The American Pit Bull

I have to believe that as long as their have been cyclists, they have been chased by dogs.  And if your riding habits put you on gravel or in rural parts of your world, it likely happens enough that you've developed your own way of coping with the offenders, with it's own peculiar order of operations.  A friendly voiced, a sprint, water shot out of bottles, bottles themselves; all in a effort to stay one step ahead of a bite aimed for your achilles.

Of course, I've been through my fair share of dogs sprinting through yards.  Most come to say hello but a few have wanted a little something more.  Today was a first though, as I pushed into the West wind on Bennett road just southwest of Lincoln.  My head was down as I mashed my way up a hill.  As I crested, I looked to my right to see two dogs in a dead sprint toward me.  The second dog barely caught my attention though, because his buddy was a large white, muscles ripping, American Pit Bull.  My eyes went wide.

Of course, not every Pit Bull owner runs the 40 in 4.4 and tortures dogs in his spare time.  In fact my brother has a Pit, so I slowly dismounted to put my bike between myself and the block of flying muscle.  "Hey Buddy!!  Come here." 

The tale gave him away and a little love-fest ensued with my new single serving canine friend.  His owner came out just as I started scratching the dog head.  He walked out and I said, "most of you guys freak out, but he wouldn't harm a fly."  I just smiled, gave the other dog a little pat and headed out.

Even though all was well.  That moment of looking up and seeing the Pit in a full sprint toward me had still jacked me up.  At least it helped me finish out my ride strongly.