Mr Trail Safety Speaks!

I was riding home from work yesterday afternoon. The bike: my neo-vintage '87 Schwinn Technium with the Scott bars, and rear rack. You may have forgotten it. Old Town, Pasadena. Just past the techno-dorks waiting outside the Apple Store for their 3G, and well beyond the IndyMac meltdown debacle. Its 90 degrees; mild, given the time of year. Me, waiting for the light to change, daydreaming. A young woman is crossing in the crosswalk. She's easily 5'10", with the approximate confirmation of a corsetted water-balloon. Wearing flip-flops or sandals, and sucking down the remains of a coffee-whipee milkshake. The wind turns and I catch a whiff of her apple-candy perfume—like she'd been run through the Bratz Sheep-Dip Trough. This fearsome valkyrie is not alone. As she passes me, she turns to her friend, then looks at me and says "Your bike. Sucks. Balls" Damn! She is in love. I turn to her, and say "See ya next time, honey!" and ride off into the ...

A Touching Forward Last summer I'd staggered to the top of Mt Wilson from Sierra Madre. I wasn't having an especially good day, but the water fountain was reason enough to continue. When I got there, there was a doe-eyed, hairless punk with half-unzipped leathers slumped on the retaining wall. "Ride to live, live to ride" was tattooed across his chest in big letters. There were at least six bikes dumped in a cluster around him. I was curious. "Where's the rest of your crew?" My curiosity was about to be rewarded. The boy looked up and said morosely "…uh, [Bobby] was trying to get some air, but he landed badly. We had to call a paramedic. We were going to ride down to Chantry, but now we're waiting for a ride.…" Dead silence. The flies were unconcerned. Outwardly, I was solemn. Inwardly, I was flippin! Stoogin' going whoop- whoop- whoop- whoop- whoop!, while spinning on my shoulder on the parking lot asphalt! It doesn'...

Dearest Phillip S: On the subject of manners and mannerisms I will endeavour to elucidate the answer least appropriate to the strictures of time, space and convention. The Valley Forge trail is not popular with mountain bikers, which limits recreational tipping opportunities for the trail runner. There is something inherently satisfying about the sound of the wind in the trees, birds and squirrels having running feuds, and the fading shrieks of a mountain-biker going over the side of a trail after they've tried to run you down. It's times like these when I feel very close to Nature. How much does one tip mountain bikers? 15%, 20%? Or does one try to tip them all? The percentages refer to the leading-edge velocity [analogous to a helo-rotor] of a Powerbar, rattan cane, or 15" Braunschweiger sausage at the maximum hitting point. Top speeds vary from 125mp to 600mph. Therefore even 15% of either of these speeds striking a witless MTB'er will cause a trajectory dislocation...