Back at the Rusty Bucket Ranch, the “bikeys” were getting to be a problem. There were a lot more of them that summer, as word had gotten around about the ‘shortcut’ to the state park and beaches of West Marin. “They’re like all varmints,” Otter drawled while sharpening his knife. “If ya don’t make ‘em uncomfterble, there’ll be more and more of ‘em.” He closed the gate and put a big, homemade “No Trespassing” sign on it, complete with skull and crossbones. But alas, the downhill slope and creek were too inviting, even though there was another way to the park: on the middle fork of the road, which went right past the China House. All the bikeys had to do was ride in a straight line, and there would be no problem. But the downhill fork was too tempting… they invariably opened the gate, and rolled down into Marty’s driveway as if they were on a tour.
Most of them behaved rather well as they trespassed. Some even waved in a friendly way, as if to say, “Yes, we saw your sign but we didn’t think it applied to us.” A few became belligerent, and argued with Marge when she confronted them, but they rode away hastily as soon as a swarm of hairy men came boiling out the cabin door like yellow jackets to protect her. Mike was very protective of his “new mom,” and was particularly aggressive. In reality, the White family considered it a nuisance to be enjoying lunch at their picnic table, or barbecuing on their deck, and have random bikeys ride right past their house, going ten or fifteen miles per hour. It added to their astonishment to see the riders dressed like colorful spacemen, in their spiffy spandex tights. Mike and Marty resourcefully prepared a bucket of water balloons, to increase the entertainment factor. Unfortunately, Marge wouldn’t allow bombarding the multicolored pests, for fear it would actually cause an injury. So they threw them at Susie and Tillie instead.
One day, Marge got a letter from the county that put her in an impotent rage. She stamped her tiny feet on the kitchen floor, rattling all the plates on the shelves. “They’re building a bicycle path right down the middle of our property!” She thrust the papers at Marty, as if he was supposed to do something about it. Her eyes were as prickly as barbed wire.
Marty glanced at the pages. “It says they are ‘considering’ a bicycle path on the right-of-way that exists on our property, blah, blah, blah… um, ‘due to an easement by the Marin Municipal Water District for the maintenance of the water pipe’ or something…”
“They’re going to put a bicycle path through my property?” She grasped the sleeve of his shirt accusingly. Marty could tell she was very agitated because she didn’t let go.
He read further, as Marge’s growing anger threatened to break the dishes, “It says here there will be a supervisors’ meeting to discuss the issue at the end of this month.” He put the papers down and looked at her seriously. “I think you can fight this.” Marty’s heart was pounding at the thought of a busy, paved bicycle path running all the way through their park-like property from end to end, no more than 20 feet from the windows! “What do you guys think?” he yelled into the main room.
“Yeah, kick their ass, Marge!” Mike offered by way of legal advice.
“Git yer whompin’ stick!” Otter exhorted from the couch, raising his beer in drunken solidarity.
“Don’t mess with the Raccoon,” advised Rabbit, shaking her head in sympathy for the poor supervisors who had no idea what they were up against.
Marge chewed on her lip and lit a cigarette. She got up and dragged her typewriter out from under the table, a 1929 Underwood with a bent ‘F’ key. “Gimme those,” she said, grabbing the papers out of Marty’s hand. She dragged the typewriter and a six-pack inside her burrow and bolted the door. Soon a frantic clack-clack-ding! chattered from inside, and the rest of the family gleefully speculated on the heap of trouble that Marin County had brought upon itself.
Grunion – or rather Susie – came up with a good idea: call the news stations and tell them their plight. Rabbit advised they might actually side with the bikeys, because there were more of them to purchase products from their advertisers, instead of a bunch of backward “forest hippies.” She was right – the news media had a lot of very wealthy consumers to consider. After debating the dubious merits of television exposure, they decided the less publicity, the better.
Mike and Marty pored over a map and schemed about getting a petition together for all the neighbors to sign. They considered going the entire length of the Valley, especially in places where the proposed path would encroach on people’s homes. Otter still advocated the whompin’ stick approach, and smashed empty beer cans with his fist.
The weeks passed quickly before the meeting, with Marge even taking time off work to do some research in the library. She appointed Marty proofreader and legal secretary of her defense team. She cranked out pages of material on that old Underwood, accompanied by artful, hand-rendered maps and diagrams that were all referenced in the text. “Presentation is everything,” she repeated, while binding it all together in a cohesive portfolio that would make Perry Mason proud. She made sure to deliver copies to the supervisors before the meeting. She even made extra sets of copies (in case they forgot theirs), and some for the press, too, or anyone else at the meeting who happened to need education about her inviolable rights as a property owner.
