“I learned later that the Lancaster area is known as a real meth making mecca in California. In that context, this little experience with the “desert meth dogs” makes a little more sense…”
~Â Q: What do you call a dictionary using meth? A: addictionary.
My wheels are rolling across a broken road this morning. I think it’d be hard to find a ten square foot section of this pavement that isn’t fissured with cracks large enough to swallow a bicycle tire, so riding takes more concentration to stay upright than it would on decent pavement.
I’m well past Lancaster and Palmdale, concentrating on keeping my tires out of fissures in the road, when angry barking catches my attention. I haven’t noticed the high-fenced yard around a dilapidated house coming up on my left. The angry barking coming from the dogs on the other side of that fence has my full attention now. These are clearly mean and nasty dogs. They know they’re mean and nasty, and they want everyone around to know they’re mean and nasty.
Approaching their territory, I’m comforted by the high chain link fence running along the road, keeping the dogs in. The dogs are pouring toward the fence as I pass the front of the house, and I notice they’re headed toward the gate, where there’s a big gap in the fence.
It’s rare that I worry much about dogs. I get along great with them for the most part, and it’s usually clear they’re just letting me know I’m passing their territory. But right now, there’s no doubt in my mind these dogs mean business. They have no interest in scaring me off; they want warm flesh.
There are six or eight of these guys, snapping at each other for the honor of drawing first blood. Before I’ve even thought about it, I’m out of the saddle, and the adrenaline has cranked my output up into the red zone. I’m pouring as much coal as I can to the pedals, and the 35 miles per hour I’m able to reach keeps me just ahead of the fastest of the dogs.
After a few seconds of slow-motion terror, I see I’m leaving them behind, so I start to back off the speed. Normally, once a dog chases you out of his territory, he’s fine if you slow down. He’s done his duty, and moved you along the road. He’s not in this for blood; he just wants to keep the peace in his territory. He’s the sheriff, and he’s moved the vagrant out of town.
I don’t think these guys are wearing badges. They’re the desperadoes, and they are in it for blood. I’m 50 yards ahead of them, and they had backed off when they realized they couldn’t catch me. But when they see me slowing down, their interest in the chase renews with vigor. Immediately they begin sprinting up the road toward me again, hopeful that their prey might be faltering, fighting to be the one to bring me down. Of course, I crank the effort up again — this time leaving them far behind before slowing. I’m several miles up the road before I stop checking over my shoulder from time to time, to see if my desert meth dogs are keeping up the chase.
Pilgrim Wheels Excerpts This post is part of a series of posts, representing excerpts from Pilgrim Wheels, a story of a cycling journey across America. Pilgrim Wheels will be released in early March, let me know if you’re interested in doing an advance review.
