Scaredy-Cat

We’re up in the mountains for a couple of weeks, and my primary goal (aside from outlining my next novel) is to keep up with my running.  It’s too easy for me to slack off when I’m out of my normal routine–a hangnail seems like a perfectly sensible reason to skip that 8-miler, doesn’t it?

But this summer, I am De.Ter.Min.ed.  I will not turn into a vacationing sloth.

The problem is:  dogs.  I am absolutely terrified of dogs.  No, wait.  That’s an exaggeration.  I’m fine (mostly) with dogs on leashes.  It’s the loose ones that stop my heart.  When they come barreling toward me, teeth bared, snarling and growling–or worse, silent and lethal–I am absolutely paralyzed.  It’s not usually a problem, because we live such an orderly suburb, I never worry about a loose dog on my home roads.  But outside of our little town–out in the country–is a different story entirely.  I’m so afraid of being chased on the bike, as a matter of fact, that I actually gave up long-distance cycling because I just couldn’t cope with the anxiety.

I understand, in my head, that cars pose a much bigger threat to a cyclist, but my fear of dogs overwhelms everything else.  I used to lie awake the night before a long ride, heart pounding, stomach in knots, rigid with anxiety.  On the bike, I imagined barking around every curve; I was constantly on edge, and when the dreaded teeth were snapping at my ankles, it was all I could do to keep the bike upright and moving forward.  I would scream at the dogs till my throat was raw.  It got so bad at one point that I went for several hypnosis sessions (which helped, but seem now to have worn off).

Whew–just writing about it is kind of freaking me out.  So now, here we are, hanging out in the mountains, and I need to go running.  On narrow country roads, populated primarily by–you guessed it–vicious attack dogs.

We’re staying at my mother-in-law’s house, which sits up on a fairly remote ridge, one of about 20 houses spaced out along a long gravel road.  Even going for a little stroll after dinner causes me panic attacks–I know there are dogs all along the gravel road, and there’s no way to avoid their frenzy (except by staying in the car!).

So I bought some pepper spray.  I’ve never used it when I was on foot (I have on the bike), and I would feel really bad about spraying someone’s dog, but I need, mentally, the reassurance that I could, if I had to.

I don’t want to advocate paranoia or offensive tactics or anything like that, but . . . sometimes you do what you have to do, you know?