In a dusty box of papers in the back of her closet, she found a copy of the Water District’s easement on her property, which specified that “access would be granted solely for maintenance of the pipeline,” and if it was ever removed, the land would revert to the owner. This proved it belonged to her. The bike path advocates had to either prove that the project applied to public context as “maintenance,” or they had to present compelling reason to invoke eminent domain – neither of which was likely.
On the day of the hearing, a small but lively contingent of forest hippies formed a caravan of gypsy wagons, and rolled to the Civic Center to support little Marge in her confrontation with Goliath. Public meetings in Marin County usually didn’t draw much of a crowd. Marty speculated that this was probably the biggest crowd the supervisors had seen all year, and they didn’t even have a kegger! Marge made them all leave the house very well dressed and groomed, but once inside the meeting room, their tribe stood out like scruffy vagabonds at a garden club. A few equally under-dressed neighbors showed up to lend their support, including Big Billy and Millie. Annie and Mike fidgeted impatiently in the overly-formal setting, trying to keep their hands off each other. Across the room gathered the noble fraternity of bikey people, who posed and preened in their topsiders and khaki shorts, as if they had just stepped out of a Ralph Lauren catalog. They dismissed their opponents as beneath their concern, and the tribe glared back with hairy hostility. The supervisors inspected the woods-people over their bifocals; some with an amused twist in the corner of their mouth. The Chair had a remarkable comb-over that could have qualified as public art. He commenced the meeting, droned through preliminary administrative trifles, then proceeded to the main event.
“Now the Board will hear presentations from Mrs. Marjorie White, property owner, and…” he peered over his spectacles at the bikeys. “The ‘Marin Bicycle Coalition’ as they call themselves.” Yes! Marty thought to himself, he’s mocking them already! “First, let’s hear from Ms. White.”
“Thank you honored Chairman,” began Marge in her best courtroom voice. She had a college teaching degree, and could speak very clearly with proper elocution. She curtsied through page after page of descriptions about how the bike path would adversely affect the environment, increase creek erosion, and curtail the migration of salmon. She had also been an actress in her drama club in college. With effusive pathos, she described the unfortunate wildlife and nesting birds that would be displaced along the planned route, and oh by the way, the humans who actually owned the private property. She stopped at strategic points to clearly refer the supervisors to her maps and diagrams, and they eagerly followed her every revelation, like seniors at a bingo tournament. The bikeys started to get worried. The confident sneers on their faces were gone, having been replaced by furrowed brows. One guy in a pink polo shirt (who looked very gay) was chewing his fingernails.
Marge paraded through the legal precedents about so-and-so vs. so-and-so, and concluded her presentation efficiently, saying she knew the supervisors’ time was valuable, and she didn’t want to waste it on such a clear-cut case. In the saturated silence of foregone conclusion that followed, the bikeys looked utterly deflated. All the supervisors were sternly watching them expectantly. One of the male models who was their leader got up with a few notes on index cards and read haltingly about “reducing traffic” and “saving gas” and such, until a woman supervisor interrupted him and asked if they had any supporting documentation for their claims. The head bikey stammered, and the gay man looked like he might cry. “No ma’am, I mean… your honor, um, we thought…” He looked at his comrades for support, but they had all turned into department store mannequins.
“The meeting is adjourned for fifteen – no, make it ten minutes.” said the Chair. The supervisors and scribes filed out of the room silently, with a purpose. The bikeys were stunned, and couldn’t look at Marge and her band of gypsies, but whispered furtively in anxious little knots.
“I thought that went pretty well,” beamed Marge at her table, while others leaned over to whisper their congratulations; trying not to celebrate prematurely, or disrupt the austere decorum of the chambers.
The supervisors returned in four and a half minutes. Before they even sat down, the Chair announced, “We have voted unanimously to cancel the bike path proposal permanently” – he backpedaled – “Or, at least until sufficient evidence can be offered to justify the use of eminent domain to develop private property for recreational purposes… blah, blah, blah.” Marge had won! The forest hippies stood and cheered. The scorned bikeys stalked out. Two of the women supervisors clapped. It was all so warm and cozy, with a fresh-baked cupcake smell!
Marge was in the newspaper the next day in great detail, because she had already sent a press release informing the Marin Independent Journal of her case, assuming they had space to fill and could use a ready-made story. The tribe staged a victory party for friends and neighbors, and it developed into a full-fledged kegger party. As a prank, Little Billy and Earl dressed up as bikeys and pedaled back and forth down the old railroad bed, dodging the empty beer cans being thrown at them, and gesticulating like the Italian cycling team. Marty was really proud of his mom for standing up for her rights, and not letting a bunch of politicians do whatever the rich people wanted them to do.
