4 Hours I Could Have Lived Without

With such smooth sailing through the first tree weeks of this walk, I was starting to think we might get to the finish line without any glitches.

I wish.

Tuesday after lunch, I started out for Clay City. It was a beautiful day, I felt good, and I was looking forward to the stroll. I was about forty five minutes into it when our fabulous (gratuitous sponsor mention) Camping World RV pulled up beside me and our driver, The G Man, came bounding out. Now, The G Man is normally a garrulous sort, and it wouldn’t be more than two minutes after meeting him that you would correctly guess that he’s a salesman by trade. In this case, though, I could see as he approached that he was soaked in sweat and ashen in color. He explained that some jackass had come barreling around a curve on US 246, crossed over the center line, and put the RV into a ditch. The vehicle did suffer some damage – primarily cosmetic and nothing that prevented us from continuing the journey – but at least The G Man, though shaken, was okay.

As I continued walking, I started to get a bad feeling about the remainder of the day, and about an hour later that feeling was realized. On this leg of the trip, I had encountered more than the usual number of dogs along the highway. I’ve come to realize that people in the country don’t do things the way people in the city do, and this is just one example. Where people in the city have their dogs chained in the yard, people in the country think nothing of letting these nefarious beasts roam free. I’ve expressed my antipathy for dogs in earlier editions of this monologue, and my near fatal run in with Cujo and Friend a couple of weeks back has heightened my anxiety in this regard.

As I approached a house on the south side of US 246, I could see an enormous black dog with an almost military bearing standing in the front yard. This particular stretch of 246 didn’t draw much traffic Tuesday, there weren’t any other houses around, and I soon realized that it was Yours Truly versus Dogzilla, mano a mano. I debated my options, which were limited. I could go back (not realistic), curl into the fetal position (tempting, but cowardly), or continue on. I chose to continue.

I moved to the north side of 246, walking normally and keeping this carniverous mutation in the corner of my eye. He bounded to the side of the highway, yowling furiously, but appeared content to menace rather than attack me. A few steps later, I was beginning to feel cautiously optimistic about my chances of survival, when Dogzilla came roaring across the highway in my direction. My survival instinct kicking in, I frantically sprinted west as rapidly as possible, desperately seeking any form of refuge. There was a church on my right, and as I turned into the driveway I noted that the marquee proclaimed, in a bold, assertive font that “JESUS IS COMING!! WHETHER YOU”RE READY OR NOT!!” I can assure you that, at that moment, I was definitely ready – I didn’t see anyone else coming to my rescue – but I clearly recall thinking that if The Big Boy didn’t get there post haste, it wasn’t going to do me any good.

But then…a miracle! Dogzilla stopped about five feet up the drive, maybe thirty feet behind me, and went mute. As I turned around to assess the situation, I saw this fat guy in a wife beater sauntering across the highway, and although I couldn’t hear what he was saying, it was apparent that whatever he was saying was having a soothing, almost hypnotic effect on The Canine From Hell. As he approached the dog, he reached out and grabbed him by the collar, looked up at me, and said, “You sure did rile old Travis up.”

Travis? TRAVIS?! What the hell kind of name is that for such a beast? Hercules, maybe. Brutus, even better. But Travis? Now, I have never owned a gun, am a staunch believer in gun control, and think the world would be a much better place if nobody had firearms of any kind. That said, for a brief moment I realized with absolute certainty that, had I had a gun and known how to use it, I would not have hesitated to put a bullet between Jethro’s eyes and another into Travis’s rib cage.

Had only I passed the Patriot Gun Shop – which, by the way, operated out a residence – half an hour before this incident rather than half an hour afterwards.

Thursday’s Journey: Farmersburg to Terre Haute

Mileage: 15.4 (If I could cover the entire distance at the same speed I used to escape Travis yesterday, this leg would take me about four minutes and 12 seconds).

On the iPhone: A mix of BTO, Elton John, the Rolling Stones, and the Guess Who. I love ’70′s music, but in light of recent developments I have vowed never again to listen to Three Dog Night.