.
>From there, down to PipeLine and the first coffee break at the rock
on Diaz
Ridge. (That's what it's become for me; blissed out journeys from one view
rock to the next. In fact, I am going to write a guide book entitled
"Inspirational Rocks I May Have Visited.")
At Tennessee Valley, Walt split for parts unknown, and Muleman and I climbed
Big Springs. We paused for reconnoitering and repast at the rock overlooking
Rodeo Valley, (a first for me,) and contemplated the hill of our dreams.
Slacker Hill or Bust?
Certainly a good question. Our destination, though impressive, was neither
skinny nor long, so you won't have to read about "ejaculations"
like last
time. As a matter of fact, it was kind of a nice big soft mound-thing with
bi-planes spurting out the top. Clearly a case of projectile lactation.**
More accurately, it was premature projectile lactation, since it was
obviously the same Big Air Show that we had been seekingand it hadn't
waited
for us.
We were disenchanted, Muleman vocally so, and underwent further
balkanization
in Rodeo Valley, leaving only me to complete the pilgrimage to Slacker Hill.
(That had advantages, for no one will ever know if I was able to clear the
last hill. Certainly not me.)
Though the show was apparently over, the view was magnificent. The bay was
littered with boats and there was a light breeze in the nearly clear air;
I
lingered awhile. After three quarters of an hour, I came to my senses, and
as
I prepared to depart, I encountered some guys who told me the show was about
to start. What Muleman and I had witnessed from the other ridge had not
been
the Blue Angels. Some other air show. Canadians maybe.
Showtime!
What took place next was indescribable. The show began with some heady
maneuvers by a 4 engined prop-driven transport. Then six Phantom F-18
fighters, (the Professor will correct me on this,) roared onto the stage.
Slacker hill was a prop in the play, as stunting planes regrouped to the
north, and screamed over the top and down to the bay. A couple of times
they
must have been only 50-75 yards from my position. That was a lot of proximal
power, and I about exploded from it all. I know it's not PC; but you would
have had to be dead not to have been blown away by the brute forces involved
as those boys drove their toys around the sky. Faster even than el Jefe.
After the show I took stock: 26 miles gone, 4:00PM, and a waiting family.
So,
I took the bike path back. Fortunately I had carefully debriefed the
Professor about the best bike path north of Blythdale, and thoroughly
studied
every aspect of the map provided by Muleman. Fortified thusly, I got lost,
and had to backtrack to do the road over the hill from Mill Valley to Corte
Madera.
What were we talking about?
Stats:
46 miles
4700'
** During the research phase for this part, (and at the bottom of a long
hill,) I got Mt. Val to give me a long discourse on the possibilities for
sympathetic lactation among women. Her previous extraordinary knowledge
about
the uses of dental dams suggested she would have the answer I needed. I
both
satisfied my curiosity, (no possibilities,) and was able to hang with Mt.
Val
a bit longer than usual. (An old roady's trick ask someone to "tell
me a
little about yourself" at the bottom of a hill.)
Respectfully submitted,
Franco