Alfred Hitchcock couldn’t have done
it better. Neither could have Stephen King nor Clive Barker.
When it comes to producing creepy
stuff, stuff that makes your skin crawl and forces any sane man to run for
cover, nobody beats Mother Nature.
This point was driven home to me with
a vengeance during a recent bicycle ride. As regular readers of this column
already know, I love to ride my bike. I put in at least 10 miles a day, and
that’s at top speed. Admittedly, “top speed” in my case means old folks with
walkers and toddlers just learning to ambulate on two feet occasionally pass me,
but still, I’m out there trying, man!
It’s all about the journey, not the
destination. That’s what I tell myself anyway.
Point is, I was out riding one of my
favorite trails. The trail wends around a protected wetlands area. Lots of
marshes, flocks of geese, the occasional pair of cranes picking around in the
shallows; it’s pretty and mostly flat, the topography preferred by cyclists
like me (i.e. lazy).
It’s my favorite part of this
particular ride.
The day was perfect for riding. Temps
hovering around 78, a little breeze but not too much, low humidity, the scents
of late summer/early autumn everywhere.
My high pressure tires were pumped to
capacity and I’d finally gotten my new, English leather bike seat adjusted just
right so it neither forced me to slide forward, nor did it slowly anesthetize
my “boy parts” after an hour on the road. (Which is one reeeeal strange
feeling, lemme tell ya.)
I’d already put in about eight miles
on other parts of the trail when I came to the nature preserve/wetlands loop.
Despite the temperate temperatures, the sun had been shining brightly the
entire ride and I was more or less covered with sweat.
Because I am by nature fat and trying
not to be, I often crank up the speed when I come to the loop, doing the
bicycle equivalent of sprints. It’s only for a mile or so, after which I slow
back down to let my heart resume beating before I collapse in a heap by the
side of the trail.
Leaning into the handlebars, I put
the pedals to the metal. I wasn’t going fast by racing standards, but I was
moving along at a respectable clip.
It was at this point I noticed the
gray cloud, maybe 20 yards ahead. Just a mist, really. It covered the path like
fog, rolled over the center of the loop area, and hovered around the other side
of the trail as well.
At the speed I was traveling, I had
just enough time to think, “What the…?” before barreling into the fog.
Only it wasn’t fog. It wasn’t mist.
It wasn’t a cloud.
It was bugs. Millions of ‘em. Maybe
billions. Carl Sagan couldn’t have counted their number with the help of a Cray
supercomputer and an army of robot abacuses.
About 200 (I’m estimating) flew
directly into my open, surprised mouth, where they soon met an untimely demise
in my gastrointestinal tract (I hope).
Another 7,418 (estimating again)
slammed into my sunglasses, my face, my chest, my exposed, sweaty arms and
legs. Still more were sucked up the legs of my shorts.
I was literally covered with these
repulsive, winged demons.
In a panic, I put on the speed,
thinking to “push” my way through the insectile cloud. But in the words of John
Belushi, “Noooooooooooo!” The cloud went on. And on. And on. A quarter-mile later,
I was still enveloped by bugs.
The lenses of my sunglasses were by
this time so bug-covered that I could barely make out the trail ahead of me.
Yet I pushed on, praying for a break in the disgusting mass of flying bug-flesh.
Eventually, I rode through it to the
other side. Despite the fact it was early afternoon and there were other
cyclists on the trail, I screeched to a halt and stripped off my shirt, shorts
and shoes. Standing there in only my Spandex bicycle underwear (which is in no
way a good look on this body on a sunny day, believe me) I beat my clothing
against a nearby tree in an attempt to dislodge to critters that had taken up
residence there.
Then I used the (mostly) bug-free
shirt to brush the rest of them from my skin. There wasn’t much I could do
about those I’d eaten other than empty the contents of my water bottle down my
throat.
I managed to get dressed and back to
my car without winding up on a sex offender registry and charged with indecent
exposure, so there was a bright spot to the day.
From now until the fall “hatchings”
are over, I think I’ll be getting my exercise at the gym.
(616) 745-9530
No comments:
Post a Comment