It would perhaps be obvious to state that cycling is full of occupational hazards. We accept things like crashing, injury, and illness as the inherent risks of getting on with the work. Out of superstition, we may not acknowledge their presence, yet we keep tucked in the recesses of our minds that a little dirt in a corner, a poorly chosen line, an inattentive rider, could render us a victim to any one of these dangers. Yet despite the perils that present themselves as a result of riding on two wheels, for me, one of the more frightening, though seldom discussed, risks of the road comes on four legs.
It is my opinion that a cyclist who has not, at one time or another, encountered a chasing canine cannot truly call himself a cyclist. As for me, I am fortunate that my usual training grounds do not feature sprint points as a result of menacing dogs, however, traveling as much as I do all over the country, I inevitably encounter the occasional pooch willing to give pursuit.
Once, on a hilly ride somewhere in rural central Missouri, I decided to make an otherwise dull outing a little bit more interesting by taking a right hand turn onto an even more rural-looking road. As I continued to negotiate the undulated terrain, out of my peripheral vision I became aware of a barking beast charging at me from the yard of one of the few human outposts dotting the landscape. Since I had identified the dog early enough, I dispatched him easily and continued on my way. Roughly 15 minutes later I decided that I’d reached the ride’s halfway point, aimed my machine in the opposite direction, and began the return journey. As I crested one of the road’s many hills I saw him again, sitting in the middle of the road, patiently awaiting my arrival. Thinking quickly and remembering the axiom that a dog who barks while chasing you wants to play with you while a dog who pursues silently wants to catch you, I sprint up the left side of the road and away from the animal. As alarming as this encounter was, it was, as far as dog-chases-cyclist stories go, fairly typical, which is something I wish I could say about what I came across on a stretch of road in Arkansas.
What began as an ordinary out and back ride quickly devolved into a scenario that had me fearing for my life. Nearing my determined turn-around time, I was greeted by two snarling–yes, snarling as opposed to barking–shiny, muscular, and agile black dogs who proceeded to jump out of the reeds on the shoulder. Their pursuit was determined but after a 200m sprint they gave up the chase and had apparently found something better to do with their time, noting their absence when I rolled by 10 minutes later in the other direction. I filed the incident away in the ‘typical’ category though it was merely foreshadowing something much more ominous.
About 20 minutes later, on a long straight stretch of road flanked by canals of dreadfully brown standing water, I spot four off-leash dogs in the distance. At first I was not alarmed as they seem to be following a large pickup truck that stopped on the side of the road every 100m or so for the driver to check something in the swampy waters. I thought that perhaps these creatures belonged to this man. But when the truck pulled away for the last time, I watched from a distance of 500m as the dogs continued to run freely and with abandon across the road again and again.
I am frozen. Out kicking a single dog is nothing. Taking on a pair is just a little more interesting, though not something foreign to my experience. However, I have never encountered a pack such as this. For all I know, they have already spotted me and have carefully orchestrated their attack plan; two will take the left side of the road and two the right. They have likely drawn straws to decide who gets what parts of me when I am fallen. They will also know that my machine is of significant value and will sell it at the local pawn shop later that day so that they might feast on Walmart’s best dog food and outfit themselves with rhinestone collars to impress their bitches.
Filled with dread, I stop on the side of the road and straddle my bike. A pickup comes by and I manage to flag it down. I explain my situation to the older couple driving and ask if I may hop in the bed of the truck just until we are past the dogs. They regard me suspiciously and look at me as though I am some type of alien. They appear to listen to my pleas, though say nothing and eventually speed off. I am left to fend for myself as my standoff continues.
20 minutes into the stalemate, just as I am beginning to seriously consider an all-out, kamikaze attempt to pass this pack of wild animals, they disappear into the woods on the right side of the road. At first, I believe them to be toying with me, setting me up for some type of ambush. Yet when another five minutes passes and they remain nowhere to be seen, I gather my courage from a suitcase just about empty at that point, and decide to start pedaling. Still not trusting that the dogs have merely disappeared, when I approach the site of their last stronghold, I sprint to the other side of the road, put my head down, and drill it for over a minute. When, after looking under my right shoulder and verifying that I am not being pursued, I stop pedaling for a moment, take a few deep breaths, and continue on with the ride. I am not being dramatic when I say that I was happy to be alive.
