Not so literally.
The dogs in Hungary are starting to take their revenge for my misjudgment.
Two notable occasions:
I name this dog The General for his sheer size and aggression. Day light is fading and I am pedaling hard to get anywhere but dark dangerous country roads before nightfall. I spot him at a distance to my left sniffing around in a heavily ploughed field. I pick up the pace to a pant so if he sees me I’ve got as much advantage as possible. As quickly as I am spotted he is accelerating. I push the burn to a wobble in my handle bars keeping the mean looking target in view over my shoulder. I sense the victory and my attention snaps to the more pressing danger of cycling on the wrong side of the road into oncoming traffic.
The Dogs: 0
The Wanderer’s are my most feared foe. They are unlikely to have much human conditioning and are likely to be carrying some horrible disease. This is a surprise attack again from 10 O’clock out of a small wood up a grass verge onto the top of the dike I’m riding along. He is smaller, shaggy with dirty white fur which in places is matted together in dirty dark clumps. His teeth and gums showing just like Gmork, a feared child hood character of mine in The Never ending story. This time I unclipped my shoe and rather than fight I pulled my leg up as high as I could and the beast snarled showing a bit more tooth and gum than I would rather see.
I am giving this dog a victory for the sheer shot of fear that he gave me. The type of shot that lasts longer than a burst. Where it creeps up from a slight stomach cramp, momentarily making you swallow followed by a cold rush of tingling which evaporates off the skin at the tops of my arms in an instant.
The Dogs: 1
The saga continues.