Letter: He that troubleth his own house….

My mountain bike was a Christmas present in 2004 and it took several months for me to ride the streets of Montara. Part of that time was training my dogs, Fred and Jackie, to heel to the bike.

I soon tried the trails in the Montara Mountains and there was one that I couldn’t get up. Well, at least peddle up.  I must have tried a hundred times.  It was impossible, and my wife was saying, "Give it up. It’s not worth the trouble."  I’ve been known to be obsessive.  Was I bringing trouble to my own house? If so, it was definitely a mole hill.

And then, one day, I saw two guys peddle up without touching ground. I had made it up many times by pushing my bike. Watching those guys, I knew it could be done.  I tried again and made it on the fourth try. Pace is everything, as I found out. It could be done, and the vendetta had begun.

At the end of the season, when the trails became streams and the ground turned to mud, I had made the hill forty eight times. I told myself that when my career count reached one hundred, I’d peddle up on the one hundred and first time, whip it out, pee on the hill, and say "We’re even, friend".  That would be my "beaner".

By April, the mud had turned hard.  The dirt was gone but the silica remained.  The ruts were deeper and more slippery than ever. But, what the hell, I still had fifty three to go. I finished last week with an even fifty.  With a three day rest I made the hill today, three for three, bringing my career total to a hundred and one.

On that last ascent—with Fred and Jackie at my side—I got off my bike, stood on that hill,  whipped it out, and realized that I (in that proverbial wind) had peed on my leg.