Good dog

Let me regale you with tales of this evening's ride.

It's that or the thumb screw. Your choice.

Yeah... I thought you'd see it my way.

So anyway, I was on my way back from a doctor's appointment this afternoon, moonroof open, sweating in my flannel shirt when it occurred to me that it just wasn't natural to be having such beautiful weather on the 24th day of January. So unnatural was it that I naturally decided I had to have myself a ride after work, and Nabumetone be damned.

The sun was already setting by the time I got under way, so I rode with my blinky going and my headlight on. Apparently, being able to see me infuriated one Escalade driver, who proceeded to get right on my wheel and follow me through the ritzy neighborhood. I kept trying to wave her around, but no luck. Finally, after she'd gotten herself worked up enough, she waited until there was a car coming the opposite direction and laid on the horn. I sort of guessed it was coming and managed not to swerve in front of the oncoming car.

I nearly soiled myself, but finally the jerkweedette had got her post-commute kick-the-dog therapy out of her system and went around.

Silver lining: the adrenaline jolt I got from the encounter with Ms. Bling served me well when I had to evade an ambush by a couple kids who'd gotten bored of shooting at one another with their paintball guns.

But all that is pretty common stuff and not the point of this entry.

Dogs: the cyclist's arch nemesis.

Okay, maybe not the arch nemesis, because they're only doing what comes naturally, unlike aggressive drivers (who are also doing what comes naturally, though not as any consequence of evolution). And pavement cracks, which one might argue are a joint act of God and cities that grant construction contracts to the lowest bidder.

I chose this evening's route to include a bunch of protracted grades and one big hill, which meant that I had to pass along a stretch that I know to be the home turf of a couple vocal but not particularly aggressive dogs. They more or less know me by now and have either figured out that I'm too tough to eat, not worth the effort it would take to run me down (in light of my being too tough to eat), or that I'm really not planning to slip into the house to steal their giant, slobbery rawhide bones. Whatever the reason, we have an understanding.

Tonight, though, there were a couple new pooches on the block: a little one that looked to be somewhere between the size of a chihuahua (chi-hoo-ah-hoo-ah) and a Jack Russell terrier, and a larger one that appeared to have more than a little chow in it. They were chasing one another around the street, then chasing the minivan that nearly chased me off the shoulder trying to avoid them.

Yap, yap, yap... woof, woof, woof. Oh look! Something new to chase!

And then it was on. Within seconds, I felt my heart rate jump into the high 190s as I summoned the torque to try and outrun them. I had Stumpy up to around 20mph, and they were still on my heels like wolves on a sick, elderly buffalo. Daaaaang...

But wait. There's more.

I was rapidly (for me, at least) approaching the corner where my usual dogs live, and I could see them coming out so see what was going on. Then one of them took off toward me like a rocket.

Crap. Caught in a crossfire.

Or so I thought.

Just as I thought I was about to find out if all the things I'd heard about rabies shots were true, the oncoming dog shot past me. I sneaked a look back in my helmet mirror and saw—to my stark, breathless amazement—that it had intercepted the Cujo wanna-bes and stood them down.

Good dog.