Hats and Dogs

The question of what to wear on your head is one which I know occupies most peoples every waking minute. However for the touring cyclist there is a very practicle aspect to this question. Most cycling magazines will now not allow pictures to be published without the subject fully helmeted, in many countries it is a legal requirement to wear a head case and drivers everywhere will furiously smack themselves on the head if they see a cyclist daring to go bare headed. Despite this some of the most experienced cyclists I have met don't even carry helmets let alone wear one. Why not?! I can hear the nanny state straining at its legislative leash. Well there are a few (sensible) reasons, beyond the superficial one of not wanting to look like a tool: research has turned up the interesting fact that more accidents, involving cyclists, happen to those wearing helmets. The suposed reasoning is that drivers think they won't hurt the cyclist if they hit them; well a helmet doesn't prevent road rash and broken bones. Some cyclists, me included, believe that if you get smashed by a lorry traveling 70 mph, best case scenario from wearing a helmet is ending up in the cabbage patch with the other vegtables. I don't want my headstone reading died aged 40: 22 years with a working noggen, 18 with mush for brains. Much rather have: died 22, living. Or better yet es prohibe hacer agua aqui. Or even better: so long and thanks for all the tequila. The other side of the coin then is if you get hit at 30mph, then a helmet could very well prevent a date with a coma. So I like to take the middle road, I carry my helmet and when I'm getting into urban areas wear it (not very proudly it must be said) but on the open road I take my chances and when neccasary hit the ditch and take a long drink of muddy water for my troubles. The other benefit of being helmetless is allowing me to show off my superb Union Jack bandana. When worn pirate fashion, I like to think that, twined with ample facial hair, it gives off a certain je ne c'est quoi.

The subject of personal safety brings me roundly to the animosity; nay hatred; nay loathing that exists between the cyclist and the snarling satanic pooch . The birth of the dispute is lost in the mists of time but the present situation makes the troubles in the middle east look like two kids falling out over who's turn it is to go in goal. I have been chased more times than I can bear to think of and it is a pleasent suprise to go through any settlement and not receive an hear splitting hollering for pedalling blood. So of course cyclists have their methods to deter the canine from its aim of sinking its teeth into that juicy thigh or calf that has been engorged by months on the road. Many carry a pump strapped to their frame, not to have easy access to firmer tyres but to be able to put metal to snout without the hassle of dismounting. Others like to use projectiles: rocks are a firm favorite but are a pain to carry so you must then stop and hope there are some to hand; one cyclist I met spat in the dogs faces, which he assured me stopped them dead (he reckoned that he was so practised 9 times out of 10 he could hit them right between the eyes). I have been handed a can of pepper spray by an ex-postman. My usaul method is to unclip from the side of attck and take a good swing at them with the reinforced toes of my cycling shoe, this worked fine untill I was beset on by a pack of three dogs, one coming from each side and the third in front stopping my progress. I escaped by edging one of the dogs into oncoming traffic (the fucker dodged the trucks) taking a swing at the one to my right and riding through the third (at this point I'd like to say, for those animal welfare types out there, no dogs have been hurt or killed in the riding of this journey). I also like to mix in my own snarling, hollering growl right back at the dog, accompanied with bared teeth and steely battle eyes a full bloodied charge is often turned into a hurried retreat. Imagine my surprise then when one cyclist told me she just calmly talked to the dogs saying drivel like "it's ok dog I won't hurt you" (with pump clutched firmly in hand behind the back). At the best of times I'm a cynic but this was clearly the worst advice I'd ever come across, I mean peace talks haven't exactly panned out too well in Gaza have they? However I decided I would put these doubts to one side and give it a go: next time I rolled up to a snarling dog, foaming at the mouth with blood lust, hatred blazzing from it's eyes, I turned to face it and buda like uttered the, enourmously stupid, phrase "it's ok perro, calm yourself" the hatred turned to suprise, its rump hit the tarmac in puzzelment and the foam trickled down its jowls in utter confusion, the snarl turning to a perplexed whine. Unbelievable it actually works! Since then I have been a complete convert and talk to the dogs like I'm helping a jumper from his ledge. However I have to admit that after passing through your tenth village of the day and the tenth bombardment of barks it feels ridiculously good to let off your best full blooded battle cry and see the dogs running, tails between the legs. I think I'm starting to see why the peace process in the middle east isn't working so well.