Racing the Moon

Sometimes you just need to move forward.

With today being the last day of the UCI world biking championships, I wanted to join the throngs in Church Hill. Although I'd already been bike race-watching two days this week, both times - Tuesday and Friday - had been in Jackson Ward and the crowds were light, to say the least.

Today I wanted hordes, masses even and I wanted to see them on that cobblestone stretch of hill in Libby Hill Park.

So after procuring sandwiches at Union Market, a mob scene of spandex-clad amateurs and parents with mega-strollers, but not as bad as Proper Pie's line looked or as far as I heard Sub Rosa's line stretched, we ate them on the steps of Patrick Henry's Pub while taking in the turn at 23rd Street before heading to the hill for which Richmond was named.

The only problem with getting what I'd wished for - humanity -was that the crowds of people stretched over every available space on the hill, meaning that if you're short (say 5'5" in your flats), all you saw were heads and shoulders and not of the peloton (new-to-me word alert) but of the spectators, far too many of them watching the race on their phones rather than on the street in front of them.

This kind of dedication to devices in the face of real life is just plain tragic.

It was up there that I found plenty of familiar faces: the mayor (unsmiling), the governor (smiling), the beer rep, the pizza queen, the wine geek, the former cupcake pro and, best of all, a guy I didn't know, but who was all but beaming.

"I spent two hours drinking with the Norwegian team!" he enthused, clearly bragging. "That's all I'm going to say!"

So it was back to J-Ward for more leisurely viewing, only occasionally of the peloton and more often of the lone Latvian pumping away in his solitary quest so far behind the rest of the pack as to make empathetic viewers wince a tad.

Hey, I always got picked last in gym class, so I can relate.

As it happened, we were strolling Broad Street talking to drummers and looking at bikes for sale when cheers went up and - ta da! - a Slovokian won it all.

I refused to watch it on the Juumbotron and endanger my Luddite status.

Not everyone understood that just because we had a winner, that didn't mean everyone had finished the race and in no time, regular Joes were pedaling down Broad Street like they owned it.

It took only one blond policewoman to threaten that they'd be arrested at the next intersection (after having warned them to get off Broad Street because there was still one rider finishing his final lap) to get them off the course.

I'm guessing it was Mr. Latvia, but I don't know that for sure.

After post-race napping (all that viewing is exhausting), we decided to give Richmond stalwart Buddy's a chance, not because we're fans of its customer base of aging UR graduates (we're not, but there are exceptions), but because we hadn't been since the big move off of Robinson to Sheppard.

Every place deserves one shot before you write it off, right? Biggest compliment I can think of after eating dinner: there aren't many bars where you can hear Alice Cooper's "I'm Eighteen" on the sound system.

We tried for some harvest moon/blood moon/super moon/lunar eclipse action, choosing a parking spot with a good view of the night sky, but the clouds that had been threatening and even spitting rain all day ensured that we got no more than a  few teasing glances at the massive white orb before it disappeared for good.

The best thing to come out of that experience was an invitation to meet in the same place in 18 years for the next blood moon/super moon/lunar eclipse.

Since you can never go wrong with Patricia Clarkson or Ben Kingsley, we finished out the evening at the Criterion to see "Learning to Drive," a beautifully-acted, smart comedy about a Manhattan book editor whose husband ditches her for a younger woman, spurring her to learn to drive.

For men with no intention of seeing the movie but hoping to glean some romantic advice from the story, allow me to summarize:

1) Buy her a book of poetry and then read her a poem from it with your head laying in her lap.

2) Hold her face in your hands, whether talking to her or kissing her.

3) Tantric sex is not always what a woman is looking for.

It was the kind of movie that leaves you feeling quietly satisfied in that same way you do after a not particularly eventful sort of day spent with someone whose company you enjoy regardless of the activity. It's all moving forward, albeit in glacier-like increments.

It should be noted there was no drinking with Norwegians. That's all I'm going to say.