I spent Saturday walking to the bus to the museum with N., followed up with a reverse route to home by way of fried pickles and wings at Harborplace at the Inner Harbor. N. was driving back the way we came for A.’s annual Ladies Harvest Party, but she suggested I ride my bike instead. Good call. I layered up with my fall/early winterwear, strapped on my reflective safety belt, flipped on my front light, and I was zipping down the hill. At 21st and Guilford I passed a house with open windows where some kids were putting on a tap dance recital to a crowd that spilled out on the steps and passersby who could hear the steady beats. I passed cars full of costumes and took the lane at the road construction at Fayette, used my outside voice to dodge pedestrians on the Inner Harbor and passed one park and then another on my way to the party. The ride home was even lovelier It was dark out but the streets were hopping with folks in Halloween costumes–lots of zombies, vampires, and Indian princesses. I took Calvert up the hill, choosing street lights and people in spite of the increase in traffic. I stopped at 21st to snap a picture of the Elephant Island statue that sits in the empty lot there (is it just from SkyMall? Have I been hoodwinked into thinking it’s interesting/art?), but even with my flash I could capture nothing in the dark. I turned back down the hill as I opened up my bike bag to drop my phone in when I saw this lit-up building just west on 21st. It’s the headquarters of Baltimore’s branch of the Hells Angels. Is that just a motorcycle club, the way I’m in a local history club, or is it all Sons of Anarchy? Or maybe there’s another choice? Regardless, it reminded me of my first apartment after college–a studio in the East Village that I shared with a girl I knew just a little bit who was ridiculously smart and turned out to have the interesting habit of plucking her leg hairs–that was right across the street from another Hells Angels clubhouse. Safest block in town, I told my mother. Back on the bike and back home, fall biking is the best. Sorry about that broken record–it’s just true.