Yes, I grumble about the number of cyclists on the trail, but if being startled from time to time by less than polite Tour de France wannabes is the worst complaint I can muster, if their gaily-wrapped hindquarters are all that mar my view of the trees, I also know the prosecution’s case is weak. Not that I intend to stop complaining. Not that I don’t fantasize about strewing the trail with tacks. Or neck-height piano wire.
6.5 miles due west of city center – as the Rabbit runs – is Furman Lake, where I sometimes sit for hours with a book and a bottle of water facing the bell tower, the foothills and the sky. 2.5 miles farther out is Traveler’s Rest and Leopard Forest, a coffee house plying the happy wanderer with soft upholstery and espresso since 2004, and two miles beyond that a dead-end road in the middle of nowhere, the trail’s ignominious end. But more to come, they say. Pumpkintown, perhaps.