Tall Grass

It was about fifteen years ago, around this time of year, early fall, midday, and warm. The prairie grass was long. I was riding my mountain bike on a trail that was almost entirely obscured. The thick, yellow grass was so tall that it was rolling over my hands as I rode through it. I was near Cedar Lake in Minneapolis riding on an area that, at one time, was an old lake bed. Flat and featureless, without trees. I was fit at the time, so I was riding fast. As far as I could remember, I’d never been on that particular trail before. I assume, by the density of grass covering the trail, that no-one else had ridden it in a long time either. It’s a rather public area. The trail was maybe two hundred yards from a two lane bike path we call the commuter trail. It’s heavily used and takes you into downtown Minneapolis. I’m sure people were around, but I wasn’t paying much attention. The trail, barely visible, was a blur. Like I often did, I was pushing it. I knew I couldn’t see the trail, but I’d gotten used to ridding in conditions where I couldn’t see well. That’s mountain biking, pushing your bike just past the point you’re able to consciously process what’s happening. When it’s good, you’re in a buttery flow just reacting to the moment in front of you. The grass was whipping my fingers and stinging my hands and legs. I was fully in the zone and happy to be riding something new. I lived less than a quarter mile from there and had ridden nearly ever trail possible.
New was nice.
Before I could process what was happening, I was over my handlebars. As I was flying through the air, my hands were the last thing to leave my bike as my legs catapulted over my body. My bike came to a sudden and violent stop. As mass does, my body maintained the velocity that had been interrupted only milliseconds beforehand. I crashed onto the ground in a violent heap. Landing on my back with a blunt hard thud, my entire body compressed like a great bellow, and the air from my chest exploded from me with a deep guttural burst. Recoiling on the ground, my body contorting from the blow, I dizzily tried to understand what had just happened. Straining my neck to look behind me, I saw a railroad tie across the trail. Immersed in pain and unable to catch my breath, I curled into a ball and moaned.
The tall grass obscured me.
I wasn’t lying there much more than thirty seconds before a man was standing over me.
“What-cha doin’?”
“I just… crashed… my bike”, I said in a week slow voice.
“What-cha doing?”
Knowing something was off, I reached behind me and grabbed my bike. Using it as a crutch, I slowly pulled myself to my feet.
Annoyed, I replied, “I just crashed my bike!”
“What-cha doin’?”
Without the ability to move quickly, I started to step away from this guy who was creeping me out.
“Where ya goin’?”
As I took another step, he reached out and aggressively grabbed me in the groin.
I paused for a second, shocked.
Instinctively, with as much force as I could muster, I punched him between his right eye and temple.
Presumably stunned, he stammered and ran away.
Astonished, confused, and still struggling to gain my breath, I fell back into the grass.
Stunned, I just laid there.
It took me a week to admit this to anyone.
Waiting for a time I could ask him privately, I asked my boss at the time if this was normal or accepted in gay culture? Taken aback, he assured me that it wasn’t.
In hind sight, I see the question was offensive.
I wish I hadn’t asked, but I was trying to make sense of what happened.
My head was still spinning.
Did I do something wrong?
Was that a pick up spot?
Maybe I shouldn’t have been there?
Did I look like someone that would be ok with that?
Could I have done something to prevent it?
I couldn’t process it.
Aside from Bryce, I didn’t tell anyone else for at least six months.
And then, I only told my wife.
Embarrassed, ashamed, and confused, I was slowly able to understand the assault for what it was.
To merge this fucked up thing into my reality wasn’t something I wanted to do. That’s the thing with assault, I didn’t get a choice. It happened and there is nothing I can do about it.
I swore that I’d never forget his face and someday I would find him.
I never did.
I wanted revenge!
I wanted him to pay!
Assault isn’t something you gleefully share.
Quite the opposite.
I think it’s common not to talk about it, don’t you think?
If you were assaulted, would you talk about it?
A great conversation starter, right?
No, it’s the opposite. You bring that shit up, over and over, and no one is going to invite you to the party any more.
That’s the reality, you know it’s true.
No one wants to talk about that.
When I tell people this story, it’s always awkward. They always ask the same question, “Do you think he put the railroad tie there?”
How should I know?
I doubt it.
If he did, he had to have been the most patient molestery freak ever!
My guess is, like most people that do this sort of thing, they are opportunistic, narcissistic assholes. Selfish people who pray upon the weak. I guarantee you he wouldn’t have done this if I hadn’t just crashed my bike and was gasping for air.
That’s the way this works.
Opportunistic, weak, selfish, immature, insecure, narcissistic assholes do this shit!
Imagine if the person who assaulted you was a person with power and influence?
What are you going to say?
Bill Cosby touched me?
Dr. Huxtable?
Bill Cosby, Bill Cosby?
What! Are you crazy?
Turns out, nope. He’s a sexual predator!
Who would have thought?
More to the point, who would have believed it?
When did it become convincing for you?
Was it when the first woman accused him? I doubt it. Bill Cosby? No way!
I was judgmental too.
It wasn’t until the numbers got upwards of twenty that I said, “What’s the likelihood they are all lying?”
Me, the guy who’s been assaulted and I still doubted these victims.
Which makes sense considering I even doubted myself.
That’s what the victims are up against.
That’s why victims stay silent.
In today’s world, if you say you’ve been assaulted by someone who admits they assault people, who brags they can assault people, and brags they get away with it because of their celebrity, people still doubt the victim.
Look how we treat these people who swallow their pride and admit something that’s so shameful to them!
They’ve been assaulted!
And then publicly shamed.
Ah, ya know, I’m probably making up that shit in the tall grass too.
Never mind me.
He’d make a hell of a leader,
No worries,
Carry on…