"Follow Karl!" someone yells, and it seems like a good idea. We are a pack of 12, each on bicycles of various styles from cruisers to beat up mountain bikes. Between us we have consumed roughly 32 beers, 10 margaritas, 489 chips, 7 cups of salsa, 9 taquitos, 8 enchiladas, 5 burritos, 4 fajitas, and 6 tostadas. Though it is only true for one of us, we are all acting like today is our birthday.

Karl is one of three of the group who has bothered to wear a helmet. He is a paramedic and a member of the board of Commute Options. He has been known to hand out bicycle safety flyers, and spent a good part of the early evening lecturing the non-helmet wearers about the potential for head injuries that they were tempting. He is wearing a shirt that reads "one less car" on the back. Choosing him as our guide for the two-mile bicycle ride home on this dark, moonless July night seems logical, and prudent.

Karl takes the cue. Ring ring! He triggers his handlebar bell and takes off; but already we are confused; he is going not into the street in front of us but around the back of the building in which we just ate dinner. There is some slow, staggered getting started, but we eventually all go in his direction, obediently. But Karl is long gone. We keep going, hopefully, and finally catch him in the library parking lot a couple of blocks away, where he is doing fast laps and yelling whoo hoo!!. "Come on!" he yells and is off again.

The summer night is dry and warm and the soft air flows over our skin as we bike in a swervy row. Karl, leading us down Tumalo Street, suddenly lurches to the right and we lean that direction, together as one flowing entity, until we notice that he's dropped right off into the dark bushes when there is perfectly good street in front of us and really, is that such a good idea? Birthday boy thinks so (though this may be accounted to the fact that in addition to the abovementioned list of consumables he has also polished off three of his very own shots of tequila) and pilots his cruiser into the dark passageway. A couple of other brave souls follow. Those of us who stay on the street hear thumps and swishes and crackles from the bushes until, two blocks later, Karl and Birthday Boy emerge, whooping and ringing their bells and honking their horns and seeming to have emerged from the mysterious woods generally unscathed. Still, their diversion has left some of the rest of us beginning to doubt Karl's wisdom as route boss.

We turn down Riverside in a loose uncertain row, like lemmings who have lost trust in our leader but don't know what to do about it. Suddenly Karl comes flying back at us, whizzing by in the dark and ringing his bell maniacally. He turns and whooshes forward again, quickly disappearing into the night. At the bridge it is only blackness ahead of me. My tire catches in the gravel and another rider hesitates in front of me and I pause just long enough to require that I put down one foot. Birthday Boy comes up behind me, chastising my stop. "Cooper!" he hollers. He surges around me, throwing back over his shoulder a serious-toned invitation: "Would you like to touch my monkey?" I laugh into the shadows. He refers, of course, to the life-sized monkey balloon, a gift from Rainie, which trails from his fender.

I push off again, cross the bridge and climb the narrow trail uphill until I splurt into the park. I see Karl ahead of the pack, doing jumps off of the curb, still whooping and ringing his bell. I stand up and peddle hard, jumping off of the curb after him, and ring my bell too.

We head up Albany. "Where's Nate and Todd?" Wendi asks from behind me. Nate and Todd, I think! Nate on Todd's bicycle towing Todd on Nate's skateboard... did they get lost? Fall down? Tip into the river? I turn anxiously expecting damage but here they come, Todd swinging along behind the bike, grinning wide as if he is masquerading as his four year-old son for a night, while Nate peddles effortlessly. We slow to admire their easy grace, like an awed audience watching a delicate circus act. Then we are startled by Karl, who comes like a bomber bee out of a side street and careens past, leaving us with only a fading cacophony of bells.

As he vanishes ahead we struggle uphill, feeling the booze soaking our veins and stalling our muscles. At 14th we slowly collect like bubbles in a soda glass. "Where's Karl?" someone asks, and I am quiet for a moment, waiting to see if anyone answers or if I am to be the one to respond to this question. "Gone," I finally say. Everyone is silent. It seems to be true. Our leader has finally and completely abandoned us, and now we see that it is dark, and late, as well.

The wind is gone out of us. Someone mumbles something about another beer but no one reacts. We say our happy birthdays and our goodbyes, kiss the monkey and peddle off in separate directions. I climb alone towards home, enjoying the sudden solitude, taking my eyes off of the dark street long enough to appreciate the stars which glint plainly from the vast summer sky. There is the big dipper, and maybe a planet - could it be Jupiter? I have three blocks to go when - ring ring! - I hear a familiar bell. From behind me appears Karl, errant bike safety guy and my husband, who is grinning like a wild man. In a last effort at valor, I race him up the hill, keeping up and beaming too and pushing forward into the sultry night heat towards home.

more Over the Transom