A potential "Pinkbike hates our freedoms" thread


Turbo Monkey
Feb 25, 2004
I am Fine

My day begins at 6:30 in the morning, the sun breaking in a bright pink explosion across the sky behind the desert mountains. The smell of coffee wakes my sleepy head, accompanied by the sounds of my daughter asking me to turn on cartoons. Coffee poured, daughter is waking up on the couch. I put my shorts on, followed by a vest that is supposed to stop bullets. Another shirt, a belt and then guns, radios, handcuffs and badges. My daughter and I share a bowl of oatmeal and she reminds me that coffee is not for little girls and only for daddies. My son eats his cereal and bananas. Before I leave I kiss my wife, son, and daughter goodbye. I tell them I love them and will see them soon. As I walk out the door my three year old daughter asks me "Are you fine?" I am fine.

I meet my partner and we drink coffee and eat donuts. Gotta keep up appearances. Helmets and gloves donned, bikes are checked. Last minute details attended to. The daily crime fighting adventure begins. As I pull out of the parking lot I tell him that we are cheating. We ride quietly through traffic casually cruising between cars as they are stopped at a traffic light. I knock on a lady's window and tell her that her brake light is out. She looks at me like I am a space alien and I keep riding. Later, while riding down a dirty alley, empty except for us, the peaceful morning silence is broken by a man yelling and a door slamming. We stop and know the sound is that of violence, either already occurred or about to. I turn my radio down and quietly tell my dispatcher our approximate location. We get off our bikes and quietly climb up and over a fence, the backyard is littered with bottles and trash. We come up along the side of the house concealed in the morning shadows as a woman coughs and lights up a crack pipe in the bedroom. The smell is unmistakable, crack, poverty, despair. A topless man in the driveway picks up a broken chunk of concrete, yells once more and throws it at a fleeing vehicle. It smashes into the trunk, tires squeal, the vehicle is gone. We are still invisible. A baby's cry goes unanswered from inside the house. As I emerge from behind a bush on the side of the house the man is surprised to see us. He looks long enough to register that my gun is pointed at him and he has nowhere to go. He glances down the street to see if he wants to run. I tell him to get the f*ck on the ground, he does. He is quickly handcuffed and we enter the house. The woman, crack pipe in hand is trying to calm the baby, who only starts screaming louder. She looks at us coming through the door and yells at us cursing and screaming, the baby oddly enough stops crying and looks at me from the floor. A broken situation. The women runs to the bathroom while clumsily jumping over trash in the hall. She leaves the baby behind. My partner chases her and tackles her before she flushes 10 crack rocks down the toilet. Inside the bathroom there is a butcher knife in the sink and the bathtub is filthy with black mold. My partner walks out of the bathroom holding the woman by the arm, her thin bathrobe nearly falling off. He holds the little crack rocks like marbles and smiles at me. The tattoo on her neck reads "only god can judge me". I put my gun in its holster and pick up the baby. Rummaging through the kitchen I find a diaper and change the boy. I tell the baby it will be okay. I am lying. Two broken souls going to jail again, one child given a temporary reprieve from violence and abuse long enough to register what a regular life could be like. I did my job but have been doing it for long enough to know that I didn't save the day.

The afternoon comes and I go home. I take off my gun, my badge and vest and hug my daughter, kiss my wife and son. They are all happy to see me and I don't tell them what I did that day. My wife sees in the way that I take off my uniform that I had a long day. She tells me to go ride. Singletrack will be my refuge today. Pain my confidant. I load my bike up in the plastic back seat of my patrol car, which hours earlier was taking people to jail. The seat is scraped up from where my big chainring eats into it. I pull into the trailhead parking lot and am the only car. I begin to climb. My legs burn, my lungs burn. Sweat runs down my nose and drips onto my top tube. The climb feels good and I press harder on the pedals and drop my heaving chest down and suck in the warm, dry desert air. I climb up and briefly look down on the city which from afar seems so tranquil and the events of the day go away. Taking a moment to drink some water and close my gloves my feet click in and I am free once more. I sprint into the downhill and push my bike into the trail gaining as much speed as possible before the first corner. I lean and let the front and rear tires drift across the rough surface of the trail. Leaning over the bars I glide through the turn, grimace and stand on the pedals. I gain speed and the next rock section is cleared without my wheels ever touching it. I am reminded of the moment on a bike when as a teenager I became angry and quit riding my bike like I was looking for something more and started to ride like I was going to leave everything behind. The moment where I figured out that through pain and speed comes simple clarity and numbness. The feeling of my tires on the trail is perfect and timeless. I know that it will happen again just as it has happened before. I glance over my shoulder and see a thin wisp of dust kicking up behind me. Me and my bike, a simple perfect solution to coping with problems, celebrating. Always looking for that fleeting but perfect moment where everything slows down and comes at you in a crisp clean purity. I look for that, ride after ride and usually find it, but am always surprised when it shows up again.

I walk through the door at home and my son crawls up to me and grabs my sweaty leg. My daughter runs up wanting a hug and kiss and asks me her question "Are you fine?" I am fine.


Feb 13, 2004
looking for classic NE singletrack
i thought you would be above such a southern white trash delicacy......
I am. It's just that Dunkin Donuts went from being "made behind the glass by that weird fat guy" to "made the night before at a central location and are dry and stale and nowhere near as good when they finally show up". The joke just wouldn't have been as funny to those who hadn't grown up in the North East so I substituted KK for DD. :thumb:


Ociffer Tackleberry
Feb 27, 2002
Blindly running into cactus
alternate alternate title:

"Hi I'm Manimal"
nah..i don't care enough to write garbage like this:

I tell the baby it will be okay. I am lying. Two broken souls going to jail again, one child given a temporary reprieve from violence and abuse long enough to register what a regular life could be like. I did my job but have been doing it for long enough to know that I didn't save the day.
i've been doing my job long enough to know that this guy hasn't been doing his job all that long because he still thinks he had some kind of impact on that kid. he'll be really pissed in about 7 years when that kid gives him the finger and tells hims to eff off.

i try and tell only humorous stories about stupid people doing stupid things. i don't pretend to believe that people want or need to hear about tragic ghetto stories...if they did, we wouldn't have suburbs.

on a more positive note..i did get to test out which frangible 12ga. door breech round works best for our purposes yesterday :D
Last edited: