For some reason, Boise had very few nice spring days this year. Let’s put it this way – it snowed at the end of May. So when Mother Nature finally decided to bestow upon us at least one day of warm, temperate weather a few weeks ago, Dan and I decided to take advantage of it. We skipped church and attempted our first long bike ride of the season.
I wasn’t feeling adventurous enough to go mountain biking but wanted a change of scenery from our typical greenbelt ride. We compromised and tried a dirt trail that followed a creek behind one of the city parks.
We had been riding for all of ten minutes when Dan said, "Is my back tire flat?"
It was, the culprit - a goat head. Having learned our lesson two summers ago when Dan's tire went flat on the way to the Lucky Peak Reservoir, we always carry a pump with us and our tires are full of neon green gloop. We own a patch kit, but when deciding whether or not to bring the patch kit on our rides with us, this is how our conversation typically proceeds:
Becky: "Aren't you going to bring the patch kit?"
Dan: (Sigh) "I don't know."
Becky: "Don't you remember when your tire went flat on the way to Lucky Peak? You said (in my best Dan the man voice) 'We need a patch kit.' So you bought one. Why don't we bring it with us?"
Dan: "It's just one more thing to carry."
Becky: "It's not that cumbersome."
Dan: "I would need the tools to take the tire off too."
Becky: "What's better - a few extra tools or a flat tire?"
Dan: (Sigh) "We're not going that far."
And never mind trying to get him to bring along an extra bike tube, even though I've heard from reputable sources that this is a necessity during long biking excursions. Who needs a tube when you have got magical green gloop?
There we were, Dan pumping and spinning the tire (apparently that helps the gloop seal the puncture), green slime oozing out of the sides, while I held the bike steady.
"Psst . . . " the tire hissed as Dan pumped air into it.
"I don't think that's a very good sign," he said.
We gave up and headed home.
A couple of hours later, after Dan had replaced his bike tube, we were ready to give it another try. We decided to ride the Boise Greenbelt, a paved trail, more likely to be void of goat heads - or so we thought.
"Is my tire flat?" I asked after the first twenty minutes of our journey.
Indeed it was.
We pulled over and attempted, for the second time that day, to pump and spin. An enormous goat head nestled comfortably in my front tire, sinking its prongs in between the treads, oblivious to the nuisance it was creating for us, oblivious to the fact that the we had already encountered its equally irritating brother or sister a few hours earlier.
Having no luck with the pump and spin method, Dan took off for the car - a twenty-minute bike ride away - and I walked my defunct vehicle of transportation to a nearby park, which was fortunately only five minutes down the greenbelt on foot.
"Do you want me to fix your tire?" an older gentleman dressed in multicolored, logo-plastered spandex asked as he rode up behind me.
"My husband already tried. The green gloop's not working."
"Do you have a tube?" the biker asked.
I shook my head.
"You should always carry a tube."
Determining I was safe after I explained to him that my husband was going to pick me up at the park, the man pedaled away satisfied that he had imparted his biker wisdom on me and that I would never venture onto a bike path without an extra tube again.
In the park, I found a shady spot where I perched myself, cell phone in hand, futile bicycle beside me. I also had a full view of the strangest family picnic I have ever experienced. I discovered I could watch the entire scene underneath my sunglasses without the observed party knowing what I was doing. I even set my head forward for part of the time, making it look as if I was gazing straight ahead, while watching them from a side glance because, quite honestly, any one of them probably could have taken me in an instant, and I had left my pepper spray at home.
The picnicking family consisted of about six adults, three females and three males, and many, many scantily-clad children under the age of four. I assumed they were family because several of them resembled one another, and all of them seemed to possess similar linguistic knowledge.
"If you don't sit down, I'm going to kick your [expletive]" said the woman - who seemed to be in charge of the food - to a man, the only one with (and who could afford to have) his shirt off.
"Why's she [expletive] crying?" said another man to a lean, fair-skinned woman who was carrying a baby on her hip while the "[expletive] crying" child tottered after her.
"Because he went to the [expletive] playground without her. She wanted to go," the woman - presumably a mother of sorts - explained.
"Mommy," a child of about four called out to the lean, fair-skinned woman, "does she want to come play?"
"Oh, now you come get her," she remarked (now the baby on the hip was crying). "Thanks for thinking of someone else for a change."
I'm guessing this was "he" who had gone to the "[expletive] playground" without the crying child.
The correct response would have been, "Umm, Mom, I'm four. By definition, I don't think of anyone else but myself."
Before he could reply to his mother, the shirtless man started to chase him around, which prompted the woman in charge of the food to spout off a string of words that I probably shouldn't have been hearing, much less the four-year-old being chased by this woman's source of distress.
Finally, she ended her tirade with a dramatic "I can't do this!" and sunk onto the picnic bench in a (rather large) heap.
Meanwhile, a stocky bearded man threw his hands in the air and stomped away from the picnic, followed by a red-headed woman shouting, "Where the [expletive] are you going?"
"Do you [expletive] hear her? She's always like this!" the stocky bearded man yelled. "I can't deal with it!"
"You can't [expletive] go anywhere," the redhead said. "I signed you out. Your [expletive] is my responsibility. Please," she begged (my heart twinged a little), "just try to get along."
For a split second, I wanted to mediate and help model proper communication skills, but that's when I noticed the lean, fair-skinned woman and the woman in charge of the food were about ready to fight. And yes, the baby was still crying on the fair-skinned woman's hip. I thought it best if I stayed out of it. Plus, the stocky bearded man was stomping my way, the redhead in tow, and I still didn't know from where or what he was "signed out." At that moment, Dan arrived to rescue me from my flat tire.
I had two thoughts as I piled my bicycle onto the back of our 4Runner: 1) It would have been funnier had children not been involved and if it had been a movie and not people's lives I was watching unfold and 2) Were all of their family functions like this? Or did I just catch them on a bad day?
"You know," Dan said as we drove off, "we did skip church this morning. Maybe the two flat tires was God telling us we should have gone to church."
"You don't believe in a punitive, retaliatory God," I pointed out.
"I know, I'm just joking . . . kind of."
"Well," I said, the family picnic I had just witnessed still fresh in my mind, "whatever it was, Someone has an interesting sense of humor."
