The Bridge is Out

Riding along racing the fading daylight in the north LA woods I came along to the Thompson Creek bridge. It was a beautiful bridge, old and wooden, with soaring rusted steel trestles spanning an eighty foot gorge where Thompson creek ran. This pretty bridge was adorned with faded graffiti and a curious sign: Bridge out. There were barricades in front, and a mound of dirt blocking the way. Well, I'm three hours down this road, it will be dark if go back, I thought. Here before me appears to be a bridge, so let's just see how out she is. As I made my way onto the bridge I was very aware of the creaking cross timbers, rotting and not quite moored down. Now this isn't so bad, thought I, unsafe in a car but surely not impassable. And then I came to the last fifty feet or so on the far side, and I saw that there were no cross timbers there, just the solid support beams stretching to the far side. I sat for a bit, cussed for a while, offered up a prayer to the patron saint of cyclists. Then I unpacked Bessie and began my balancing act, a highwire performance for the forest and creek. Two trips for the bags, and one for the bike and I was across. As I was packing up on the far side a man in a truck pulled up and asked if the bridge was out. I gave him my qualified opinion. He then asked me if I was out here alone and I almost said yes before the Houston kicked in. "No sir, I'm winning the race," said I. "What race is that?" "Well the Baton Rouge chapter of the NRA's annual Battle from Baton Rouge to Biloxi. We do it once a year to raise money so we can lobby for less stringent concealed carry laws." "Good luck to you son, ya'll ride safe."
And on down the road I went.