The Wall

Yesterday was Bike Race Sunday here in Philadelphia, and we host shins-dig of variable sizes year in and year out for it. This year, the party was divided into two parts.

The first part took place anywhere from thirty to say seventy five inches off the ground. It was calm, serene, well-cultured, interesting, and enjoyable. The second part took place lower than thirty inches above the ground, in the realms where six or seven kids aged five and below tend to tear around, cause destruction and havoc, be loud, and grind graham crackers and cookies into carpets with astonishing thoroughness. Holy smokes.

If you have never seen a bike race live, it’s quite a sight. Then again, I’m an avid fan of cycling (It’s dope! Nyuck nyuck nyuck…), so that might skew my perception. But it is quite an entourage of brightly clad cyclists, cars, and motorcycles, and at this race, at least, the course is led by seven Philadelphia police, riding Harleys and looking like they don’t even have to try to own the place because they’re just that badass.



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