The most courageous men and women in the world aren’t Soldiers, Police Officers or First Responders.
They aren’t the Lobster Boat captains you see on Deadliest Catch, X-Games Competitors, Russian’s who free solo massive towers, Astronauts, Political Dissidents or those who sacrifice for others for like Mother Teresa.
The most courageous humans on earth are the Spandex Cyclists who brave River Roads during Pear Harvest.
Expecially, the wannabe Lance Armstrong’s who fearlessly traverse the stretch of double yellow lines between the bustling metropolis of Courtland, California and the Joe Green Ranch.
Flanked by popular trees on both sides of the road and blind corners that provide no turn out, these two miles of pavement, to me, are the most treacherous on the River Delta.
If you are leisurely peddling your $2500 set of carbon fibre wheels at the same time as two big rigs pass each other, what may seem like an idyllic ride, can turn into a horrifying tragedy in about two seconds.
These cyclist’s sense of entitlement is mind bogglingly millennial.
Imagine having the gall to think you are going to compete for lane space with Bay Area drug addicts, guard rails and speeding truck drivers, who are paid by the load, not the hour.
In this scenario, I sympathize with truckers.
Share The Road?
Fuck that.
Imagine being presented with the options of running into an orchard, driving into the river, slamming into an oncoming forty-ton Peterbilt or gently encouraging a 250lbs menopausal man to finish his once-a-week workout prematurely.
The choice is easy.
“Let’s see, should I lose my job and or my life? ….Or run a Fat Boomer off the road?”
Hmmmm….Decisions, decisions.
In principle, the cyclists should stay off River Roads entirely and invest in a Pelaton for God Sakes.
I’m surprised more of them haven’t been Darwined.
Or perhaps I haven’t heard out about it.
Unfortunately, these Spandex Cyclee’s weren’t the only thing to interrupt my harvest commute this year.
A few years ago, Waze and Apple Maps introduced Walnut Grove to this pesky thing called “Traffic.”
Bay Area drivers looking for a scenic short cut have flooded our Island communities with aggressive driving and Riff Raff.
Adding insult to injury, Cal Trans, in their infinite wisdom, decided to start road work on Twin Cities at the end of July, which coincided nicely with the height of Pear Harvest
The most trafficked time of the year.
Finally, bridges were forced to open multiple times a day to accommodate the Dutra barges that were moving enough rocks to plug up Hunter Biden’s left and right nostrils.
All along the mighty Sacramento, these rocks are used to reinforce levee systems.
Though these bridge openings caused severe traffic jams, at least they served a necessary purpose.
I can’t say the same about Cal Trans, Spandex Cyclists or Bay Area Commuters.
*****
As per usual, the highlight of my harvest had nothing to do with Pears.
My harvest highlight was accidently inciting a bank robbery with my little brother, Big Al.
Now, I know it’s not polite to make fun of mental illness in public forum, but no one actually reads this far.
If you have, I trust you will keep it between us girls.
To tell the abbreviated version, a disgruntled former sub-hauler pulled up to our farming HQ driving a Semi with no trailer in tow.
Driving his horse with no cart, as it were, he wagged his finger at us like a Middle Eastern Tyrant.
With a wild SSRI gleam in his eye, he demanded,
“I want $1 dollar or $10 million dollars!”
A wide variance indeed, but I felt like the chasm represented both poles of his love and hate for our organization.
Both graduates of the Nick Diaz school of conflict resolution, Big Al and I offered to enlist our services to our Uncle.
Our Uncle politely declined the generous proposal and instead, counseled us to call The Authorities.
This meant we were forced to pacify our lunatic friend until the cops showed up.
Though our crazed amigo veered wildly down the fuck around and find out continuum, I took solace in the fact that my brother packed a heater.
Forty-five minutes later law enforcement arrived and politely escorted our troubled friend off the premises.
I thought the story would end there, but I was wrong.
Enraged and penniless, our desperate amigo drove his inconspicuous Power Unit straight to the Bank of Alex Brown, where he parked and ran up to a teller with a note that read,
“I have gun, give me $$$$…”
The teller obliged and our Walnut Grove Bandito made off with $182 hard-won American dollars while driving my favorite getaway vehicle since a White Bronco raced down the 405.
With a classic sense of bureaucratic urgency and high levels of interagency coordination, it took three days to capture El Bandito de Walnut Grove.
I hopes he gets well, but in the interim, will be applying for a CCW tootsweet.
*****
After the 2023 harvest, the California Pear Advisory Board has put me on Double Secret Probation.
As Grand Vizier of the River Pear Estimating Committee, I misestimated the crop worse than the British misestimated the Turks at Gallipoli.
I should really get better at my estimating skills, but if corporate farming has taught me anything, it’s that the best way to abdicate responsibility is to blame mistakes on factors outside of my control.
Phases of the moon, wet winter, drought, floods or high heat are all fine petards to foist my stupidity upon.
In my defense, estimating a Pear crop is harder than explaining the difference between Wi-Fi and Bluetooth to a Boomer.
Pear tonnages depend entirely on how they are picked.
Market, pre-harvest intervals, availability of labor and weather are some, of many, factors that must to be taken into consideration before our green friends are plucked from their respective arboles.
Nevertheless, having such a discrepancy between what amounts to an educated guess, and reality, proved my own incompetence.
Hindsight is 2023.
Selah.