A Memory

Just the other day, I was out on a ride with a couple of friends. This in itself is worthy of note (in my small world) because it is quite a rarity these days, as I probably complete 99% of my miles/hours on the road all by myself (if you discount all the other non-cycling road users out there), so it was nice to be able to ride and talk. Better still, both were of a foreign persuasion – a Brit and an American – so I could have easy conversation in my mother tongue. Let’s face it, my Chinese is still rather rudimentary at best, so I am nowhere near at conversational level with the locals, although I can order coffee with some degree of confidence.

Back to the ride. It was a relatively leisurely affair for me, which was also another rarity as I have been fairly strict with my time of late, and usually ride with a specific goal in mind. Perhaps a set number of hours, perhaps some repeated hard efforts, perhaps twenty times back and forth across a convenient steep bridge. Essentially, I am trying to keep myself in a condition that allows me to be competitive, by which I mean competitive in the old farts’ category. Nothing serious. However, now that I have no racing on the calendar, I feel it is perfectly sensible to back off on the more intense stuff and just enjoy the ride. So, enjoy the ride I did.

We planned to ride up a local mountain. At the top of the climb, we stopped for a break. A group of locals wanted to take photos with us. No, I don’t know why, either. Of more interest was a sign, detailing some of the local flora and fauna, at the bottom of which was a warning. A pictorial warning, which seemed to suggest that you should be wary of looking up with your mouth open. Why? Well, because you would run the risk of having a bird crap in your mouth. Seriously. Jason captured the evidence.

Should you have an alternative theory for such a sign, I’m all ears. I guess it could be the prohibition of spitting star-shaped sweeties at magic sparrows. Yes, that’s it. We see that all the time around here.

As for the memory? Well, the little bird-crapping/sweet-spitting (delete as appropriate) warning reminded of a series of signs in the park around the Kaohsiung Museum of Fine Arts, and this one in particular.

It’s a genuine sign, and that’s not graffiti.

I wish the rest of life could be so honest.

Oh, go on then. Here are a few others from the museum park.

I like to call this fart wrists. It’s another major hazard, especially in August, when you are best advised to steer well clear of anyone wearing large bracelets made from dried tofu.

And this one is part of the co-ordinated effort to rid the island of the infamous Yoga-God sect. They wander around in leopard-skin leotards (ooh, two words beginning with leo but sounding totally different), seeking to convert unwitting passers-by. The headquarters, by a strange quirk of fate, is in Leominster, a market town in Herefordshire, believe it or not. Oh, they’re pronounced Lemster and Herrafudsheer, respectively. English, eh? What a wonderful language.