Zulu and the EBMB legged it south to my place for the cold, beautiful ride down the dark corridor to the Black Cat. Three old American 22-footers, all looking like people had been dancing on them with sandpaper shoes. Throwing a puck was stiff labor. It felt like hammering a weight up the strongman’s pole at the circus. Steep fall off both rails and a lean to the south trims down play a bit, but there is plenty of excitement to go around. Ample dose of hangers and notables. So, we hadn’t been there and now we have. Curiosity killed. Off to Hal’s. Ride through the Corridor was a cold undertaking. Kong’s stalwart bike effort here, and throughout the night is worth a mention. Rolling into Hal’s after a one year hiatus. Have to wait while tiny dress and the sidearm jenny play slow and easy. The table is just plain aces. “Scrappy has come home.” Smooth. Sade operator smooth. Regular Hal’s tour stop in the TFC rota? Owen departs gracefully. Horsebrass for whiskeys? Yes. Where’s Scott? Halfway there already. Roll in through the tunnel and lock up to wrought iron scroll gate. In through the door next to the meat fan. Table in the corner. Bass ale has been sitting a piece, but the whiskey is just fine. Contemplate the games. The kielbasa rush is over. “Its already early!” said the hat to the gloves. Martin and Scott escape east. Sousley and I head South into the long, peaceful, and very cold. Goodnight, good morning, and good luck.