. . . literally:
Toward the end of this morning's Pedalfiles Bash, some shithead in a car tried to force a member of our pack off the road. After an exchange of strong words the shithead followed our basher for several blocks, repeatedly passing and cutting in front until our guy turned into a narrow alleyway and ditched him. Other riders, farther back, saw the shithead stop, get out of his car, stare intently at a blob of flour in the street, and whip out his cell phone. When the other riders passed the shithead, he yelled that he was calling the cops. Several minutes later, straggling members of the pack passed a cop car stopped near some flour on trail.
Those of us who had already finished trail were at the on-after pub, ordering drinks and lunch. We heard part of the story from the rider the shithead went after, more from the riders behind him, and more from the stragglers.
What we didn't know, as we were joking and laughing about outrunning the law, was that the responding policeman had called in the Tucson Fire Department, and that TFD was advancing, flour mark by flour mark, toward the pub.
Four firemen came in through the back door, following the big chalk true trail arrow pointing inside. The bar in the back was full of badass motorcycle types, who without hesitation pointed toward the dining room and said "they're in there."
We looked up to see four big firemen staring down at us. "What is that stuff?" asked one of the firemen. "Flour," said the hare. And . . . they laughed. And we laughed. And everything was cool. You know, after this morning, I'm ready to believe Tucson really is a bicycle-friendly town! TFD, you're the best.
On-Afters with the Tucson Fire Department
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