I've run about 35,000 miles, crossed 28 states, and have never required protection against people or animals while running. Well, almost never. I've been bitten by dogs twice. One of them might have been getting back at me for demonstrating that he was following, snarling, and barking a little too close to me as I ran past his yard. I merely extended my back stride, somewhat striking him in the face. The next time I passed he didn't hesitate. The second time it was a dog on a trail in Colorado. He was off leash and probably startled. The owner's reply was, "It's no big deal. He's had his shots and stuff." But that's it. Had I been a little more cautious in both cases I might have avoided injury.
So it was a difficult decision to make when I tried to deflect the numerous, consistent messages I heard from people warning me about a section of canal trail and the raw danger of wild dogs I would encounter. "Come on," I thought, "I've faced animals before." I knew how to shout "NO!" I know how to throw a rock and swing a long stick. But where these dogs were reported to be, there aren't a lot of long branches. I could have wielded the branch of a creosote sapling, the length and strength of which would have been similar to sword fighting with a bendy straw. Somehow I couldn't picture myself fighting off a pack of vicious canines with something whose design best threatens by drooping to the ground and swaying in the wind like a Willow branch.
I was planning to run across the Salt River Pima-Maricopa Indian Community, a reservation just east of Phoenix city limits. Last week I had entered it but needed to turn around relatively early to keep within my mileage. Today I was not only going to go further into it, but all the way across it to the next city of Mesa, more specifically Red Mountain Ranch in east Mesa.
Just what did people tell me to expect of these dogs? My students in class said they saw large sticks leaning against the gymnasium wall on the reservation. They were later told the sticks were available to fight off stray dogs who came too close. Then I had a brief conversation about it with a race director from the valley. He said that the Arizona Canal once was part of the Desert Classic Road Race but the course was changed, in part, due to issues with dogs attacking runners near the landfill. Other runners related similar stories.
After about five different people tell you the same thing, you start to think there may be something to it. I decided not to take a chance and buy some pepper spray. Heading out from home, I picked up a small keychain dispenser at a local Ace Hardware. It clipped easily to my waist belt, had a safety cap, and boasted 25 shots of up to 8 feet away. I felt like I was packing an arsenal of weaponry. Nothing could touch me now! Not as long as I can manage to turn off the safety cap, point it in the right direction, and remember to not spray into the wind. But as I ran, I began to question the cosmic impact of packing really hot heat. Could choosing to bring protection somehow invite problems? I imagine Indiana Jones and his girl choosing not to look at the Ark when it was opened, thus having their lives spared. I get the sense that these wild dogs haven't read Spielberg's liner notes and I doubt they'd give me similar leeway, even if I did keep my eyes closed during an attack.
It was beautiful day: cool crisp air, fluffy bright white clouds, bright sun and a light blanket of snow draping mountains in all directions. But I had to focus. People had told me about what I would face. And now, with my Batman Belt Starter Kit, I was ready for it. Up ahead, about five miles into the reservation I saw something. It was large and about a quarter mile away. Much too large for a dog. Is it a hiker? Way out here? No, it's too steady to be a hiker. Must be a bike rider. Nope. 150 yards. It's not wavering even a little. Wait, it's not moving at all. 50 yards. I think it may be a cactus. 30 yards. Not a cactus. Oh, I see. It's a Palo Verde tree, that funky pale green wood that surely got its start in some Dr. Suess story which came to life. The branches are dainty and almost like a hazy fog, so that from a distance the only thing visible is the trunk. My bad. I'll stop hovering over my sidearm now. Another quarter mile. There's my first dog. I don't think it will be coming after me. It's dead. Roadkill.
That was it. No more dogs. There was a stretch of about 2 miles where the canal was on my left and a fenced landfill on my right. I felt a little claustrophobic. If something came after me an escape would have meant jumping into the frigid cold canal, hopping the landfill fence, or sprinting ahead or back. Not many choices, and I noticed it. Across the canal, just opposite me a coyote wandered slowly in retreat, either to make way or call for backup.
I had covered 19 miles on my way across the eastern Phoenix area, hoping to make it to my nephew's first birthday party before the first and only candle was blown out by spittle. My route was about to cross the Beeline Highway, a stretch of straight 4-lane running mostly the length of Arizona. Once I crossed that, I was hoping to find a dirt road that would take me the final 5 miles across open desert, a gravel pit and at least two more canals to arrive at the edge of a suburban neighborhood where a wee little one was being bedazzled by large wrapped items.
As I was already late for the party, rather than miss it altogether, I called my wife for a pick up. I ran down the highway until she pulled over in front of me. 21 miles for the day. 72 for the week.
Kids have a cold and I'm fighting hard not to get it, even as they cough a rainshower of germs from point blank range in their sleep when I snuggle them to bed. Pepper spray? Who needs that?
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