A Quiet Place on the Trail

Picture this: I am strolling up a quiet trail in the Santa Monica Mountains, whistling a charming ethnic tune my mother taught me and listening to the twitter of rufous-sided towhees.

From far off I hear a faint whirring sound and cup one hand to my ear, like a maiden in a fairy tale harking to the buzz of an insect in the chaparral; perhaps a cricket rubbing its thighs together to summon a love of its own.

Then I hear the shout, “Go, dude, man rip ‘er out,” and I realize this is no love-smitten cricket. I leap to the side of the trail, barely escaping three teen-agers from hell coming at 40 m.p.h. on fat-wheeled bicycles.

It’s happened.

The birds and I have had to scatter for our lives to escape the dimwits howling down on us like banshees, leaving shattered serenity and an enraged, otherwise peaceful stroller in their wake.

The incident, one of many, occurred on a fire trail in Topanga State Park, where I often spend my leisure. As a result of these encounters, my attitude toward mountain bikes is not what you would call forbearing, unless you perceive forbearance in the attitude of the Israelis toward the Palestinians.

I therefore view with alarm the possibility that these kamikaze cyclists will soon be allowed not only on fire trails but on hiking trails as well. Heaven help the rest of us.

Even as I write, a policy regarding bikes in the Santa Monica Mountains is under review by the California Department of Parks and Recreation. Should they or should they not be allowed on hiking trails whereupon stroll decent, God-fearing, flag-loving people like you and me?

The Park Department’s Dan Preece, who oversees the Santa Monica Mountains District, has made his recommendations to Sacramento but won’t tell me what they are. I’m hoping for the best but preparing for the worst.

That is not to say I believe everyone on a mountain bike is thoughtless and demented. Many of them no doubt read and write, have learned to tie their own shoelaces and are kind to puppies.

But the others have little regard for bones or speed limits, and set out each weekend to break them with impunity on the fire trails of the mountain parks. To allow them on hiking trails would be to put rattlesnakes in a baby’s crib.

The Sierra Club feels the way I do, only more so. It would allow only coyotes and barefoot children in the park and views with horror the possibility of wheeled vehicles on the trails, including bicycles. The jury is still out on baby carriages and wheelchairs.

One big problem, says Sierra Clubber Dave Brown, is that you can’t hear the bicycles coming, except for the insect-like whirring sound. Brown is chairman of the club’s Santa Monica Mountains Task Force.

“The silence, speed and growing numbers of them make them incompatible with the natural outdoor experience,” he said. “They will take over easy hiking trails used by senior citizens and bird watchers. Old ladies will be in danger of being clobbered.”

Senior citizens and bird watchers cartwheeling down a mountainside, while amusing, would certainly not add to anyone’s enjoyment of the parks.

I put all this to Peter Heumann, who is on the steering committee of the Concerned Off Road Bicycle Assn.

Peter is one of the good guys. He is not, as he puts it, a 15-year-old trying to take your elbow off on a downhill run.

If Peter on his bicycle and me on my feet happened to meet unexpectedly on a precipitous trail, I know Peter would ride off into space rather than jeopardize my safety.

Peter, in short, is a saint.

“Sure there are irresponsible cyclists,” St. Peter said, “just as there are irresponsible hikers and irresponsible equestrians, but the Sierra Club doesn’t own the mountains. We pay taxes and have a right to enjoy them too.”

If bicyclists don’t belong on the trails, he adds, then equestrians don’t belong on the trails either.

“Your right to peace,” St. Peter declared, “should also include not stepping in horse manure.”

The trouble with talking to reasonable people on both sides is that you end up like a feather in the breeze, floating somewhere between them.

But I still don’t think even St. Peter is going to be able to control kamikaze bicyclists on mountain trails, and they don’t belong there until someone can.

I want to go back to listening to the Rufous-sided Towhees and the love call of crickets without fear of being skewered on somebody’s handlebars.