Me and the pup

In riding past the House with the Hellhound, one of the many “tens” out here in Spanish Springs (that is, a 10-acre parcel), I noticed, as i glided by at a good clip on my electric bike, this rather huge dog bounded from the garage, ran past his unfenced boundary and up to the street to give me the stinkeye. By the time he hit the pavement, I was a quarter mile down the road. But still, he stood there and barked at me. “Hmm,” I noted, “an asshole dog. An asshole big dog.” A dog that looked like a cross between a pit bull and a doberman. Seriously. A dog one should notice.

So I’m riding out, enjoying a classically gorgeous Nevada autumn afternoon. But the catch is, to get home, I have to go back the way I came. No choice. Oh, boy. This could be a bit hairy. I have to assume it’s gonna be hairy. Right? To do anything else could be disastrous.

OK, time to go home. My plan is to get going as fast as I can as I pass the House. If I’m lucky, Cerberus—the name of Hades’ hellhound and totally appropriate here—will be in the house/garage and never see me. But, if he does spot me, and if he comes after me, I want to be rockin’ on that bike. There’s a slight downhill just in front of Cerb’s house, which I can use to slam that bike into high gear and get going. Then, there’s a small uphill, leading to the crest of a much larger slope. If iI can make that crest before being nailed by 100 pounds of MeanAssDog, I’ve got him. I’ll be gone.

I hit the downslope section and start pedalling. Hard. Adrenaline is already on board. Good. I need every squirt of it. I get my speed up. I’m cruisin’. So far, so good. I’m hopin’ like hell that the slobbering mutt is in the house and all this strategic prep is completely moot.

Nope. I knew it. He’s on the side of the house, sees me, and instantly, as I expected, he’s running full blast, hell bent on intersecting with me.

Well, gee. Wonderful. Game on. Fight or Flight. My choice was instant. Haul ass, son! I churned up that little upslope and made it to the crest, with Cerberus 20 feet behind and roaring after me. Too bad, prick dog from hell! Later! I slam that bike into 24th (its highest gear), and instantly, I’m as close to a vapor trail as a 59-year-old geezer on a bike can be. At least, in my mind’s eye, I’m a vapor trail.

And all the way home, I was giving great and earnest thanks that I had chosen the electric for the day’s ride, not the mountain bike. Because the faster EB might’ve just saved my butt, big time.