From pyramid!oracle!apple!rutgers!att!ihlpa!fish Fri Feb 10 18:32:25 PST 1989 _Showdown in the Wilderness_ [In the year 1998, one man fights the tyrrany of the automobile...] ------- The image of a white panel truck grew ominously in my helmet mirror. The vehicle's speed and the faces of the two men inside left little doubt as to their intentions. As they got closer, I saw what they had in mind. The passenger had a four-foot section of heavy water pipe stuck out the window, intending to play a little polo with Yours Truly's skull. This would call for perfect timing, but then, it always does. I faded towards the right shoulder, and the van did the same. But then, at the last possible moment, instead of going off the road, I darted in front of the van and went off on the left shoulder, into the grass, throwing the bike into a controlled skid. The driver reacted the way I'd hoped. He cut the wheel sharply to the left, still intent on having his pal brain me, and lost it when he hit the brakes to avoid a utility pole. The van skidded wildly, rolled onto its side, and slid to a halt 100 feet down the road. I picked up the bike and rode over to the wreck, tossed a grenade through a shattered back window, and sped away. The explosion was spectacular, as the grenade touched off something, a propane tank, maybe, inside the truck. It gave me no satisfaction. This was the third one today, and I'd only been out a couple of hours. My mood blackened, just as the smoke from the plumbing truck blackened the sky. When would it end? "Spike, m'boy (I said to myself), you need a vacation." I headed home, packed up a few things, and caught the next flight to Calgary. I needed to pick up a couple of Dura-Ace gruppos, anyway. Canada had no Bicycle Act and no Japanese trade restrictions, unlike what was left of the States, and I was really looking forward to getting to my cabin and putting in a few days of mountain biking without having to bring along an arsenal. After a couple of hours of tearing up and down the trails, I found myself on the road, heading down the mountain and into town. I could do with some breakfast. I heard a roar behind me, the unmistakable sound of knobby tires. I looked back to see a jacked-up Jeep Cherokee following me down the twisting, gravel road. Nothing to worry about, I thought, this is Alberta, after all. I hadn't lost my instincts though, and I kept an eye on it. As soon as it was close enough for me to see the Illinois plates, I sprang into action, heading for some rocks near the edge of the road. He barely missed me, and put some big gouges in the side of the Jeep as he sideswiped the boulder I cut behind. It was two men, American men. Just my luck. Goddam tourists, and drunken ones at that. They didn't stop to inspect the damage, just threw a bag of empty beer cans and cigarette butts in my direction, and sped off down the road. I didn't have so much as a firecracker with me, and I stood there, astride the bike, shaking with rage and frustration. A clear head soon returned, though. There were no motels in the little town at the base of the mountain, just a grocery store and a couple of restaurants. They could only be staying at one or two places, campgrounds up the mountain. They would be back, probably soon. I made a few preparations down the road and doubled back to the spot where I first encountered them. No more than 45 minutes passed before I once again spotted the roaring blue Cherokee coming up the road, laden, no doubt, with beer and junk food for another day's revelry. I hefted the bag of garbage they'd tossed out before and waited behind a rock. As they roared past, I hurled the bag at the driver, shouting "hey a****le, you dropped something!" It hit him in the head. As I expected, he slammed on the brakes and skidded to a halt, manhandling the jeep to get it turned around on the narrow mountain road. By the time he got it straightened out, I was a good 200 yards ahead of him, which was all I needed. I kept him in sight, making sure he wouldn't lose me, as I headed down the old fire road from which I'd removed the barricades. The surface was bumpy, barely navigable for both me and the Jeep, but it would get a lot worse -- for them. I spotted them closing in behind me, nearly bouncing out of their seats. That's it, butt-brain, watch me and not the road. Just a little farther. Atop a sharp rise, a chasm 10 feet wide and perhaps 40 feet deep cut accross the old road. The bridge had long since collapsed, but I'd laid a foot-wide plank accross the abyss. I shot accross with the jeep nearly on my back wheel. As the heavy vehicle lurched over the edge, the plank snapped like a toothpick and it and the jeep tumbled to the floor of the ravine. After a while, I peered over the edge. The only sound from below was the babble of the little stream at the chasm's floor, which now ran streaked with red from under the wreckage, carrying away beer cans and little scraps of trash. What a shame, to pollute such a pristine wilderness. Before I headed back to Chicago, I would call the RCMP -- anonymously -- and tell them about the mess. In the mean time, I had a couple of days to take it easy, breathe the clean mountain air, and get in some more trail riding. After today, though, I'd tuck my 9mm Walther into one of the panniers, just in case I ran into some unfriendly critters, like bears. Or tourists from the States. Damn them. Couldn't they have let this place alone? -- __ / \ Bob Fishell \__/ att!ihlpa!fish