Tangoing with Canis lupus familiaris...

...or, doing the dance of death with the dog (alliteration be damned).

I have always been well alert of dogs whilst riding: keen eyed, sharp, even vigilant. Whilst never having had a run in with the mythical beast whilst on my beast, I've had a few close calls: anything primarily driven by a sense of smell which relegates the miracle of sight to the back row of the central processing unit cannot be trusted. I've seen my own mother's hounds-of-hell crack their heads on cupboards whilst sniffing out treats she'd dropped on the floor, and had always assumed that was not atypical behaviour solely confined to her mutts: in all other aspects they seem typically 'dog'.

So, seeing free-roaming dogs whilst riding has always made me extend the collision detection radar outwards without fail. The problem with this is one has to see them first. Tooling along on my Dean titanium the other day, on a well known road, I encountered a furry fury in the most unfortunate of ways.

Now, I'm assuming the hound was definitely not out to get me: if it had been I feel sure it would've taken advantage of the situation it caused, and been gnawing on my flesh post-haste as soon as I hit the dirt. Nevertheless, it did 'get' me.

I'm not 100% on the actual details – one second I was on my bike cruising at 30km/h, and the next (subsequent to a flash of black fur) I was lying prone in the dreamlike aftermath-of-crash mental state one experiences.

I'd been riding in the middle of the lane, parked cars to my left, and I'm assuming the dog tore out of a small gap between cars just as I arrived adjacent to it. I only caught a fleeting glimpse of a furry blur appearing directly in front of me, when all hell broke loose. Next, I'm sitting up on the road, blinking and computing whether I had all my body parts in their correct place and orientation.

It seemed as if I did, so my thoughts immediately turned to my bike. I stood, picked it up and started examining it, at which point it began to acquire a haphazardly applied blood paint job. Hmmm, OK – it seems that that warm feeling on my face isn't the flush of adrenaline, but rather the flow of blood.

Hands to face, I felt for where the stuff was coming from, coz' it was now a decent little flow. Two places – a rather large gash in my top lip, and a rather larger gash in my chin. Seems like I'd used my face as the initial landing point. Running my tongue around my mouth, I discovered a certain grittiness to its contents: luckily this was sand picked up rather than the remnants of teeth. There is not a mark on my hand or arms, so it looks like it happened so fast I didn't even have time to get my hands down in the usual reflexive protective way.

At this point, it suddenly became imperative that I make sure my bike was OK, get on it, and get home - *shrug*. So, grabbing the cleaning cloth from my seat bag (luckily it was clean), I wiped what blood I could from my face, held the cloth onto my upper lip and chin with one hand whilst I inspected my machine. Chain was half off the crank, but that was quickly remedied, brakes were rubbing but they had just been forced off centre, everything else looked OK. So, of course there is nothing else to do but ride home, yes?

And ride home I did, in one gear and with one hand (my right hand occupied with keeping the cloth to my face). I have no idea of the thought-process-control my brain was exerting – somewhere in there was a message that should've been of prime importance being ruthlessly suppressed: that message was "Riding home 15km with one hand whilst pissing blood isn't conducive to one's continued good health".

But make it home I did, and ring the local medical centre I did, and arrive there I did. 2 hours (1 hour of waiting) and 12 stitches later I was back home.

It's been 3 days since the off, and my upper lip (which was punctured clean through by a tooth) is now more lip and less trunk-like in appearance, and the big chunk separated from my chin is firmly back in place. Some swelling and a bit of road rash remains but it's really nothing: it could've been a hell of a lot worse.

Turns out the bike made it home with a very bent RD hanger – as I didn't change gear I didn't notice at the time. A few little scratches on the shifters, a skewer and the RD hanger housing, but I'm amazed at how little evidence of a 30km/h road hit there is: it certainly faired better than I. I assume the dog hit my front wheel a glancing, sliding blow just enough to send my wheel in one direction and my mass in another, because it is dead straight – not a smidgeon of truing required.

As for the mutt – I have no idea: I never saw it again. It's probably still running around chasing whatever the hell its olfactory engine senses.

Ride safe!