Who let the dogs out?

Dangers lurk in every sporting arena. Athletes are punched, kicked, tackled, and run into by their opponents in some venues. Skiers crash at breathtaking speeds. Gymnasts leap into the air and flip on beams four inches wide. Tennis players wrench their knees this way and that with massive amounts of torque. Even golfers have errant balls to contend with, and watch out for those cleats.

Usually, though, these dangers are actually a part of the sport itself, and in some cases, part of the appeal. In football, you expect to be tackled, just like in gymnastics you expect to possibly land on your head while learning how to tumble. This adds excitement and adrenaline to the mix.

Cyclists have their own brand of adrenaline inducing incidents to deal with while riding their bikes. Cars, of course, are one such example. Potholes, railroad tracks, and rough roads are another.

And then, there are dogs.

Oh...are there dogs.

Yesterday whilst riding my bike on a lovely two hour ride through the gorgeous fall scenery, I encountered dog after dog. I have no clue why. Maybe it was the time of day, the late afternoon, that brought them out. Maybe it was my choice of roads. Maybe my bike smelled like snausages. Maybe it was just bad luck.

For the most part I was able to avoid them using the normal tactics. Outrun them. Yell, "NO!" if they get too close. I've yet to squirt a dog with my water bottle, though this of course often works wonders.

Finally, I turned onto NC-65, a road oft travelled with pleasure. Flat, well paved, and amazing eye candy to enjoy. As I rounded one particular corner, I saw a man in his front yard surrounded by dogs. One of them made to go, but he told them to stop. Finally! A nice, thoughtful man, keeping both myself and his dogs out of harms way. I smiled, slowed, and raised my arm, shouting, "Thank you!"

That's when the dogs actually attacked, after a cue from their master. He hadn't been holding them back to prevent them from running after me; he had been waiting for me to get closer.

So here I am, sprinting, seven hounds barking and snarling at my heels, some of them getting around the front of my bike, forcing me into the other lane (thank God there wasn't any oncoming traffic), and eventually even forcing me to stop. They started to circle me, so the ol' keep your bike between you and the dog trick was a no go. And the owner? He was watching it all, silently, hands in his pockets. I looked at him. He slowly started to turn and go into the house.

I'm sorry. If you are a minor, do not read the next sentence. But if ever there was a red neck motherfucker, this was it.

Fortunately, none of the dogs attacked. I dismounted and walked away, with them still barking but starting to turn back. My heartrate was definitely not in the coach mandated "endurance" zone. It was in the scared out of my gourd zone, and entering the mamothley pissed off zone.

I had two choices, one of which was smart, one of which was wildly stupid.

Guess which one I chose?

I turned off my Garmin (I mean, come on, have to preserve that average speed), turned around, and walked back to the house. The dogs once again started going crazy. I bared my teeth and shouted, "NO! BAD DOG! BACK!" It worked. They still barked, but retreated. Even as I marched up the driveway, I could feel them at my heels, but I knew they wouldn't actually mess with me. I leaned my bike against the car, took off my sunglasses, and went up to the glass side door.

There he was, sitting in an armchair, not looking at me.

I knocked.

He ignored me.

I knocked again.

His wife came to the door.

I explained to her that the dogs ran after me and he did nothing to stop them. I explained that I could have been severely hurt, not to mention the dog would have been toast had I hit it at 20 mph.

Her response?

"Well darlin', of course they're gonna chase you if you yell at them."

....................

To that, I replied if they could please post a sign saying, "Do Not Yell At the Dogs," the only counter I could come up with, explaining that yelling is one of the only tactics cyclists have if, as in this case, the dogs start to run out into the path of the bike or force the rider to dismount.

She saw me on my way, this time yelling at her dogs NOT to chase after me. They listened.

Interesting, isn't it, that the dogs obviously wouldn't run after me if the owner did in fact tell them to stop? Where was the husband's voice, while I was frantically yelling, "No! No!" and being literally chased down like an animal?

Of course, all I could do was ride away, completely at a loss as to why, because I choose to ride a bike, I become a symbol of liberalism, anti-Americanism, elitism, or any of the other -isms that cause such reactions from some rural residents. Enough rage to sic dogs on me.

I am not going to hold my breath for any "Do Not Yell at the Dogs" sign.

The worst part? Cyclists are expected to simply deal with this. As told to me by my local state representative, cyclists and their concerns are not even a blip on anyone's radar screen. And really, what can anyone do? Leash laws? In the rural south?

Excuse me, I just laughed so hard my dinner came out my nose and onto the keyboard.

Google in "cyclists and dogs" into a google search, and you get 789,000 hits. Type in "Dog bites cyclist," and you get 916,000 hits. Just like getting buzzed and run over by cars, dogs are just another live-with-it part of this sport.

Which of course begs the question. Why cycle? I mean, are those 110 minutes of freedom worth the ten minutes of terror?

Was Cujo a horrible horror film made in 1983, the heyday or horrible horror films?

::takes a bow::

Next time I go out past that house, as I must since NC-65 is a pretty major connecting road, I will take with me a canister of pepper spray.

And I will employ every ounce of willpower not to use it on the owner.