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Greenbelt Alliance In the News
June 7, 2007
The great sprinkler
storm of Greenbelt 2007
Andrew Leonard
I was kicking back, drinking a Sierra Nevada
Pale Ale, trading war stories about a long, long day on the Go Greenbelt
Ride.
I had set up my tent, been shuttled
to and from the Fairfield YMCA for showers, chowed down a couple of spicy enchiladas,
and was feeling pretty good about the world in general. That day, I had ridden
to the summit of Mt. Diablo, with the executive director of the East Bay Bike
Coalition, Robert Rayburn, on my left, and a member of the board of the San Francisco
Bike Coalition, Ann Lyons, on my right. I had spent the day imbibing the strategy
and tactics of bike activists in the Bay Area. I had listened to a presentation
by Greenbelt Alliance's field representative for Napa and Solano counties concerning
the complex array of initiatives and zoning issues and development fights that
she was involved in. I had all kinds of ideas for a blog post that would provide
a bit more nuance about sustainable development than the simple-minded "sprawl
is bad" message that I have been guilty of pushing in my first few posts
this week.
And then someone burst into the room, and, in a tone of some urgency blurted: "Anyone
who set up a tent -- the sprinklers are on!"
To understand the alacrity with which I burst out of my seat, you would have
to realize that one of the main things that Greenbelt riders do, aside from riding
and eating, is recounting the legends and lore of Greenbelts of yore. And one
story that I had already heard more than once was the tale of the year the sprinklers
went on in the middle of the night on the lawn where the campers had pitched
their tents. Oh, the pandemonium!
I recalled with a jolt of fear that while my rain fly was on, it wasn't zipped
up at the entrance to the tent. I bolted to the lawn. Chaos! Some campers were
trying to contain the sprinkler flow by covering them up in various inventive
ways (my favorite was staking a foil tray that had held enchiladas to the ground
with two spoons.) Others were busy dragging away their gear with frenzied haste.
I noticed, with horror, that a sprinkler was right in front of my tent, drenching
my sleeping bag, backpack, pillow and biking shoes. My tent was staked, but I
grabbed low, ripped the whole thing out of the ground, and pulled it out into
the dry parking lot.
Then I had another beer.
Steve Van Landingham, the heart and soul of the Greenbelt Ride, stood watching
the chaos with his arms folded, and said, with an impish grin, "this hasn't
happened in ten years!"
I was unamused by this historical reflection. A wet sleeping bag makes a tired
biker very sad.
So I had another beer.
And somehow I found myself stunningly unmotivated to put together a blog post,
and scramble around for a wi-fi connection. So I didn't. Heck, it's not like
I'm getting paid for these blog posts -- I'm on vacation for crying out loud.
Somewhere between the moment when the Great Sprinkler Storm of 2007 ravaged my
tent and opened me up to good-humored mockery, and the moment when a bus full
of bikers destined to be shuttled over the bridge to Benicia chased me down in
the streets of downtown Martinez, I became as infatuated with interacting with
the Greenbelt riders as I was with the riding or the ideology behind Greenbelt.
In other words, I was and am having a lot of fun hanging out.
This is all a convoluted way of explaining why there are unlikely to be any more
blog posts about the Greenbelt Ride until it is over. What little time I've been
able to spend writing is time not spent in full immersion, and I've decided to
give in. I'll save the nuances for later. Right now, I feel like I've just reached
the crest of a ridge after a long hill, and I'm poised to begin an amazing, headlong
descent through redwoods and oak trees and vineyards and pastures, keeping one
eye on the stretch of pavement immediately ahead and another on the golden brown
vista that is the hills of California summer.
Go Greenbelt!
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