You born-in-the-60s/70s types may remember that age of innocence, pre-Animal Planet, when we had such peach-like, delicate sensibilities that when a bobcat caught and fucked up a rabbit on a nature show, the great Marlin Perkins, or whatever host, would calm TV Land’s shrieks of horror with the wise, comforting statement, “It may seem cruel, but it is nature’s way of balancing the delicate ecosystem. For the bobcat must feed…”
Yes, it’s nature’s way.
Right now in California, we mountain bikers are feeling nature’s cruel, but necessary, bitch slap. Rain. Rain. And more fucking rain. It’s nature’s way, but it still gnaws like canines.
Before you (imaginary readers) start typing out your, “What?! A little rain? I live in upstate New York, where it gets 30 fucking below and there’s snow up to my nuts half the year…” email, let me say, I’m totally aware of how spoiled we are in California, especially in the SF Bay Area. It never really gets cold (except in the Summer. Mark Twain may not have said the famous quote, but whoever did was spot fucking on). It never really gets hot. I know we got it good. Just let me bitch, bitch.
The greenery that I love so much is getting a much needed drink right now, but got-damn, do I miss getting out on the dirt. My insides are squealing like a soon-to-be-bobcat-shit rabbit every time I walk by my bike, parked in the spare bedroom of my apartment. I kid you not, kid, this morning, I audibly sighed when I spotted my poor Blur. And not consciously, like a joke. It just happened.
“Siiiggghhh,” sighed Andy.
“Squueeaaaaalll,” squealed the prey.
At this pace, it’ll probably be a good three weeks without my treasured Wednesday night ride. No weekend action either. Sure, I grabbed a road ride on Saturday on my converted Fisher. And I shouldn’t bitch. I went up to the Marin headlands. I rode from my place on the beach. I crossed the Golden Gate Bridge which, as of yet, has not ceased to be a thrill. The surf was huge, so all the ocean views were exhilarating. Fine, I admit it, it’s a stunning view from the Headlands that photos just can’t do justice. You happy?
But still, true heaven is floored by dirt. And right now, that dirt is soup and my WTBs have no business raping the trails, tearing them up, leaving them to dry rutted.
It’s best to just let nature do its thing. Like the rabbit, we must do our part, and suffer.
I’ll live. Unlike the bobcat, a little waiting never killed anyone.