After reading the valiant reports from a distant, yet familiar 2009, I opted for bravery against the heavy rain. Cold east winds and sloppy roads did what they could to detract from Alameda’s majestics as I skirted the ridge, but the rediscovered truth of a bracing night cycle won out. Fixed gear spinning down through the golf course mini bitchslap and up to meet the prepackers in wait. After peeling off the drenched layers and taking my seat at the friendly anachronism of the Vintage, i examined the dry folks sipping next to me. Wise choice, of course, to opt for carbon and avoid the hassles of wet shoes, glove, hat, beard. However, my Old Forrester 1870 neat seemed all the better for the work. The sip of Swan’s Manhattan (made W.L. Weller, scrappy’s, two other bitters, and a house made tincture) was divine. The pack sufficiently pre’d, we stumbled over to Montavilla Station where rock music and shuiffleboard awaited. Dubz and Vic stretched their honors for three before falling. Bezzo returned, albeit hobbled by yet another knock. Outside the cold rain never relented. Roscoe’s provided the necessary night cap of craft pints, hush puppies, and catfish. Talk of 2009, campaign hopefuls, and Lemmy/Bowie remembered. As the rest peeled off dry in their heated motor coaches, I put my wet gear back on, my earbuds in, and rode until the wool underneath could wick no more. Gome by schmidnight thirty. Lay the sopping togs on the rail to dry and dissolve into the dreamland of the accomplished.