This is it, I thought. Those three words, plus some sort of guttural sound—that I didn’t actually make—were what came to mind when the squirrel dove for my front wheel. Whatever miniscule distance—10 or 12 inches, perhaps—that marked the distance between my wheel and the spot where other squirrels suffered a sudden overwhelming desire to live and turned back for the safety of trees, this pioneer was actively bettering.
It was as I mused on the fact that something in me had taken note of this new benchmark that I realized the squirrel had stopped and suddenly shot back off the bike path. It turned around so quickly, it appeared as a glitch in the matrix, a momentary buffer after which the video catches up.
The next thing I realized was that I’d already applied the brakes out of my brain stem’s calculation that if I was moving more slowly I might reduce the severity of my coming injuries. Going slower doesn’t always pay off; my friend Dave was at walking speed when he fell over and broke his hip. I braked less as action than reaction, one that took place in my reptile brain, a piece of hardware I’m not convinced can do math, but it was a calculation, all the same.
I began to wonder: How many times has a squirrel danced the suicide reversal with my wheels? I could think of plenty of occasions, but I’m certain I’ve forgotten far more than I remember. I can’t even recall all the times I’ve run over—accidentally every time—snakes, and I see very few of them.
Within that question—how many times has this happened?—a realization hid. I figured that my number was up. I find this a curious conclusion, as I don’t believe in fate. Whatever the stars hold, it’s not my future, and yet, I realized that not only did I harbor a belief that one of these days I’m going to go somersaulting avec l’écureuil, I suspect that I have a date with a sling as well—I’ve never broken a collarbone. Let’s not discuss the efficiency of combining the two. I said, let’s not.
The sciency part of me harbors a curiosity about whether a low-spoke-count wheel or one with many spokes is more likely to allow us both to continue our days unscathed. Would 28 spokes help to repel the creature, or might it have a shot at passing through if there are but 18 spokes? This, like how many licks it takes to get to the Tootsie Roll center of a Tootsie Pop, may never receive an objective verdict, and that is probably a good thing. Getting empirical with squirrels isn’t a great use of my time, or velocity.
I know that for every mile I ride in the company of grays, reds and California grounds, my chance tangling a squirrel in one of my wheels (yes, they’ve gone for my rear wheel as well) goes up. But that’s not to say there’s some countdown leading to an inevitable date with firm terra. That I have to remember this, to think about the statistical likelihood of bike and squirrel intersecting, when so much else in my thinking has evolved over decades, serves as a reminder to me to be gentle with myself. Changing our thinking can take years and sometimes we can surprise ourselves with the oddest realizations—or regressions.
The squirrel did turn around, I’m pleased to say, but it couldn’t have waited any longer to change its mind and have survived. This new benchmark can’t really be topped; it passed beneath my right foot. Is there a lesson for me? Perhaps not, or maybe it’s a demonstration that close calls are more rule than exception.
With a newly minted learner’s permit, , my father, who was retired Army and a control enthusiast, and who seldom if ever was in the passenger seat, had me drive on some of the rural dirt roads in our little town. My father kept remarking that I was coming really close to mail boxes. I pulled over and said, from where I’m sitting, it looks like I’ve got plenty of space. Perspective. If the squirrel never hits your wheel, does it matter how close he got?
I’ve hit two on the road, and both almost in exactly the same spot. Luckily I just hit them and they didn’t get entwined in the spokes. That has got to be yucky.