You know, I have to say I was wrong. Munson is not destroyed, ravaged a good bit, but not destroyed. The access trail, paper cup trail, and good portions of the never got a chance Twilight Zone trail are gone, but hey, Munson-strictly speaking- still exists.
Whoopee. My buddy T put it nostalgically like this, “Fuck it, it was a sand pit anyway. We can go find a new sand pit if you need one so bad”.
And that my friends, settles that. Maybe change is good, maybe change is bad, all I know is that the current transitional reality is about as lame as the president these days, which brings me to a brief story.
The Roadie War Monger, or Weird Harold visits the trail head.
I woke up exhausted from a 12 hour nap this morning and knew instantly I had unfinished business out at the forest. I sipped a cup of strong, black coffee like I do every morning. I make it in a Melita filter with a huge scoop of fresh ground 8 O’clock Bean. It sat on my shaky stomach better than anything over the last two days when I was fighting off some Botulism, or perhaps a dose of the Salmonella.
I blasted the first Weezer album as I rumbled down South Monroe in my gas hog Ford, patting myself on the back for splurging on a decent stereo and some speakers last Summer. I don’t care what you say, that blue Weezer album is a stone cold classic and it always takes me back to simpler times.
In spite of my mission to record the destruction of a local landmark trail, and the presence of actual logging trucks mowing down swaths of the forest, I found myself responding to the same forest cues that draw me out year after year. Specifically, the wonderful piny smell and the cinnamon sugar trail base. My vitriolic mission had become what I needed most, a good ride.
I spent an hour and a half exploring all sections of the trail and trying to picture what it will look like after a rather severe haircut. I forgot about all that. I thought about Thailand. I thought about old flames. I thought about my work and who it has made me. You know, good bike ride stuff.
Then, as I was resting back at the truck a guy approached me. On a road bike ( A Giant). Mid-fifties, appropriately geared up, he kept swooping past and throwing out overtures. Unfortunately I don’t speak road bike.
Eventually he pulled up and started going on about plans to expand the paved St. Marks trail, then he segued quite naturally into why we really can’t trust Muslims, and how “the war” is between ancient religions and make no mistake- you better choose your side. I tried to cut him off, but he was not to be stopped. “You can talk to Iran if you want to, but I wouldn’t take war off the table!” he was shouting this as I cranked up the Weezer to 10 and lurched into reverse (to brush him off the plate as he was hanging in my window by now). “Terrorists are coming over the border from Mexico, the media lies!”
I don’t want to act like that guy.
And this is a Muslim-friendly site.
But I think I made a mistake when I started giving roadies a pass.
See you later,
We drink the same joe, we like the same fish dip and I like fat tire bikes and beer too. You know Juancho, I think we could be friends in real life. 😉
But everyone tells me you are just a figment of my imagination?