A night to remember/forget

Hello Mt. Shredward, it is I, your creator. It’s been a while since I’ve visited you. Looking at the website traffic overview, looks like I’m not the only one who doesn’t give a shit about you. God you’re a loser.

We’ve had some absolutely lovely weather out here in San Francisco over the last week. Some would say it’s been too hot. I say, “stop yer bitchin’ and enjoy it.” I sure have.

I love this city with all my body parts, but when it comes to the weather, the summers suck the part of my body that poops. It’s especially bad where I live, out at the beach. It’s cold, often windy and permanently overcast. And for some reason—maybe el nino or la nina or some other latin rugrat—this summer was particularly worthless, and not just out in my neck of the woods. Despite the fact that the rest of the country got absolutely broiled this summer, things just never got cooking anywhere in the bay area.

I do a weekly night ride with a group of buddies (which, coincidentally, you can read about in my latest published piece here) in the east bay hills. Normally the east bay has much better weather than we have just a few scant miles west. I really look forward to night riding during the summer months. Once the sun goes down, the temperature + the wind rushing by while you bomb a hill = a sensory experience that’s just…man, it just makes a brotha’ smile his ass off and feel happy to be alive and on a bike and living in such a great part of the country. It’s freakin’ optimal. But it can’t happen if the variable of the temperature is off. And this summer, it was off damn near every night we hit the trails. It was always chilly. I’ll never complain about any time I spend on my bike, but as far as enjoying warmth, we got dicked this summer.

So when we got this unseasonably warm weather, I sure as hell wasn’t going to pass up a chance get in a night ride before the agreeable temperatures passed (which as I write this, has done just that). So after work I headed out for an impromptu solo ride from my place at the beach, through Golden Gate Park and up onto Mt. Sutro. And man, it was an amazing night. It was warm. The view from Twin Peaks was crystal clear. The riding gods were even smiling on me to the point that I had a slow leak on the way home that was just slow enough that I didn’t have to change the tube. I can’t complain about shit…oh wait…yes I can. Unfortunately, I mean that literally.


As I was about to hit Twin Peaks, I spotted…oh god…a little puddle (yeah, it was pretty much a mini cow pie) of shit right in the middle of the trail. And when I say the middle of the trail, I mean it was like someone measured the trail width, did some quick calculations, scratched an X in the dirt and covered it with their feces. Yes, I said someone. And unfortunately, try as I might to make a last second trajectory adjustment, my back tire rolled right the hell over the leavings of some degenerate with digestive issues. Fuck. Fuck and double fuck. I thought dealing with horseshit on the trail sucked.

Stubborn stuff, human shit, especially when it gets to hunker down in the complex tread of a WTB. I tried dragging the befouled four inches through some dry grass. All it did was give my tire a little goatee and create a scratch and sniff effect. Friends, human shit doesn’t smell good. Especially when it’s not mine and it’s ON MY FUCKING BIKE!

But, despite my best efforts, there wasn’t shit I could do about this shit. So I calmed myself, leaned my bike against a rail, put about ten feet between me and my stinky wheel, and enjoyed one of the most spectacular panoramic views of city lights in the world (thanks to whoever I stole this great photo from).

After eye humping the sights for a bit I headed back down the trail, turd tire and all. And, as it often does, the trail cured all.

I remember seeing a show on PBS or some other smart person network I watch because I’m so smart, that showed that the Great Lakes are actually naturally breaking down and reversing all the bullshit we’ve unleashed on them.

By the time I got home, after the dirt of Mt. Sutro and the sandy trails of Golden Gate Park had done their thing, nary a speck remained. Oh trail, is there any problem you can’t solve?

But despite the natural scouring, me and my bike still had major Silkwood showers when I got back home. I mean, that was some dude’s shit. That’s seriously nasty.

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