Continued: In harm's way: A biker's tale of being accosted on city trail

"I'm going to shoot him."

He jabs the gun onto the back of my head three times. I'm lying face-down in the middle of the concrete path. He's talking to his two friends, 3 feet to my left.

"Don't ... look up," one of them says to me.

"I'm gonna shoot him," the man with the gun repeats. He sounds anxious.

"Please don't," I say.

He jabs the gun into my neck and pushes up my helmet. He slides the muzzle up behind my right ear. I feel him lean in close. This is the end of my life. I'm about to be shot in the back of the head.

I stare at the ground and wait for him to pull the trigger.

• • •

It's Thursday, Dec. 4, 8:29 p.m. I know this because I'm just 300 yards south of the Franklin Avenue Light Rail station, where moments before I saw the 8:28 train approach. I will call 911 at 8:38 p.m.

Seconds before, I was pedaling at about 20 miles per hour along the Hiawatha light-rail path. I travel this route every day, passing dozens of pedestrians. It's unremarkable to see three young men walking along the path, particularly this early at night. So, of course, I was confused when, about 20 yards off, one began to walk in front of me.

As I moved toward the shoulder to pass, he stepped into my way. When I was within 5 yards he raised a hand and leveled it at my face. A gun. Is it real?

I spent four years in the Marine Corps Infantry. It was a 9-millimeter semiautomatic. I stepped down from the pedals and quickly sized up the situation. I was being robbed by three kids. Young adults, maybe, but not yet grown men. And they had a gun.

Suddenly isolated. No place to run. Nothing in my pack really worth fighting for. Cooperate.

"Get on the ground," said the one with the gun.

"Turn this thing off," one of the others said, kicking his foot near the headlight on the top of my head. He then reached down and peeled the pack off my back. "Is this everything? What else you got?"

"That's it."

I expected this to be over quickly. I never thought about what could happen after they got the goods. What more could they want?

Then came the threat.

I waited for the shot for about 30 seconds, then slowly raised my head. They were gone.

• • •

Nov. 20: A bicyclist on the Midtown Greenway near Cedar Avenue was knocked down around 10 p.m. by three men who then attempted to rob the biker at knifepoint.

Nov. 21: A bicyclist on the Midtown Greenway near Minnehaha Avenue was robbed around 8 p.m. by two men wielding a box cutter.

Nov. 24: A bicyclist on the Midtown Greenway near Nicollet Avenue was knocked down around 7 p.m. by two men who attempted to steal the bicyclist's pack.

Nov. 25: A bicyclist was attacked while riding near Hiawatha and Cedar Avenues around 6:30 p.m. and robbed at knifepoint.

I saw these reports on a local bikers website the day after my attack. I Googled "Greenway Bike Path Robberies." There had been as many as 10 similar incidents. Clearly a pattern. Clearly a problem. Why hadn't I heard about these?

The day I began getting angry, Minneapolis police issued a crime alert.

• • •

Two police officers arrived at 8:44 p.m., six minutes after I called 911. In the time that it took for police to respond, I was passed by four bicyclists, and in each case I flagged them down and told them what happened. Three continued down the path. The fourth, a young woman, stopped and waited with me until the police arrived.

The police quickly took my statement at the Franklin Avenue Station platform. Three times they asked if the suspects were black. Three times I said I wasn't sure of that much; they were wearing masks. All I knew was that three cowards risked up to 20 years in prison (the penalty for first-degree aggravated robbery in Minnesota) for:

1 pair of pants.

2 dirty shirts.

1 pair of dirty underwear.

2 broken watches.

Carmex.

Deodorant.

Plastic razor.

1 ballpoint pen.

A broken camera.

The only item of true value was a journal: my story of a cross-country trip last spring to reconnect with my father. Beyond what I can easily recall, those memories are now gone.

• • •

I'm angry. Not so much that I was robbed -- I'm not so naive to think I'm invulnerable to crime. I'm angry because I can no longer bike on a busy Minneapolis thoroughfare without fear or suspicion. I'm angry that my family now lives in fear for my -- and their own -- safety. Mostly, though, I'm angry because of the silence. It took nearly 10 violent assaults -- that we know of -- before police warned the public.

Two days after the robbery, I returned to the scene in daylight. I hoped to find my notebook. It was eerie. Quiet. And somehow much more isolated than I could ever remember. I wandered into the Seward neighborhood beyond the station and felt terribly uneasy.

I have not ridden a city trail since. But I can't say I would have done anything differently.

I keep returning to that moment when the robbery was over, and the gun was at the back of my head. We live our whole lives thinking ahead, from our next breath out to planning and thinking in some way about tomorrow.

For that split-second, I was not moving forward. That was the end of my life.

I don't want to get stuck there.

Troy Melhus • 612-673-4883