Home Invasion
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| Lodging accommodations for the Munson Road Tests I & II; 855 square feet above a one-car garage |
Munson
and I waited nervously in the front bedroom while bedlam raged on downstairs. Munson was lying on the bed
and I was on a cot. We’d both chosen to
keep our clothes and shoes on, figuring it would be more practical when the
police arrived. The two dozen lunatics
holed up in Munson’s garage had been going at it for a couple of hours and
it was now past three in the morning. This was the first night of an event that had been labeled the "Munson Road
Test". The participants were made up of mostly thirtysomethings who rode bicycles together at night in Los Angeles
and who had descended on Munson’s place in San Francisco
The
first road test had been held the previous year in 2009 but nothing like
this had taken place. This year the seven-hour drive crammed into various cars coupled with a sudden massive influx of alcohol upon arrival had unleashed the inner demon from this otherwise harmless looking group. The non-stop simultaneous shouting of the 20 plus bike people was accompanied by a young woman name Kel who produced earsplitting clanks by relentlessly whacking a cast iron sewer pipe with a hatchet. There was also an old sofa bed that, judging by the pile of remnants we found the following morning, had served as a trampoline.
Munson's place was the typical San Francisco shared-wall housing construction and couldn't have been more ill-suited for such middle-of-the-night gonzo revelry. Munson and I knew that there could be little if any difference between what we were hearing and what it sounded like in the neighboring houses. The fact that we were responsible for these maniacs being here gave us some idea of the mixed emotions Oppenheimer must have felt watching that mushroom cloud rise into the New Mexico sky.
The prior year only a few hardy souls had opted to sleep on the concrete floor of the garage as the majority of the group had slept on the living room floor and others took to the back bedroom.
With the exception of Irish-Catholics, most people would be somewhat put off if asked to share 800 square feet with two dozen other people. This prompted Michael and I to drive up to Munson's two weeks in advance of the second road test and install a series of tiered bunk beds in the rear of the garage. The end result resembled POW style sleeping quarters that would allow anyone who tried them to determine if they had issues with claustrophobia.
Although we meant well, in hindsight the idea was ill-conceived. Instead of having the group spread out over several areas on two floors like the previous year, we had effectively reduced the square footage by half and stuffed everyone and their bikes and gear into an unfinished, windowless space. The part of the garage that wasn't filled with bicycles looked like a set for a remake of The Hanoi Hilton.
Lying there in the dark with the constant roar and clanging below, Munson asked, "Any suggestions for when the Police get here?"
I said, "Well I think we can assume that once they've handcuffed everyone downstairs they'll want to speak with the owner. That's your cue to step forward and tell them it's a home invasion and you've never before laid eyes on any of these people."
Munson said, "That might work. Hell, the cops will see right off we're at least twice as old as everybody else."
I said, "I'm amazed the cops weren't here an hour ago."
Munson said, "You may have Doug to thank for that."
I said, "How so?"
Munson said, "You know what a bitch parking can be on this hill. When Doug was living here he always parked in the space in front of the house. One night some poor bastard took the spot and Doug torched his car."
I said, "Jesus. Seriously?"
Munson said, "I can't say I was that surprised. Doug could really go off the deep end at times. There's some rough characters in this neighborhood but everybody, and I mean everybody, gave Doug a wide berth after that. It's the only reason I can think of why no one has called the cops."
The ruckus in the garage eventually burned itself out. No police appeared and not a single comment, let alone complaint, was ever made by any of the neighbors.
The next day around mid-morning as Munson and I watched from the front steps, the garage door opened and a few brave souls began to venture out onto the driveway. People were moving cautiously, some retreated back into the garage once they had encountered daylight. Others stood in the doorway unsure of their next move. Eventually a few more emerged while rolling a bicycle alongside to help prop them up.
I said, "This reminds me of an eighth-grade science film showing the first amphibians making their way out of the water on to land."
Munson said, "My God, you're right. We just need a John Williams soundtrack."
