Yesterday I decided to take advantage of the apocalyptic weather by mounting an attack on the old beer gut. I carefully shined and polished my old 80s steel frame racer that I got for free and that’s at least one size too small for me, threw on a backpack stuffed with water, snacks, beer for restocking the gut, and a book to read in the sunlight of some Beautiful Spot. The only problem for a man without a destination was where to ride. Glancing at the map I noticed a line that roughly followed West River Pkwy, but on the east side of the Mississippi – oh yeah, I thought, why don’t I ever ride on East River Pkwy?
Shortly after I crossed into St Paul and the road gained five superfluous syllables, I remembered why I don’t ride on East River Pkwy: It is shitty. Literally. I’d just been forced off the shared-use path by a roving gang of pimple-faced skaters – which is fine, there’s a bike lane there – when I encountered a pile of shit.
There was a total of three piles of shit spaced about a mile apart, and each was only in the bike lane, not in the through lane. To me this means either that whoever left the shit there aimed for the bike lane or that the shit was later cleaned off the through lane by pushing it into the bike lane.
So now St Paul has two strikes. A shitty bike lane isn’t nearly as bad as pretending a road with a couple signs on it is a bikeway, but counts as a strike when you add in that awful spot right after the West 7th overpass where the trail turns into a six foot sidewalk with no warning. Let’s hope St Paul doesn’t get strike three on Wednesday, when it votes on the Jefferson bike boulevard.
Listening to: My Descent into Madness by Eels