It
is with great sadness I must announce my withdrawal from
my first tri that is scheduled to take place in five
days. I have sustained an injury that will no doubt
curtail my ability to plod across the finish line making
this a tale of whoa. It was not a glamorous event
that took me out of the race but perhaps an evil
conspiracy by the triathlon gods to make sure I never
get the chance to toe the starting line.
How did it happen you ask? Was I on a ten-mile run when
a car hit me? No. First of all I can’t even bike ten
miles and second, how could a driver not see my big butt
cruising down a road?
Was I swimming across a choppy bay and overcome by a
cramp that, save for the kayaker that was heckling me,
could have been my demise? No. I would have drown before
letting one of those guys help me.
Nothing quite so spectacular as any of those things,
just one of those ordinary every day happenings. I was
run over by a bull. The reason I was in a position to
get run over by a bull will remain a mystery, as it is a
rather long story. I will say this, however, doing
favors will get you killed.
Achilles the Blue Heeler and I were putting this bull
into a cattle trailer from a very tall well built set of
pens. Achilles is learning to drive cattle and that day
I was letting him handle the work by running behind the
bull and putting him into the trailer. I have to admit
he had done such a good job of it that I merely had to
walk up the loading chute and close the trailer gate.
Now here’s how it happened. Achilles is standing at
the rear of the trailer keeping the bull in place while
I am walking up a rather long loading chute made from
heavy pipe that is over seven feet tall. As I approach
the rear of the trailer Achilles had to move so I could
close the gate … which was stuck. The bull, which for
some reason is frightened by a 60-pound dog and not a
210-pound man, decided that now would be a good time to
depart. The bull ran directly at me from the front of
the trailer and dropped his head in an attempt to ram
me. It was at this time I planted my steel toe boot
directly in his forehead. It is possible this was not
the best strategy, as he did not seem to enjoy it at
all. I lessened his enjoyment even more with the next
two kicks to his left ear that really made him mad.
With a loud bellow he made a lunge for the gate, that I
was still trying desperately to close, and hit me chest
high as I tried to protect my recently broken rib from
the impact. He knocked me backwards into the chute and I
would have sworn we could not both fit into such a small
area at the same time. We did fit though, and he slammed
me against the pipes of the chute wall as he went past.
I managed to keep my feet under me and this was about
the time his hoof landed on my right foot. Stepping on
my foot would have been all right but his jumping from
the trailer put all his weight onto the top of it.
I climbed out of the chute and after checking for all my
appendages I walked to my truck to get my attitude
adjuster. When I got back to the bull he already had his
head down and was ready to come at me again. He charged
and I let him get about arms length before swinging my
peewee league baseball bat and landing a solid thunk on
his head. It wasn’t an all out major-league stroke but
he got the message and took off for the trailer. He
jumped in and waited patiently while I unjammed the gate
and closed it behind him.
By the time I returned to the truck my right foot had
swollen so badly I could barely get my boot off. Within
two hours the whole top of my foot was black and blue.
So there you have it. I’m limping around for the next
week or so but I’m still better off than that bull.
Check McDonalds in a couple weeks if you want to see him
for yourself.