So Fuzzy decided to do a little field research instead of riding with the TNR crew. We need some
new ideas on how to party on a ride, he says. There is a group in Calistoga who call themselves
the bikin’ fools, and each month they do a full moon ride without lights. Now Fuzzy has ridden on
one other full moon ride (FMR) with the bikin’ fools, so he knew that he was getting into deep
partyin’ territory. The fools have not missed a FMR in twenty years, so they know what they’re
doing.
I arrived at the meeting place at 6:35pm. It’s called “the shop” and it’s a big warehouse in
downtown Calistoga that the fools own or rent, I don’t know. People are working on their bikes in
the shop, drinking beer, and smoking cigarettes and pot. I get Sparticus ready and pass around
some of that alcohol-and-caffeine stuff. The flask holder gets a lot of attention. There is going to
be a free flow of partying information and techniques to and from the TNR. Almost half of the
bikin’ fools are wearing fuzzy duds, and who do you think introduced fuzzy duds to the bikin’
fools?
We get started at about 7pm. Eric A.D. (the chief bikin’ fool) tells me that we’re going to ride from
Calistoga to St. Helena on an old railroad grade. I stick close to A.D. and we get on a paved bike
path. But wait, confusion already! We started out with 13 riders, but A.D.’s group is only about 5.
“I think they went to the Cali Inn,” Shaun says. We have been riding for less than 3 minutes. A.D.
gets on the phone and confirms, yes, they’re at the Calistoga Inn. We head back to the town and
throw our bikes in a pile in front of the Inn. Pitchers of beer have already been poured. After
making sure that everyone had a beer, the fools head out to their bikes.
We head back to the bike path. Now when Fuzzy says that the bikin’ fools do their FMRs without
lights, he doesn’t mean that they turn off their lights. They don’t BRING any lights. NOBODY
brings lights. There are no lights.
I’m near the head of the pack and after a quarter mile I look back and there’s a police cruiser with
full lights-a-flashing at the bike path “trailhead”. Several of the bikin’ fools have been stopped.
The cop uses his loudspeaker to call us back. “You guys out there come back,” or something like
that. One of the fools next to me says, “I’m not going back there,” and Fuzzy agrees, having
been well trained in such matters. We proceed along the bike path and call A.D., who is with the
cop, on the cell phone. He eventually answers and says, “it’s not good, he’s probably going to
come after you.”
“Let’s go into Sterling Vineyards, that’s out of his jurisdiction,” one of my group says. We head
into the winery grounds and wait for A.D. After ten minutes, the unfortunate group joins back with
us. The cop told them that the bike path was closed at night. He asked them to turn around, and
then told them that he wouldn’t stop them from doing what he didn’t see, and that included
smoking pot.
Finally the ride gets under way in earnest. By now it’s totally overcast. Up ‘till now Fuzzy has
avoided doing a FMR in cloudy or rainy weather. Now I am wondering why. There’s no problem
seeing. A.D. says that the light is even better when it’s overcast, because it’s so diffuse. What’s
it like? Everything is dull-silver-grey. The other riders are amorphous grey forms. It feels quiet,
and your heartbeat is much slower than normal, even if you’re riding fast. All objects appear to
be as soft as a young woman’s skin. You feel engulfed in softness and you’re barely aware of the
bike under you.
We’re riding in a vineyard. Right between the rows of bare vines. I ask A.D. if this is still Sterling
Vineyards, and he says, “I doubt it.” We pass harvesting equipment, oak barrels, barns, and big
houses with lit windows and barking dogs. Suddenly the group in front of me is looking like a
mime troupe. They are pretending to throw their bikes over an invisible fence, and they are doing
a damn good job of pantomime. Each rider stops in front of the nothingness, holds his bike way
up in the air, places it on the “other side”, and pretends to gingerly climb over something.
I reach the group and still don’t see anything. I get off my bike and when I’m 2 inches away from
the barbed wire fence, I finally see it. Note to self: DO NOT, UNDER ANY CIRMCUMSTANCES,
ATTEMPT TO LEAD THIS GROUP. Always be directly behind someone on a no-lights ride, even
on the fire roads. We then climb under three or four tubular metal fences, sliding our bikes under.
Then climb over a big metal cattle-type fence. Someone says, “We’re at Hans Cornell vineyards.”
Suddenly I realize that we’re riding all the way from Calistoga to St. Helena through vineyards.
“Where’s the railroad grade?” I ask A.D. “Well, we took a few wrong turns, but we actually rode
on it a little. It’s hard to tell the difference between that and the other roads,” he says.
Everybody seems to know where to go, but everybody has a different idea. There are many
disagreements on the best way to get through each vineyard. At one point I see a sparkler
(fireworks) fizzling on the side of the trail. Five minutes later, we’re riding along and suddenly,
fireworks. Big fireworks. Roman candles or some such things shooting out from the vines. Kevin
releases them as he rides. “Oh dear,” A.D. says, nervously admitting that he doesn’t have full
control of the group.
Safety break. Lots of beer, pot, and of course Fuzzy’s rum.
Hike-a-bike. Yes, on a flat ride. We have to hike down into some kind of channel and then back
up the rocky banks. It’s so steep that several people fall over backwards going up. I’ve never
been on a ride with A.D. that did not include some gnarly hike-a-bike.
Flat tire. Goat heads. More beer, pot, rum. Michelle (he’s a French guy) and I take a nap.
More pantomime games. Different shaped invisible fences become different shaped real fences.
Watch the barbed wire on the fuzzy duds. Crawl under, crawl over, barking dogs, man with
flashlight, vines, vines, vines.
Finally we pick up route 29 for the last mile. Again, no lights. Strange feeling. We arrive at the
Silverado brew pub, which has unfortunately stopped serving dinner. We get pitchers, lots of
pitchers. Mike takes out a tremendous slab of smoked salmon and it gets passed around.
Someone takes out some cheese and passes it around. Someone else takes out some ham and
passes it around. Then the waitress comes with enough bread to feed the entire population of
Romania. One of the fools, a cute guy, starts flirting with a woman, I think a waitress who just
went off duty, and she looks like real interested, and suffice it to say that there’s now one less guy
on the ride.
A.D. tells the waitress about the monthly FMR, and she gets into a long discussion about the
moon, etc, and comes outside to check out our bikes. Give her a day’s notice, she says, and
she’ll make sure that next time dinner is ready for us whenever we arrive. Meanwhile people
keep ordering pitchers and I just can’t drink any more. Until, that is, Matt calls us up to the bar to
have shots of tequila. Damn, can’t resist.
We’re about to leave, finally, but Michelle discovers he has a flat. Hang out for another 15
minutes, and finally we’re ready to roll. It’s 11:15pm, and the ride is half over.
On the way back we have better luck finding the railroad grade. Some serious hammering is
going on. Remember, no lights. You’re pedaling as hard as you can and there are grey blobs
ahead of you, and they don’t seem to change position … until they get to one of those invisible
fences.
Fences, fences, fences. Suddenly you come upon bikes strewn about on the ground – a crash?
No, a safety break. No rush, folks. Lay down and enjoy it.
More hike-a-bike.
Lots of laughing. Never laughed so much. Don’t remember what about.
Arrived back at the shop at 1:15am. Home by 2:30am.
There is no better way to say FUCK YOU to the real world, to your job, the boring details of your
life. We’re bathing in that womanly glow, we’re riding inside a silver-grey dream world, we’re
riding right through our own dreams.
FUZZY