I’ve returned to a familiar haunt, a cozy spot where quirky tunes fill the air and the aroma of garlic and olive oil drifts around. It’s like coming home—to smiles, shared stories, and the demolition of pizza pies and beers after long journeys.
Last Thursday was a hefty ride. It’s typical for me to rack up a thousand feet of climbing and sprint before joining the Missoula Thursday Night Ride crew. Riding home afterwards, like many of us do, is part of the routine. Spring rides are usually brief, but this week we embarked on the “Blue Berry” ride, leading to an extended tour of western Missoula—a real “long haul.” Now, I’m here, unwinding after the trek.
This place, filled with memories: Jill’s muddy-faced parmesan rituals, Ed’s jazz insights, Paul’s pizza lore, Norman prying out my weekend tales, and Dave plotting ski trips off Wishard Ridge. Thursday nights, we’ve made this spot ours, enjoying “happy hour” deals of Cold Smoke and pizza for six bucks.
Post-TNR, I texted a friend, “Wanna hit the Bridge? Short route?”
The reply came swift, “Remind me never to ride back with you. I’m wrecked. Done.”
Here I am at the Bridge Pizza, surrounded by memories, already planning the next visit.
Boneshakerbike 
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