Maquis Post
Adjacent to my apartment complex is a bowling alley.
Actually, they call it a casino. I guess it’s owned by Indians. I’m not really sure how that works, but those things seem to be all over the place around here. As far as I can tell, it’s a bowling alley on a normal street corner, but they call it a casino on account of some card tables upstairs. I’ve been to Vegas and I’ve been to Atlantic City, and this joint does not fit my standard definition of “casino.” I mean, there’s nary a blinking light or plentiful buffet to be found. But I’ll come back to that place in a minute.
Since moving to Seattle, I have attempted to get myself in shape by riding my bicycle. The city, after all, has a reputation for being very bike-friendly, and since we don’t have the humidity or sinus-crushing pollen that kept me from venturing outdoors back on the east coast, I figured I’d give it a shot.
What many people don’t realize — okay, I don’t know how many people don’t, but I didn’t — is that Seattle is in the mountains. It’s very hilly here. So while there may be better accomodations for bikes on the roads and in the many public parks, the fact is that you have to be pretty serious about biking to take advantage of it. By that, I mean you have to be able to handle incredibly steep hills without collapsing in a sweaty, wheezing heap of blubber. I’m not quite there yet. Maybe I can get there someday, but that day is not today.
My grandmother actually got me a pretty nice bike rack for Christmas a couple of years ago, but the best efforts of me and at least three other people (one of whom holds a Masters degree in Automotive Bike Rack Studies from MIT) were unable to get the thing attached safely to my vehicle. So carting the thing to a flat area also doesn’t seem to be an option at this point, unless I want to disassemble and reassemble the thing each morning, like a Marine would do with his rifle. Again, maybe someday I’ll be ready for that level of commitment. But I’m still just at the beginner phase here, like I said.
So that brings me back to this bowling alley. Casino. Whatever.
I noticed that they had a nice, flat parking lot that tended to be empty in the early hours of the morning. I took my car over and drove a complete circle and discovered that it’s exactly a tenth of a mile around — perfect for measured laps on the ol’ $50 Target bike. So, following a recent trip back home to Maryland (during which my family not-very-graciously informed me that I was approaching Orson Welles levels of girth), I felt sufficiently shamed into finally beginning an exercise regimen. I headed to the parking lot on a mostly-daily basis and I started small, with 10 laps (a mile).
I eventually worked myself up to 20 laps before I got distracted and stopped. It’s not that it was too hard, it’s just that I distract easily. I must have seen a shiny object. Or, more likely, it rained one morning, breaking my routine and causing me to direct my attention elsewhere, ultimately forgetting I even had one in the first place. Hey, it’s not easy living inside this skull, all right?
A month or so passes and I realize I need to get back on it. So I climb on the bike and head for the parking lot…
…only to find that the gap in the fence that used to allow me access to it has now been blocked with a concrete post. Pedestrians can still navigate their way around, but it’s no go for the likes of me and my bicycle.
There must be some reason why they chose to put this post there, and I’m trying really hard to think of one that doesn’t point to them being jerks who want me to fail. Or at least, you know, not wanting me to lurk around their parking lot. Because, you know, the parking lot of a bowling alley/casino is a hopping place at 7AM. I might scare away customers.
The only other thing that really makes sense is Red Man’s Revenge. I encroached on their land and their natural cultural instinct was to retaliate. And you know, I think I could probably live with that explanation, except for the fact that every time I’ve stuck my head into Nameless Casino, it’s been populated entirely with elderly Russians. So, I suppose the real question is: why does the Russian mob want me to stay fat? Who benefits?