He figured it was a mistake. Maybe they thought it was public land. So he printed out a polite sign: “Private Yard – Please Use Road.” He mounted it near the back fence on a metal stake and even laminated it against the weather. The next day, it was gone.
He found it in the bushes, bent in half like a forgotten flyer. That same morning, three more cyclists cut through—one of them steering so close to the rose border that petals scattered behind him like confetti. Clarence stood on the back steps, stunned.
Taffy barked herself hoarse. He decided to try the polite route again. That afternoon, he caught a rider slowing down near the gate. Clarence raised a hand. “This is private property,” he said, not unkindly.
The cyclist blinked and pulled out one earbud. “Oh—sorry. Just going around the construction. Won’t happen again.” But the very next morning, Clarence saw him again—same bright windbreaker, same tight turn through the middle of his grass.