I just got back in from a brutal eight mile run a few minutes ago. By seven o’clock this morning, the temperature was already 70 degrees with 97% humidity and no wind. That temperature climbed to about 77 degrees by the time I was done. I pretty much wither when it’s humid to begin with, and the water I carried with me didn’t seem to help much. My pace wound up being crap — even by my slow standards.
I should have known things would go badly shortly after I stepped out my front door this morning to walk the half mile down to the bottom of the hill and start my run. Less then a block from my house, I felt a brief rush of wind and heard a flutter pass by directly behind my head. I didn’t think much of it, but then it happened again in the other direction.
Shortly after that, an irked squawk come from a small bird perched on top of a mailbox off to my side. The bird, seemingly intent on channeling the spirit of Alfred Hitchcock, took off and hurtled toward my head, passing probably an inch or two behind it, doubled back, and swooped an inch or two behind it again before alighting atop a pole. There it squawked irritably once more before taking off and again making a pair of kamikaze runs at my head.
By this time I was getting nervous; luckily, it only repeated its stop, squawk and dive bomb pattern one more time before leaving me alone. I didn’t see a nest anywhere in the area, so I have no idea what it was guarding. Maybe warheads or a stash of stolen diamonds, for as zealous as it was. All the same, I’d much rather walk unwittingly into a scene from a Hitchcock film over something from a David Cronenberg movie any day. Maybe the bird’s squawking translates to “Death to Videodrome; long live the new flesh!” Now that would be creepy as all get out…