Enough was enough.
For six weeks since I moved into town, North Shore trail up at Lake Grapevine had been beckoning me. Taunting me. Pleading with me to come up for a quick ride. Whispering sweet nothings in my ear about hard, fast downhill thrills and challenging, gnarled uphill mash-fests. I’d only ridden it that one time back in May while in town visiting, but it was a blast.
I resisted for weeks with a litany of half-baked excuses: Too far. Gas is expensive. It’s too hot. The local trails are better. Drinking beer is more fun. It’s a full moon, and Grapevine is werewolf country. Leaving Fort Worth makes Baby Jesus cry.
This weekend — Saturday, to be exact — I stopped the madness, confronted my fate and, frankly, flat ran out of excuses.
Water bottles full of sports drink? Check. Enough water to drown an hippo? Check. Salt pills? Check. Temperatures in excess of 108 degrees? Check, goddammit (Stupid sun *grumble* with its stupid fission *grumble-fist-shake-grumble* making me pant like a dog). Energy bar? Check. Beatrix, who’s working like a charm thanks to that long-overdue rear derailleur replacement? Check, check, check.
I was psyched. I was pumped. I was determined to hit that trail hard. Wheels-deep.
And then I sat in traffic for an hour, fuming. (“It’s SATURDAY AFTERNOON! Why are there so many cars?! Why? I hate traffic. THAT’S IT. I’m moving back to Lubbock.)
But then I got there, and I got pumped again.
It didn’t take but maybe 15 minutes on the trail to remember why I fell so deeply in love with it when I first tried it earlier this summer. North Shore is a great ride. I remember it being more difficult, but it’s still tons of fun.
It also didn’t take me 15 minutes to roll up to this …
There’s nothing that pisses me off more than this. I was ticked.
I screeched to a halt, grabbed my phone and snapped this photo, knowing full well I had one gigantic Rush Limbaugh-caliber blog rant that would explode from my fingertips.
Anger rising, I grabbed my phone and clickety-click-click. Frustrated? Nope. At that point I was downright cross.
Then I went on my way, only, in another few hundred yards, to find this …
Out came the camera.
Cross? Nope. At this point I had graduated to apoplectic.
I took it out on Beatrix, riding harder than ever to relieve my anger. She took her beating like a champ. As I rode, I was already writing this blog post in my head, but that first mental draft consisted of some of the most inventive profanities I’ve ever conjured.
So here’s what I came up with as I rode:
- When I am king of the world, which should be any day now, slack-jawed dipshits who don’t know how to throw away their trash will, upon the first offense, undergo an immediate, un-anesthetized sterilization. That way the rest of society can rest assured knowing at least these mouth-breathers can no longer pollute the planet with a new generation of filthy little dickhead offspring who grow up to be too stupid to throw away their garbage.
- If I ever catch anybody littering on a trail (in the time between now and when I become king), I will … well, I’m not sure. It probably depends on how big the litterbug is. I’m kind of puny and therefore don’t pick fights. BUT REST ASSURED I’LL HAVE A LITTLE VOODOO DOLL WITH YOUR NAME ALL OVER IT, BUDDY! Also, dirty looks and at least one snide remark are likely. If I know where you live, I’m going to wait until you leave your undoubtedly squalid home, sneak in through your window and leave a large steaming turd on your couch. That one’s made special for you. Enjoy!
Mind-boggling laziness. That’s what bothers me most here. How difficult is it to pick up after yourself, place the trash in a bag or something and hold on to it until you have access to a trashcan? It’s also inconsiderate. These are public places, and nobody wants your empty bum wine bottles marring their view of Lake Grapevine.
I couldn’t care less if you want to go to the lake and get plum-shitfaced on the most abject swill on this earth. That’s fine. Hell, I’ll join you. But throw away your trash, you bums.
Allow me to demonstrate:
Step 1: Insert trash into bag.
Step 2: Deposit said trash into trashcan later.
Step 3: Deserve to live.
I also had another thought while out there: If there is any hope for humanity, then people like me outnumber, or at least match your numbers. I hope to The Flying Spaghetti Monster that’s true. Then I got a big, raging idea.
From now on I will bring a plastic bag with me to the trails when I ride. I will pick up one or two small pieces of litter and tie it to my small Camelback. I will pick just enough to cancel out one litterbug.
I invite all you mountain bikers out there to do the same. From my observations, most — certainly not all, I emphatically note — dirt heads are intelligent, well-mannered folks who would never litter on purpose.
So I say we show these half-wits we’re not going to stand idly by as they soil our parks, our beloved trails, our havens of escape. Five days a week we put up with stupid people and their insipid tendencies. But not when I’m riding the trails. No. I refuse.
Hopefully this sets an example for anybody who might witness our small gestures. It’s also just the best way to give litterbugs one long, slender, crooked-knuckled middle finger.