Western Hospitality - with a bite

From earlier posts, it will be obvious that the people I have met over here are lovely.  Warm, friendly, hospitable.

So today brought another dimension to this hospitality.

After cycling about 55 miles, I realized I was out of water completely.  Notably, today's route was very far removed from civilization - long roads between dense forest for miles and miles.  So a refill was not a simple matter.

I thought about holding off until I got to my destination, South Bend, but then reconsidered.  It was very hot and I knew I was getting dehydrated.  Spinning down the 101, I espied a lady outside her house just off the highway.  I thought to myself 'I'll ask her to refill my bottles'.

I turned into her property, a wide opening on black tarmacadam leading down to the substantial house. Just as I was about to call out to her, 3 of the largest dogs you have ever seen appeared from behind the house in a ball of barking, fangs and hair - canine teeth bared, lupine instincts salivating at the prospect of this fresh meat on wheels.

As a cyclist I had dealt with this sort of things many times before.  You have a choice - drop a gear and get to hell out of the way, or, go aggressive and shout at the dogs to STOP!.  My beloved commuter bike, laden down with so much weight made the former choice irrelevant.  So I put on my most authoritative voice and bellowed loudly at the incoming attack.

Two of the dogs stopped like they had been slapped across the snout.  Grand.  Unfortunately, the third fellow seemed to be hard of hearing.  He pressed on and eyed my generously endowed thigh with anticipation.

The next obvious step is to place a carefully timed kick to stun the would-be attacker.  But that assumes, of course, that you have free movement of your leg.  Tricky, when your foot is attached through a stiff cleat to your pedal.  In the time it took me to twist my foot to release it from the pedal, Jaws had already closed the distance and picked the area of my thigh he thought most appealing.  When he sank his jaw into my leg, my reaction was simple shock.

By now, the lady of my original interest had shouted various recall signals to the dogs and they retreated reluctantly.  I was left with three bleeding teeth wounds on my leg.

She quickly apologized, assuring me that all the dogs had had their shots (oh! how comforting!) and that 'they never did THAT before' (even more comforting!).

Hydrogen peroxide was produced to clean the now pumping wound and a plaster was hastily applied. (Oh, and I got my water bottles filled too.)  And then I was off on the 101 again.

The only benefit was that the adrenalin in my system from the attack made the last 13 miles a lot easier.

In South Bend, I checked in quickly and immediately decamped to the local hospital.  Swift attention from the triage nurse, Bill, led me to Dr Bill who promptly recommended a booster shot and some antibiotics.  By the time I got back to the motel, Sgt R Davis was waiting for me to take a statement and to visit the property concerned.

Western hospitality - with a bite.

I never did mind about the little things. . . .