Lagniappe and the Grapefruit Trails.

"Lagniappe, a word worth travelling to New Orleans to get."

Mark Twain 

                   

The State University of New York may sound citified, but a 23 year old graduate hailing from the North Country is less educated than a Tulane water boy when it comes to anything New Orleans.


It was a year of wonder. The first time I ever saw a newspaper "machine" was on St Charles Avenue in the garden district. I stood at the Walgreens with a street car trundling by behind me, figuring out that one must deposit the quarter, pull the lid straight up, and grab the paper, all in one smooth motion. And if you don’t get it just right, the lid slams shut.  Again. 

That first issue of "Lagniappe" cost more quarters than my first go at Pong.

A fat little weekly, with a complete calendar of happenings about town, Lagniappe was a necessity for the New Orleans newbee. But what was with this name, Lag-knee-appy? What the heck could that mean? Fortunately I worked with some natives, always happy to set a naive New Yorker straight.


Lagniappe (pronounced lan-yap) is a little something extra. It's the something thrown in, the 13th donut in a baker's dozen.  It can be the bonus for a servant, or a free cookie for your child at the grocery store. 

Many years later, when I started triathlon training, lagniappe became my extra mile.

(Or the extra ten yards, or ten feet, depending on levels of exhaustion.) 

I do a little lagniappe whenever I can. 

After workouts, I always try to give myself the gift of something extra.  It might be a quick trip up an available flight of stairs or an extra lap in the pool.  Lagniappe makes me feel good about myself.   

Always strive for some lagniappe. It will make you happy. 

Popeye’s new bike arrived. With a few adjustments, a change of tires and a little Stan’s, it was ready to fly.  And although we were getting a late start for a Saturday, we couldn't wait to hit dirt.

Turkey Creek, our closest off road trail, has evolved with the years. Trees fall to hurricanes, fires burn and blacken, and forest service employees bulldoze. We barely recognize the new regrowth along the old twisting, rooty trails. We swoop along without retracing too many loops, or at least without being aware if we did.

An hour and a half passes quickly.

When we get back to the car, there’s a little time left before heading home to dress for Northstar’s birthday dinner.

Extra time means Lagniappe! And lagniappe from Turkey Creek means a quick dash to the Grapefruit Trails.

Hidden in the trees along a bank of the Melbourne Tillman Canal, the Grapefruit Trails have been constructed into a mountain biker's dream playground. 

Talk about lagniappe!  The guys who work on the Grapefruit Trails have definitely gone the extra mile.  Where once the trail was a sandy bank of eroded roots, there are now well groomed loops and swoops and dips and drops. 

Only a couple miles long, it's the perfect test ride with a new bike and only forty minutes.

Now from this point, I was planning to go on and yak a bit more about the Grapefruit Trails, and then write about Sunday's lagniappe, a double loop of the Econ. 

Maybe later. 

Something came up.

I forgot the camera.

Although I had taken plenty of pics at the Econ, I had completely forgotten to take pictures of the Turkey Creek ride and the Grapefruit Trails.  

So today I drive on over to the GF Trails, thinking I can take some pictures and get in my trail run there instead of Wickham Park.

I had a bad feeling.

Something less than good was going to happen.  I access my safety options before getting out of the car. 

The second biggest gator I have ever seen was in the Melbourne Tillman Canal, and a gator was the second biggest danger I could think of. 

A lot more likely scenario was a bum or a pervert camped out in the woods. 

I figure, what are the chances?  And what were the chances that I couldn't avoid, talk, or fight my way out of a confrontation? 

(Another day for martial arts stories.)

Briskly, warily, I hoof it south across the bridge and onto the path to the drop in.

Five bikers pop 2, then 3 at a time, out of the trail.  Two more travelling alone pass me on the singletrack.  I am surprised to see it getting so much use on a Monday lunch hour. 

Although the trail turns out to be every bit as crowded as a weekend, my bad feeling sticks with me, an unseen shadow hanging over my run.  I watch the bank closely for gators.

I hear it before I see it.    

A mountain biker's worst nightmare.

Worse than a gator.

Far worse than a bum.

Bulldozer.

I work up my courage and flag down one of the workers to question. 

Ed ain't no shy guy.  He tells me, "The bikers keep making trails in here and somebody's going to get hurt.  Every time we take out the jumps and trails, those mountain bike guys keep coming in and building them all over again." 

Yeah.  I know.  Crazy mountain bike guys.

"Who are you with again?" I ask.  

As I snap the picture, and chat with "Ed", two riders come face to face with the little Bobcat bulldozer gunning to the top of what used to be a well groomed drop. 

"Holy *&$#!", one of them yells, "Are you trying to kill us?"

"Not me," says Ed, "it's the lawyers.  They're out to get everyone."

It's the cycle of life.  The cycling life in Florida.

Bike people know that if we build it, they will come. 

With their lawyers and their bulldozers, they will come.

And if they come with their lawyers and their bulldozers, some crazy bike guy will rebuild. 

And every Ed knows it.

So to the bakers, the triathletes, the mountain bike trail builders, give yourself the gift of something extra.

Feel good about yourself.

Make yourself happy.

Go the extra mile.

Build it bigger.  Build it better.  Never give up.

And end it with a little Lagniappe.

Long live mountain biking.

Long live the Grapefruit Trails.