A sign read “TEMPORARILY CLOSED – DETOUR AHEAD,” but the detour wasn’t clear. And cyclists, as Clarence would soon learn, didn’t like losing momentum. They looked for shortcuts. His yard became one.
At first, it was one or two riders—young, fast, darting through the edge of his grass like they were barely touching it. Clarence saw them from his kitchen window, his spoon pausing in mid-air. They zipped across the corner of his lawn like it was nothing.