The collective expressing a need for long strides and a break from the waxed table, we look again to the North. In better-late-than-never fashion, we manage to chainlink the pitstops together. The Good King, the EBMB, and I gather for some air and then it is off to meet the ninja hiding in the Pen Park roses. With the EBMB setting a breakneck pace, we skirt the overlook and arrive under the hedge-arches of Leisure before anyone can say Portway. Zulu’s truck arrives just in time to follow us in. Trivia night aftermath has the windows fogged and a line at the bar. Out on the porch, the blanketed Georgie and Bernadette sit blissfully removed from the din. We happily join in with whiskeys and a pitcher. Good stories and bad jokes and then back on the bikes. The EBMB goes blistering again, as we head for the Radio Room. Some hooligan stuntman cartwheels out into the road with a growl and we offer some kind applause as we speed off. Over the skybridge and through the Adidas campus. I slip and bash in the corkscrew bridge, but stay upright somehow. We find the Radio in full swing, and the Leech waiting at the bar. After a brief screen test of the swanky booths, we gather at the firepit. Wit and circumstance amd turqouise front and back just behind the glass. The bell tolls for me and the Chairman and we speed off home. Wilshire jokes in the sendoff. Alameda Bitchslap a bit wet and dodgy. A bit of a chore to get home by 12:15, but I get it done. The rest remain until nearly one, staying on to ponder the wisdom crackling in the early morning fire.