Critical Mass Boston.

This happened awhile ago. In fact, the last Friday of the last month ago. I don't even really remember quite what I wanted to say, except that it was lovely, and exhilarating, and I could not stop smiling. It also did so much to raise Boston in my estimation--something about seeing downtown in a more personal way, and basking in the camaraderie of fellow bikers. My friend went the previous month and told me that the people were the same as the people in Provo, with slightly different faces and different names. He was right. Or mostly right. Provo Critical Mass has more girls.

There were a plethora of skinny jeans and plaid shirts, bikes with bells, bikes with bubble machines, bikes hooked up to music players, etc., as well as an impressive biker who drummed the entire time. There were also cries of "Whose streets? Our streets," "Two wheels good, four wheels bad" (said to a motorcyclist), encouraging honks and cheers, not-so-encouraging honks and cheers, and questions from curious passerbys wondering what our bike ride was for (as if critical mass has to be for something). I liked one boy's answer: "For FUN!"

True. So true.