Curse You, Bikers

I went for a run in the hills a while back. The running bit lasted about 4 and a half minutes as I realised our old lady labrador, Baloo, was following me. She is 14 and a half years old, which makes her about 90 years old in big dog years, creaky and slow. I waited for her to catch up then started off again, only to stop 3 minutes later and wait for her to catch up again. And again. And again. Oh sod this, I thought, I should just leg it and she’ll have to turn around and go home. Except that she didn’t. When I looked back down the rocky track from halfway up the hill, there she was, plodding along slowly, struggling up the steep, stony bits. Which left me with a dilemma; if I just ran off ahead she would then have to do all the downhill part along the side of the windy road. Seeing as she is stone deaf, she can’t hear cars coming and it would just take one whizzing around a corner while she was bumbling along the middle of the road and squish – our lovely Baloo would be no more. So I resigned myself to the fact that my run was over and instead I would be walking very s  l o  w  l  y through the hills, phoned L’Homme to say “back in over an hour, maybe three” and started up the really steep bit (nice to have a good excuse to walk it).

It’s a bit of a hairy climb towards the top, but I discovered it is now downright dangerous, thanks to the deep gullies that the track has turned into. Great gashes in the ground, that go on and on and on. So you either tightrope your way along one of the edges or leap back and forth from one side to the other; either way, it’s very dodgy and one foot wrong could send you plummeting down the steep hill, bouncing off bushes and rocks and ending face-down in a limb-twisting position at the bottom of the valley. It’s especially dangerous for people with little legs – ie: children. And how has this once-safe track turned into the Path of Death? Bikers, that’s how. Motorbikers. A gang of them come churning their way along this pathway every now and again, just for fun, and each time the path is gouged out a bit deeper. It’s totally illegal – they’re not allowed to ride their motorbikes along here, but they know full well their chances of meeting a policeman, or any member of authority out here are about as likely as running into Elvis. So they don’t care.

But I do. Which is why I am waging a war on them. On my slow walk, whilst waiting for Baloo to catch up with me, I hauled a number of whop-off boulders and plopped them down into the motorbike gully. If a biker hits one of them, I am hoping they will go head over hills into a tree (or straight down the valley, as described earlier, except with a motorbike that lands on top of them, like Wile E. Coyote and the anvils he uses to try and squash Roadrunner). I even thought of going back and putting in trip wires, but at neck height, but then I though someone might really get decapitated and that would be gruesome for the next hiker going up the hill.

This all just gets me angry that there are so many people who don’t give a shit about anything except themselves and their personal pleasure, and the rest of us can go to hell, struggling dangerously along countryside tracks with our little children and old lady dogs. I curse you, cross-country-motorbikers-who-break-the-rules-and-figuratively-piss-on-the-rest-of-the-world.


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