Ride becomes race when horse sets the pace
As has been well-established on these pages over the years, I’m rather fond of bicycles. As such, I spend a fair portion of my life pedaling the roads, byways and bike trails of our area. Most times I pedal along in peace, just me, my legs and my lungs.
In doing so, I harbor no ill will toward man or beast. Man most often respects this position and affords me safe passage. Beasts of a certain nature, however, beg to differ. I speak of the equine family — horses, mules, jenny donkeys and even the occasional jackass.
I’m not sure what I’ve done to draw their ire. I do, however, understand the hoofed behemoths are instinctively tuned to recognize fear. So I’m guessing they mess with me because they know I’m on to their collective mission to off me. If that’s the case, there’s little I can do about it. My own distrust will eventually fuel my own demise. Until then each dubious encounter nudges my theory further down the road. Even those horses that don’t wish to literally stomp me into the ground would likely still enjoy watching me blow my heart to bits in a drag race. I met one such character last Sunday.
It was late in the day when I finally had the chance to saddle up and spin my legs after a long weekend of tax preparation and other such terrors of the civilized world. Charting a course into the wind, I set out for the hilltop enclave of Mount Eaton, a mere 15 rolling miles to the southeast. Along my way I came upon oldsters out walking off their Sunday dinners, children shagging fly balls and grounders on the lawn, and even a fellow bicyclist or two. There also were plenty of buggies scattered here and there across the course of my travels.
The horses I encountered face to face merely eyed me with disdain. Most of those I rode up on from behind seemed, for the most part, to be pleased to watch me disappear over the next hill after signaling my intent, swinging wide and pedaling on past. One particular trotter seemed to have an entirely different idea as I rolled up on his buggy on a slow uphill grade.
Climbing and headed into the wind is not the ideal circumstance for a bicyclist to get past a buggy. However, since the hitch was just plodding along as I approached, I figured I’d get by in a blink.
As per good neighbor protocol, I rang my handlebar bell and spoke in a calm voice to let both horse and driver know I was on my way around. Once alongside the steed, however, the horse had other ideas. He instantly quickened his pace to match my own as his drivers, a pair of young ladies, pulled back quickly on the reins. The horse carried on undeterred. At that moment it was clear this was set to be an epic battle of man versus beast. The man knew it, the horse knew it and the teens guiding the buggy quickly recognized the event for exactly what it was. They let the race proceed apace, laughing hysterically as I mashed the pedals head to head with the behooved sprinter.
Horses may know how to run, but odds are they don’t watch much NASCAR. If I was going to win this dash, I needed to dump my aerodynamic drag and drop into the broad slipstream of the buggy for a moment. There, safe from the wind for just a moment, I caught my breath, revved my pedals and broke for the far horizon. The wannabee Seabiscuit didn’t know what hit him! I dropped him and his now howling jockeys like an old mare. A battle won, but I suspect the war will rage on.
Kristin and John Lorson would love to hear from you. Write Drawing Laughter, P.O. Box 170, Fredericksburg, OH 44627, or email John at jlorson@alonovus.com.
