Going to the Dogs
by Geoff Maxted
I picked up a real dog the other day. No, no, no, no. A REAL dog. When they handed out the bridleways and byways the man from Cornwall must have been behind the door or in the pub or something; therefore much of my riding is done on the road. But there's a perennial problem. As you ride leisurely down Cornish country lanes enjoying the scenery if not the terrain, slavering beasts will leap without warning from farm gateways to bark and chase and nip and bite. And when you finally panic and turn on the power to outrun them they sit in the road with a smug, self satisfied expression.
One advantage of frame length pumps, if you're quick enough, is that they can be used as a lance for jousting purposes. These days, if you do get bitten and find the farmer / shepherd / security guard / neo-nazi party member to complain you'll probably get your head bitten off as well. Why is it that all the owners of terrorist dogs look like shaven headed, bull necked escapees from Devil's Island with their eyes set exactly side by side above the bridge of their nose? Also, it turns out that little Tyson was only playing and it was your fault that he sunk his teeth into your finger / leg / neck / genitals. Then you wake up in casualty and find he's nicked your bike as well.
No, this dog was a friend. A loner. A dog of the road who appeared out of a hedgerow, where he had been investigating an intriguing but noisome smell, and trotted alongside me, grinning and being matey. I stopped for a drink and squirted water from my bottle which he chomped at gratefully. He had the look of an Artful Dodger with a cheeky and roguish expression, one floppy ear up, one down. He was clearly of no fixed abode and, indeed, of no fixed parentage, being a sort of tan and white colouring, medium sized and wire coated.
I was slightly alarmed when he suddenly curled round to lick his privates; an act which appeared to be intensely satisfying. (For those of you who are just about to put this on hold, no, it is not possible. Or so I've been told). Seeing my horrified expression he adopted a guilty look that seemed to say: 'Well hey, I'm a dog, right? Dogs lick their balls. Whaddaya want from me?' This mutt was clearly a wanderer; like me he was out of step with modern conventions and as the morning progressed we became firm friends. Recalling the anti-hero of Joseph Heller's novel 'Catch 22', I called him Yossarian. It seemed to fit and he seemed to like it. I don't know what he called me. And don't you even think about it.
As the morning progressed and developed into a beautiful day I continued my journey at a slower pace, Yossarian loping at my side. We stopped at lunchtime for a pie and a pint. The dog indicated that I had caught him at a bad time, things had been difficult, he was a bit short, etc, so I paid. I found myself chatting to him in that idiotic way that people use with animals as if expecting them to suddenly enter into discourse on the sorry state of the world when I realised how easy it was to become attached to animals, and they to you, in exact opposition to modern human contact.
The break-up of the family unit -- always a contentious issue -- and the loss of community spirit coupled with the dumbing down of the media has led to our nation becoming coarser and less civil. A complacent, wrong thinking education system provides academies of ignorance to children who can't string a coherent sentence together and whose only experience of eye contact comes in angry confrontations. Or has it all been caused by the passing of Mandelson's Millenium, an astrological event of such hugeness that it fed the National Neurosis and turned everybody into complete gits. Who can say. Perhaps that's why we talk to the animals.
By and by Yossarian and I sat at the road side overlooking a wide sweep of sandy bay, shared an energy bar, chilled and caught some rays. We'd gone full circle and I was not far from home. I must have dozed off because later, as the red orb of the sun was setting slowly over the sea, I awoke to find my friend strolling up the road. He looked back once, our eyes met and a bond was established. We would meet again. So long, brother.
So what's all this got
to do with cycling? Well, not a lot. But I suppose it shows that you can make
friends and share interests on the road. I may not be one of the young guns
of gravity but all cyclists, young or old, on or off road, have got a common
bond and a common need to preserve what's right. So, think about what sort of
world you want to live in and, like Yossarian, jump before it's too late. At
least that's my excuse. Like the man said - 'just get out and ride!'
© Geoff Maxted
Maximum
Mountain Bike