by Joe Kurmaskie

Opinion

Gone To The Dogs

“I’m gonna break ... I’m gonna break my rusty cage and run.” — Chris Cornell of Soundgarden

The thrill was gone. Not that I exactly relished being ambushed by roadside mutts, having to out-pedal packs of pit bulls hunting my rear wheel like wolves on the tundra, or best the snarling junkyard German Shepherd honing in on my spinning calves as if they were drumsticks, but there is something to be said for the thrill of the chase.

Panic, adrenaline, flight, that brief window when you don’t know if you’ll outrun chomping canines, until a final kick of speed and a few braveheart howls gets you over. Few activities shock the monkey like a good sprint to safety ... allowing you to live more fully in the present.

Tag. It’s one of the first games children learn. Only the dogs along Canada’s highways and byways had stopped playing with us.

We’d see them pop up and take their position, but when they got a better look at the mule train — its length, girth and how many souls we were bringing to bear down on them — dogs of every stripe turned tail and ran or dropped down on their haunches, making themselves small and inconspicuous.

The first few times this made me laugh and filled me with a predatory power. I watched a few mutts back into their driveways. “Spread the word, pooches, there’s a new sheriff in town.”

But as it turned out, it’s lonely at the top. No one plays with the lion and her cubs.

Dogs weren’t alone in this new order of things. We parted most of the animal population of western Canada in our wake. Big horned sheep, cougars, horses, elk, deer — the day we spooked a big black bear enjoying some roadside berries, I felt invincible. Every animal had the same “what in hell?” expression, followed by shear panic as we’d chug past. Only the moose wasn’t impressed, but that discovery was still hundreds of miles away.

While the boys and I were untouchable, Beth and her single touring bike ... not so much. She’d made nervous jokes about cougars all the way up the northern run of Vancouver Island.

“Remember how Steve said they’ll snatch a child in a flash and leave nothing but a business card,” she said.

The problem was, after the hills of Salt Spring Island, we couldn’t trust a word out of our city dwelling friend’s mouth, no matter how much conviction he’d put into the warning.

Sitting in my rear view mirror, sometimes 25 yards back, more often though, a quarter-mile or more off the pace, Beth lived in a state of readiness reserved for bomb silo minutemen.

Once, she wheeled up as I was taking a photo of another road sign that had caught my eye.

Do Not Feed Bears

$50,000 Fine — Wildlife Act

“Not that anyone cares about my safety, but that sounds like you’ll second mortgage the house if they eat me right off the bike. ‘Cause technically, you’ll be feeding the bears,” she stated.

I laughed, but she was only half-joking. Without my knowledge, she’d learned how to use her voice, bike pump and the heel of her shoes to command respect from a number of dogs. Beth’s a realist; she was steeling herself to battle with bigger creatures.

After another chase we knew nothing about, Beth had had enough. We’d regrouped at the top of a hill.

“Not that anyone cares about my safety,” she repeated, “but when you come upon a pack of dogs, or whatnot, looking for a fight, if you have any love in your hearts for the woman who gave you life, and yes that includes you, old man, cause you’d be a zombie without me, stop and protect my honor ... and body parts. That’s all I ask.”

Truth was, we hadn’t even noticed the last pack of dogs, or so I thought.

“I did.” Enzo volunteered.

Beth gave me “the look.”

I shrugged, innocent incarnate.

Cute and cuddly boys, cute and cuddly. Maybe she’ll take pity on our general obliviousness and testosterone poisoning.

“You look like you survived all right, Mom,” Quinn noted.

What my boys still had to learn about women: Just stop talking, gents. I removed my helmet in a show of respect.

“I promise to keep a weather eye out for animals of any size. And you have our word - right boys? - that we’ll wait until you’ve passed without incident before we ride on. Nothing’s gonna chase you again without backup.”

The boys nodded. Whatever Dad said. Beth didn’t look entirely sold but what could she say in the face of such compliance?

“We’ll see.”

We pedaled on.

