One big dog

Dear Blog Reader:  

I hope this blog finds you doing well. It leaves me invigorated and a bit chagrined. I feel invigorated because I feel like I stole two bike rides from old man winter this weekend. The sun was just bright enough that the snow on the road melted except for where the drifts had piled up. Thankfully farmers have decided not to worry about good neighbors and have abandoned their fences. No fence; no place for the snow to pile up behind, leaving rural children everywhere forlorn and without hope. So I was able to get out there in 22 degree weather and stay mostly warm.

I must admit that I feel a little chagrined also. I have been holding back on information about my life. Last week on a 23 mile ride on that balmy 52 degree Sunday, I turned south at about the halfway point of my ride. Looking up, an apocalyptic sight appeared about a mile down the road. I see a large person, a small person, and a large dog.

Any dog on a bike ride is a protent of dire events. Even the little short legged dogs with their needle like teeth could have the aerobic capacity to wear you down and and at the last second lunge at you, latching onto a calf, creating great pain. A dog, the size of this, would have a long enough stride to outrun me unless I was going downhill.

My SOP for encountering any dog is flight. There is no fight when you are balancing on two 3/4 inch tires 4 feet in the air while traveling 15 miles per hour. Adrenalized, the legs are a blur and the head is on a swivel trying to catch a glimpse of the end of life. You feel like a wildebeest on the Serengeti, realizing just a second too late that the herd has wondered off in cheetah alley leaving you as the guest of honor at the Circle of Life Banquet. The sudden burst of power does the trick, but with all of the attention paid to the legs, head, and dog; the lungs forget to get in on the show. Just as the pursuit starts to flag, the lungs start giving out and Marlin Perkins takes us to a commercial break. "My will the wildebeest make it out. Jim get out of the truck and go over and look. Don't worry your Mutual of Omaha premiums are all paid up."

What if this monster didn't care about the choker around his neck and in its primal desire to hunt things down broke free, and chased me down. Now before you think that it is all about me, the thought did cross my mind that it would be a terrible sight for the small person to see as their beloved canine knocked me from my ride and sunk his canines into my exposed neck. I promised myself that I wouldn't go down without a fight. I would teach that young child more cuss words in 30 seconds of tutelage than most people learn in a lifetime.

 But it was too early to panic, it could be a nice dog and I still had 3/4 of a mile left before we met formally. Slowing down, I was breathing deep trying to build up my oxygen capacity for my brief flight for safety. Catching my breath, I hoped to slowly build speed until I could see the leash straining and then speed by just as the owner could no longer hold on. Hopefully, as the leash slipped out of his hands, I would be going twenty miles an hour, gaining valuable space as the mighty Fido accelerated those long limbs carrying the mighty jaws of death on their killing mission.

One half mile, man, that is one big dog. Huge. What was the name of those dogs that are bigger than a Great Dane? Why would a person have a dog that big? Can you imagine how much it costs to feed a dog that big? That's probably why they are out on this Sunday afternoon walk. They can't afford to feed the damned thing so they are taking it out for a bicyclist buffet. I am glad I am wearing polyester tights. While not a pretty sight, maybe it will choke and die saving countless life’s after me. My demise won't be in vain.

One quarter mile, look at the size of the head on that thing. Turn that thing into the wind and it will slow him down. Well, its time to get on with it. Up on the pedals, cranking harder, shifting down, breathing deep, thinking of the opening salvo of  cuss words for my young padowan's lessons.

One eight of a mile, what kind of a dog is it? Wait, its not a dog.  What is it? It's. It's. It is a pony. A pony, a father, and a son were walking down a country road on a Sunday afternoon on a 50 degree January day.

Which brings me to my chagrined state mentioned early in this post. Yes, I kept this tale from you for a week. I was afraid that if I told you last week, you would give heed to your new year's yearnings to get out there and mix it up with the assassin deer that are lurking in the Indiana tree lines. Your participation would only fill up the roads.

Better that this story be shared on a weekend when the temperature is in the mid-twenties, or your quest for the wonders of the road would only be heighted when you realized that around the next corner is a family taking their pony out for a walk.

Take Care

Roger