Over the next hour Munson and I observed the group progress slowly through a type of metamorphosis. It began with only slight indications that they might go for a ride Then it seemed the idea was given serious consideration while some people fiddled with their bikes or even mounted them and coasted across the street and back. The group momentum would build and then fade, build and then fade, to the point where it seemed the ride would never materialize. Suddenly, a critical mass of anti-inertia welled up from an invisible source and they rode off en masse. This same mysterious ritual was repeated in full each morning.
Every morning after the group of cyclists disappeared down the hill, Munson and I would drive out to Golden Gate Fields to spend the day at the track. At days end everyone would make their way back to the house and we were updated on the group's efforts to see the sights and entertain themselves.
The cyclists came straggling in over a span of several hours having managed to overcome the brutal hill on which Munson's place sits. Bicycles were stashed in the garage and the cyclists somewhat exhausted and three sheets to the wind, retired to the backyard for beer under the Christmas tree lights.
There in the subarctic San Francisco evenings, Munson and I were given a full report covering the landmarks they'd seen, the taverns they'd sampled and the characters they'd encountered. The insanity of the first night evidently had purged the pus and venom from the group and the daily rides took enough out of them to prevent a repeat of Friday night's exhibition.
Munson and I are members of the social generation called Baby Boomers who were born after WWII. The cyclists included Generation Xers (born early 1960s to early 1980s) and Millennials (born early 1980s to early 2000s). Other than age, the gap between these generations was evident in only a few areas. No judgments implied mind you, Munson and I merely observed that the younger set differed from us in the following ways:
1. Self-mutilation - tattoos, piercings, etc.
2. Obsession with hand-held electronic devices.
3. Self-imposed obscure dietary fetishes.
Number 3 above was responsible for the day and a half it took Munson and me to prepare dinner for the group. We made four different types of lasagna. One was with meat, another was vegetarian, a third was vegan and I don't even remember what the other one was.
I suppose vegan and gluten-free diets are the sort of things modern man can afford to indulge in now that our days are no longer taken up by such things as maneuvering covered wagons over the Rockies.
However, when Munson arranged for a monstrous cake to be delivered it was gone by the following day.
Lying there in the dark with the constant roar and clanging below, Munson asked, "Any suggestions for when the Police get here?"
I said, "Well I think we can assume that once they've handcuffed everyone downstairs they'll want to speak with the owner. That's your cue to step forward and tell them it's a home invasion and you've never before laid eyes on any of these people."
Munson said, "That might work. Hell, the cops will see right off we're at least twice as old as everybody else."
I said, "I'm amazed the cops weren't here an hour ago."
Munson said, "You may have Doug to thank for that."
I said, "How so?"
Munson said, "You know what a bitch parking can be on this hill. When Doug was living here he always parked in the space in front of the house. One night some poor bastard took the spot and Doug torched his car."
I said, "Jesus. Seriously?"
Munson said, "I can't say I was that surprised. Doug could really go off the deep end at times. There's some rough characters in this neighborhood but everybody, and I mean everybody, gave Doug a wide berth after that. It's the only reason I can think of why no one has called the cops."
The ruckus in the garage eventually burned itself out. No police appeared and not a single comment, let alone complaint, was ever made by any of the neighbors.
I said, "This reminds me of an eighth-grade science film showing the first amphibians making their way out of the water on to land."
Munson said, "My God, you're right. We just need a John Williams soundtrack."
The cyclists came straggling in over a span of several hours having managed to overcome the brutal hill on which Munson's place sits. Bicycles were stashed in the garage and the cyclists somewhat exhausted and three sheets to the wind, retired to the backyard for beer under the Christmas tree lights.
Munson and I are members of the social generation called Baby Boomers who were born after WWII. The cyclists included Generation Xers (born early 1960s to early 1980s) and Millennials (born early 1980s to early 2000s). Other than age, the gap between these generations was evident in only a few areas. No judgments implied mind you, Munson and I merely observed that the younger set differed from us in the following ways:
1. Self-mutilation - tattoos, piercings, etc.
2. Obsession with hand-held electronic devices.
3. Self-imposed obscure dietary fetishes.
However, when Munson arranged for a monstrous cake to be delivered it was gone by the following day.