Tales from the North Woods:
I was riding my bike down the Heartland Trail this morning. This is not a rare occurrence. I try to ride at least three times a week if I can fit it into my schedule. Most days I ride the 10 miles to Walker and back, or the 7 miles to Nevis and back, and I always stop at the Cenex on my way home to drink a cup of coffee with Emily.
This morning, however, I decided I needed ramp up my workout and attempt to plow through the hills on the Paul Bunyan Trail that connects with the Heartland Trail and leads all the way to Brainerd (and perhaps beyond).
What I like about this stretch of the Paul Bunyan Trail is that it's quiet. I have never seen another cyclist on this trail. In part that's due to my early ride time (I like to leave the house around 5:30 in the morning), but this is also due to the strenuous work it takes to navigate the hills. Seriously, there are signs posted all along the trail warning people away from the steep hills.
Because it lacks for population so early in the morning I have the pleasure of seeing a vast array of wildlife: mostly deer, ravens, and other birds, but today I met something different on the trail.
I have come to call him Porcupine L. Jackson, because he's one bad mother-fucker.
I spotted PLJ about two hundred yards off, trotting down the center of the bike trail. At that distance, I thought he was a racoon, but he was walking funny for a racoon ... almost strutting.
As I approached, and recognized the creature essentially blocking my way, I laughed. I've never seen a porcupine up close and personal. As is my nature, I like to make noises at the animals as I approach. I don't like the idea of scaring a deer into a panicked leap and having him choose the wrong direction and plow into me. On most flat stretches I'm cruising at 18 miles per hour, and having the full weight of a creature like that drive into you at those speeds ... it wouldn't be pretty.
So, I start calling to Porcupine L. Jackson. "Hey, Porcupine! I'm coming your way. Look out!"
PLJ doesn't even pause. He continues his strut down the center of the trail, owning it, like he was a finalist on America's Next Top Model.
I'm thinking, "Maybe PLJ is deaf. Maybe he can't hear me shouting at him." So, I slow the bike down. I drop to 15, 10, 5, 2.5 miles per hour. I might as well be walking. I'm still shouting, "Hey, Porcupine! I'm passing on your left!"
Maybe he hears me. Maybe he just senses there's something behind him. I'm about fifteen feet behind him when he stops and turns. Not his whole body, just this head. Like he's looking over his shoulder at me. I say, "I'm going to pass you. Do you want to move?" PLJ gives me this look, and I feel like Brett being asked to say "what?" again, and I can almost hear PLJ rehearsing the lines of Ezekiel 25:17, "The path of the righteous man," and all that.
But PLJ just turns back and continues his strut down the center of the bike trail. I'm going slow, but I'm also going to pass. You know, I've got that human sense of entitlement. I'm not going to let some animal the size of a basketball cow me.
So, I'm rolling up on PLJ, and I'm getting close. He's still strutting his stuff. I'm still talking to him, trying to let him know I'm getting closer, hoping he'll take the hint and cruise off into the woods.
He doesn't.
When I'm about two feet from him, PLJ stops. He doesn't turn to face me. He just stops. So I stop. I don't want him sprinting out under my bike. Not that I think I'd squish him, or anything, but I don't want to fall, and I don't want my bike tires damaged. PLJ hunches down and fans out his quills. Makes himself almost twice as large as he was.
Despite my better knowledge, images of spike flying through the air at my legs run through my brain. Some instinctual part of my body knows I've got to get out of there before shit gets real. I say, "I'm just going to pass you."
PLJ turns his head for the first time since puffing himself up. He doesn't say a word ... because, you know, animals don't talk ... but I can still hear what he's trying to tell me.
"Get that mother-fucking bike off my mother-fucking trail."
So I do. I pedal as fast and as hard as I can for about thirty seconds. Put a good 50 yards between us. When I look in my rear view mirror, PLJ is still strutting down the center of the trail, not a care in the world, and I'm certain he was muttering to himself, "That's right, bitch. Keep pedaling. This is my trail."
So I do. I pedal as fast and as hard as I can for about thirty seconds. Put a good 50 yards between us. When I look in my rear view mirror, PLJ is still strutting down the center of the trail, not a care in the world, and I'm certain he was muttering to himself, "That's right, bitch. Keep pedaling. This is my trail."
I finished my ride without incident. 30 miles this morning, ending with the usual cup of coffee at Cenex. It was nice to see a critter I don't usually see, but I'm glad I din't suffer any damage so far out int eh middle of nowhere.
