Dog tired

On my routine, mental-health-recovery-plan rides through Taylor Creek Park and the Don Valley I often come into contact with these panting, frolicking, ultimately moronic but I suppose cute-in-a-way life forms. More so now that the weather is improving.

Oh, and their pet dogs too.

Help me understand, please. Somebody, somewhere who reads this must own a dog, or have owned a dog at sometime. Is there some bizarre, inexplicable effect that acquiring a dog has on the human psyche, reducing their IQ to that of the pets they just acquired? Does owning a dog make you more 'doggy'? Is that what people mean when they say that dogs tend to look like their owners or vice versa? That, over time, the human owner slowly takes on the mentality of his or her beloved pet?

I only ask because I had to grind to a shuddering halt FIVE TIMES in one ride this morning because dog owners can't control their pets. It wasn't the worst 'dogsperience' I've had riding this route. There was the time earlier this year I had to actually jump off my bike and use it as a shield to avoid getting bitten as the slack-jawed, lackadaisical owner trudged over to get his animal under control, muttering, "Oh...sorry" or something equally inane and inadequate.

Oh, and as an aside, don't even get me started on the pounds of dogshit I've had to hose off my bike and my shoes because dog owners are too fucking irresponsible to pick up after their pets. That's a whole other can of worms...or shit, if you prefer.

Dog owners seem to walk around in a carefree, 'dog' world of their own. Everything is fun, new, exciting. Everything needs to be investigated or sniffed, though I admit I have yet to see one dog owner sniffing another dog owner's arse. They seem to be oblivious to everything going on around them, including me on my bike.

Before I get any bullshit comments like, "Oh, well, maybe the owner didn't see you or know you were there," let me explain a little bit about me on my bike. I'll use the five senses most humans are blessed with as a guide.

Smell is irrelevant. I don't smell, and neither does my bike. Touch is irrelevant too. It doesn't take a MENSA graduate to understand that if the dog owner can actually feel me or my bike then it's probably too late for them to get the Chicken McFuck out of my way. Similarly taste is no help. If you can taste metal or rubber, then chances are it's too late.

Let's talk about the most obvious one first, sight.

First of all, my bike is blue and yellow. No, it's not sunflower dust, tangerine, morning sky, aquamarine, or any other bullshit colour name you see on home decor paint cans or in fashion show reviews. It's royal blue. Metallic royal blue in fact. And the yellow trim isn't subtle, it's what I'd call in-your-face vibrant yellow. Nothing else in the trails of Toronto is royal metallic blue and yellow as far as I'm aware, so there's little chance of it blending into the - generally - green and brown background.

Then there's my clothing. I've been racing bikes since 1986 in the UK, and the majority of my riding has been on the road or track. Thanks to this heritage I tend to opt for 'road' style cycling garb rather than grunge-style MTB/surf/snowboard-style garments. This means lycra and neoprene in abundance, and none of it's subtle. As I think about it, ALL the jerseys I wear have a minimum of three colours on them, and the shorts a minimum of two. My crash hat is bright blue and white. My gloves are black and bright yellow. My shades, in a hilariously ironic twist of fate, are rose-tinted (good for overcast, rainy, or dim light conditions).

My point is, how the fuck can somebody not see me coming?! I'm like a fucking cockroach on a white rug! Astronauts can probably see me from space f'chrissakes! "Hey Buzz, look - I think we're coming around to the Great Wall of China again...HOLY SHIT! What's that blue and yellow thing motoring through the top of North America?"

Now sound, or hearing if you prefer.

My tyres roar over the shingle. My gears click. The chain rattles as I navigate berms, logs, or dips in the terrain. There's a distinctive snap when I change gear. There's a different kind of distinctive snap when I ride over loose twigs and branches. Stones get flicked aside by the tyres and make sound as they hit the shrubbery on the side of the trail. The front shocks creak and groan because - for the life of me - I can't figure out how to get the bloody things apart to be able to grease the springs inside them. The saddle squeaks and creaks.

Then there's me.

I'm no Olympic hopeful so more often than not I'm gasping for air, and/or blowing great chunks of snot and christ knows what else out of my nostrils as I go along. I have GAD, so on some occasions when I'm trying to navigate an obstacle that literally scares the living piss out of me, I'll probably be cursing at the top of my voice. Come to think of it, it's not totally uncommon for me to let out a resounding, "SHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIT!!!!" as I'm thundering down a steep downhill, and fearing imminent injury or death. I'm smoking cigarettes/cigars again too (not when I'm riding, I hasten to add) so I normally I can only ride for 20 minutes without hacking more than Neo, Trinity, and the entire cast of The Matrix trilogy combined.

Again, my point is, how the fuck can people not HEAR me coming from miles away? It isn't noisy in Taylor Creek Park. Besides, if I start to get close to the idiot dog and its idiot owner I usually shout to let them know which side of them I'm about to pass them on. Dog owners have a tendency to believe that they are the only person in the entire park and therefore can walk right in the middle of every trail, or wherever the fuck else they feel like walking, so it's important to make their idiot mind up for them.

I must temper this commentary by duly noting that not all dog owners are morons. Those blessed with an iota of spacial awareness take their dogs by the collar and hold them out of the way when they see or hear me coming. These are the people who actually care for their pets, and realise their beloved Rover wouldn't be quite the same if he was wedged in the tread of my front tyre like viscous hairy jam.

The trouble is that the split between the responsible owners and the league of extraordinary morons is only about 50/50.

My rides on this route used to be cathartic. Not only the physical exercise that all GAD or depression recovery suggestions stipulate, but also the whole 'man against the elements' aspect. Especially when the snow was a foot deep everywhere. Also, the near-death experiences when I do attempt obstacles and actually make it alive boost my confidence no end.

Alas, this morning I returned home sapped and angry. Sapped because - like a gormless newbie - I totally forgot that the only thing I actually 'ate' yesterday was one can of Kronenberg and six cans of Heineken. Trust me, a liquid, alcoholic diet the day before and a meagre bowl of Sultana Bran the 'morning of' doesn't cut it in terms of cycling stamina. My favourite breakfast when racing in my 20s was an entire can of rice pudding.

So, an hour into the ride my legs turned to jelly, half an hour later I'd drained the entire two-litre capacity of my CamelBak, and shortly after that I just couldn't ride uphill anymore. I had to cut down from the technical trail and take the tourist trail back home again, muddy and gutted.

I have to say though, one good thing did come of my canine encounters. Over the last couple of days I've considered suicide. By the time I got back from Taylor Creek Park at lunchtime, my most distinctive thought was, "Why the fuck should I - of all people - top myself when there's dozens of total morons stumbling around who should be - at minimum - castrated so they can't have any moron offspring, but preferably just summarily shot. No, tortured and then shot."

Every cloud of dogshit has a silver lining, I guess.