Squirrels and hellhounds and mummies...

...oh my!

That's just my way of leading into saying that my first Dawn Patrol with a couple of my MS 150 teammates was good for a laugh or two. More, actually, but most of those were the result of offbeat conversations I had with the woman I've come to (and will henceforth) refer to as "Squirrel Bait". In other words, ya hadda be there.

To those of you thinking, "Aw for the love of Mike, not another cycling post", all I can say is that it's either a) this, b) yet another tired rant about Dallas drivers, or c) some rather dodgy commentary on Dancing With The Stars and Heather Mills' leg.

So there I was at 7:00 yesterday morning, sitting in my car, in the dark, next to a practice soccer field. I was waiting for St. Bob and Squirrel Bait to arrive so that I could join them for their weekly Dawn Patrol. Around 7:30, they rolled into the parking lot, and we made our final preparations.

As we headed down the White Rock Trail toward the lake, the sun had officially risen seven minutes earlier, but we only saw what filtered through a layer of thick, gray clouds. As we rolled down the trail, choking on a thick miasma of gnats, SB and I wondered what Bob had eaten for breakfast. St. Bob, who always claims to ride at a steady 13-14 mph, was 20 yards ahead, thundering down the trail at 17 mph!

How Squirrel Bait got her name

In previous conversations, Squirrel Bait had made comments about ninja squirrels leaping out of the underbrush. Hurling themselves at her wheels. Attempting to commit sudoku* in her spokes and launch her over the handlebars. I always smiled and nodded, but secretly thought she might be overstating a bit. After all, what cyclist hasn't had to dodge a squirrel or three? Well, I've never seen anything like it. Over the course of 3½ hours and 50 miles, I must have seen over a dozen squirrels make attack runs on poor SB. It didn't matter whether she was up front, in the middle, or sucking wheel at the back. The squirrels made a beeline for her every time.

Personal fitness and the undead

We saw and evaded enough joggers to populate the Boston marathon. Anyone who has ever ridden a bike around the roads and multi-use paths in and around White Rock Lake knows that les boyz de coureur de cycliste** are an irritant, but at least they are conscious of the other traffic. The roving packs of joggers are worse, because they stick their noses in the air, spread out across two-thirds of the breadth of the path, and simply assume that everyone else will get out of their way. [directive: abort rant - CONFIRMED]

After the first hour or so, the larger mobs of joggers had finished, and Squirrel Bait and I started observing the smaller groups we passed. One guy in particular caught our attention at the same time: keeping pace with a group of much younger runners, this guy looked like a Slim Jim with sticks for arms and legs. His gait was stiff and awkward, his mouth gaped, and his eyes were wide and staring. He fit perfectly my mental image of the lead character in the not-soon-to-be-released Sean of the Dead II: Let's Get Physical.

But note that I said "keeping pace." I should be so lucky as to still be out there getting it done, when I'm that old and dessicated.

Devil dogs

Just as we came off a crowded "multi-use" bridge, we rounded a bend in the path and came face to face with a pair of large, orange-furred, dogs being led on leads by an older gentleman. Short leads, fortunately. These critters didn't utter a discouraging word and didn't make any false moves as we rode by. But with their odd coloring and their matching orange eyes, they were... unnerving. My first thought was that this was what Cerberus must've looked like (except without the extra heads).

I went Googling to see if I could round up a picture to share. My initial attempt came up with this, which obviously isn't any kind of dog but is still pretty cool (I think Gwynne will appreciate it). After a bit more digging, I found what I was looking for: my hellhounds were French Mastiffs. The third picture down does a good job of summing up my impressions as I passed.

In closing

We had a really nice ride and had an added cause for celebration, because it was Squirrel Bait's first 50-mile ride. I also rode on Saturday and ended the weekend with just shy of 100 miles under my belt. At this rate, and if I keep my pace down, I should be ready by the time the MS 150 ride rolls around in May.


* That's, ah say, that's a joke, son.
** Pseudo French for "the cyclist racer boys"—those overblown lycra-wrapped egos who seem to think that the stroller-strewn paths around the lake are their own personal time trial course.


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