I have come to a place that I know. A warm place with quirky music playing and the smell of garlic and olive oil lofting through the air. I have been here with friends. It’s been like coming home to smiling faces and tales of past times. Beer has been had and countless slices of pizza pie have been demolished. All in the name of refueling and resting after truly long hauls.
Last Thursday night was a long haul. It is not out of the ordinary for me to get in a thousand feet of climbing and a couple sprints before I meet the Missoula Thursday Night Ride group. It is also not out of the ordinary for me to ride home as does the majority of the TNR crew. Spring meet ups usually mean short rides but this week we did the Blue Berry ride. But combine all three with the later being a extended road ride tour of greater Western Missoula and you have a “long haul”. So here I am, resting after a truly long haul.
Yes. I am here. This place I know. I have seen a muddy faced Jill sprinkle parmesan cheese into a small pile and then proceed to eat it. I have learned the caveats of jazz and frailties of life from my friend Ed. Paul gave me his history of pizza talk and Norman extracted weekend adventures from my brain. Dave returns here to catch up on our adventures and plan new ones like spending the night skiing off Wishard Ridge. We have taken this place over on Thursday nights. There has many a “happy hour” where one can get a pint of Cold Smoke and a slice for 6 bucks.
“Want to go to the Bridge. We can take the short way”, I texted my friend after the TNR ride.
“Remind me to never ride back with you guys again. I am hurting. No! I am done”, I quickly got a response.
I am at “the Bridge”, the Bridge Pizza. A place I know. Remembering all the times before. And I will be back again.