True to our word, the next time we happened upon dogs, I brought the train to a halt. We waited for Beth to roll through. As she arrived Quinn and Enzo hollered and gestured at the befuddled animals, waving lightsabers in an exaggerated show of chivalry.

“Very funny,” she said.

It happened to be a group of wiener dogs waiting across the blacktop from us. We weren’t taking any chances. One gave up a little chirp of a bark as Beth came close, but the other two dogs seemed to sense their predicament and promptly chased him off.

As we pedaled beside Beth for a bit, she turned and offered a smile of real gratitude.

“I know you think that was just a joke, but it felt good, you guys having my back like that. Even if it was for dogs the size of my big toe this time.”

I gave her my best “knight at your service, me lady” nod.

“It’s the principle of it, you know?” Beth said.

“Honey, we won’t hang you out there again ... unless we don’t see it coming,” I replied.

Her smile dimmed a little, “Always giving yourself an out...”

And that, boys, is why you quit at the nod.

We’d been trained to expect all wildlife — at least roadside wildlife - to step back, if not run away, from the mule train; at worst, to ignore our presence on that beast of a bike contraption. I had excellent photos of the backsides of animals in motion to prove it.

Only the moose didn’t get the memo. We would learn too late that grizzly bears fear moose, so by default we would have done well to fear them. And we did, keeping a safe distance from the one standing off the road in the tall brush, but we had too much faith in the prowess of the mule train.

“Let me dig out my camera,” I uttered.

“Dad!”

I didn’t have to hear anything else. The tone in his voice said it all. I started pedaling without a look over my shoulder. I’d heard hooves and snorts, and that was enough for me. My quick reactions probably gave us the edge. It gave me hope, anyway.

I can’t say how long we pedaled, but in a twisted way, it felt good to be the prey again, to run for our lives. The life-or-death sprint definitely blew out the king of the jungle cobwebs and put us back where we belonged, at the edge of our seats and our abilities. I looked back long enough to see that my crew was still on board.

“What’s the moose doing now, boys?”

“Dad,” Quinn said. He was my eyes. I waited for the status report. “ I think we just left mom by herself to deal with a moose.”

“It’s not chasing us?”

“Not anymore.”

“Oh crap,” I turned the big rig around, using both sides of the highway to execute a wide circle. We kept up a good head of steam back into the thick of it. If we hadn’t alerted the moose the first time through with our yacht-sized rig, Beth wouldn’t be a sitting duck. We’d gotten the animal good and mad, then left town.

“You see it?” I kept yelling. The boys yelling back “No” or “Nothing yet.” We needed a hyperspace button or gear or something. I dug deep for a bit more torque, not wanting to let Beth down after giving our word for the hundredth time. I looked at the canister of bear spray strapped to my handlebar, trying to remember if the fine print indicated it having any affect on moose.

That’s when we blew right by her. The boys called out to their mother as we whistled past. Little Matteo laughed. I looked up from my bear spray bottle.

Another wide circle and we were beside her.

“We came to rescue you from the moose,” Quinn said.

“It chased us,” Enzo added.

“You mean that moose?” responded Beth.

We’d made it almost all the way back to where the great non-chase had begun. Only the moose was 25 yards further off the highway, munching brush close to where we’d left him.

“Careful now,” I said.

“Dad.” Enzo this time. “I never actually saw the moose come after us.”

Beth smiled. “If it means anything, I had a ringside view and I never saw anything chasing you. But I watched the mule train of fools take off like it was the end of the world.” She rolled over to give each of us a kiss. “Either way, I love you guys for coming back.”

The moose didn’t look out of breath.

As I caught mine, I kept the big animal in my sites. I just don’t trust ‘em. It’s a safe bet they feel the same way about us.

Either way, it was good to know we could still run for our lives.

Joe Kurmaskie rides a bike for the joy of it. His next book, “Mud, Sweat and Gears: One Family’s Rowdy Adventure Across Canada on Seven Wheels,” will be on bookshelves December 2009. Catch him at Seattle REI on December 8 at 7pm, and hear him recount his African and Canadian experiences. For more information go to www.metalcowboy.com