Outfox a Fox

Running early in the morning has its advantages.  It offers solitude, peace of mind and the opportunity to engage in nature that otherwise would be difficult once the sun comes up and the world springs to life.  But early in the morning—roughly a couple of hours before the roosters crow in a brand new day—there isn’t much of a chance to run into any other human beings.  However, having lived in the same house for the past two dozen years and running the same three or four routes every morning during that time, I’ve gotten to know some of the local denizens on a first name basis.  Granted they don’t know my name—mainly because they’re either deer, possums, raccoons, rabbits, squirrels or armadillos—but I certainly know theirs.  I also know where they live, when there are new additions to their families (or sadly, on occasion, losses) and how adept they are at crossing the road when the occasional vehicle poses a threat.  

Another advantage for me personally is that I have little traffic to contend with at that time of day (night?).  Sure there have been exceptions over the years such as:

·      An afternoon run in the early 1980’s in Rex, Georgia when a country boy drove past me in one of those trucks with tires that belong on a tractor decided my head was the perfect target for his beer bottle throwing practice (he missed, thankfully).

·      The occasional joker who drives towards me at 55 miles an hour and considers ‘let’s see how fast the runner jumps up on the curb when I veer towards him’ a great way to start the day.

·      On the mornings—always Saturdays or Sundays—I run at 2 a.m. because the rest of my day will be spent volunteering at a race and encounter the occasional ‘drive by’ who is actually at the tail end of their Friday or Saturday night and gets a lot of joy out of harassing someone out for some exercise before their alcohol-induced buzz wears off. 

But these are truly the exceptions; for the most part I feel very safe during my morning runs.  I always take a flashlight with me, wear reflective shoes and clothing and steer clear of headphones.  Finally, if there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years it’s how to steer clear of oncoming vehicles.  I doubt I’d be writing this if I weren’t.

But this morning was different.  I didn’t feel safe.  Not by a long shot. 

Before I get to the details, a little background is in order.

I came face-to-face with a crazed squirrel almost half a century ago in Davisville, Rhode Island.  The squirrel and I were walking towards one another on a dirt trail through the woods behind our house.  Our eyes met.  We both froze.  Suddenly the squirrel ran towards me.  I remained frozen.  The squirrel clawed his way up my leg, my torso and ultimately my face.  I ran home in horror.  My mom took me to the emergency room within a couple of seconds where my one thousand tiny lacerations were tended to (I admit I may have exaggerated slightly; it may have been a couple of minutes—not seconds--before I got to the emergency room.  What do I know; I was in shock.)

So ever since that day I have a distrust of squirrels.  Not necessarily a fear of squirrels, mind you; I just don’t trust the little bastards.

Continuing with more background:

At the beginning of three of the last four spring seasons a family of foxes has taken residence under the utility shed in our back yard.  The first year we noticed them I called animal control to ask for guidance.  I was told there was nothing they could do in the way of capturing them and releasing them into the wild, but they did tell me I could hire someone to remove them from my property (in other words, I could call ‘The Terminator’).  I wasn’t about to cause any harm to the little guys because, quite frankly it was one of the highlights of our evenings when the cubs (baby foxes) came out from under the shed around dusk and frolicked in the back yard like a bunch of newborn puppies.  Many a night Cindy and I would sit on the back porch sipping wine, watching the cubs chase one another from one end of the stacked stone wall in the back yard to the other.  This year we counted a record-highnumber of cubs:  seven. 

They’re gone from the back yard now (they usually only stick around for a couple of weeks), but there are other foxes along my regular running routes that I know on the aforementioned first name basis.  One of them (Oscar, named after the character on Sesame Street who lives in a trashcan because this particular fox always runs behind a trashcan when he sees me.  Yes, it’s a male fox; don’t ask me how I know—I just do) crosses my path about once every 10 days about a mile from my house in the vicinity of a streetlight.  This morning I saw Oscar, who in turn saw me and headed towards his trash can…only to turn around and start walking towards me as I got within 50 yards of him.  I stopped, he continued. 

Time out: There have been reports of rabid foxes in the area lately.  I thought you should know; that way you won’t think of me as a chicken sh*t as you read on.

I thought to myself that no one deserves to be bit by a rabid fox at 5 a.m. on a Thursday morning so I started running as fast as my legs would take me.  Oscar fell in behind, matching me stride-for-stride.

Time out: Peachtree City is notorious for its lack of artificial lighting.  Sure, there are streetlights—one of them happens to be Oscar’s favorite hangout—but they’re spread pretty far apart along the roads.

I turned back and shined my flashlight in the middle of the street to see how close Oscar was.  I saw two specks of light very close to one another: They could be Oscar’s eyes and then again they could be the reflectors in the center of the street illuminated by my flashlight.  Not having the time to determine exactly what they were, I had to assume the two lights were indeed Oscar and ran as fast as I possibly could to the next streetlight, where I would once again have the opportunity to gauge how close Oscar was and whether or not I might be spending the morning in the emergency room. 

Time out: A fartlek is a workout comprised of running at various speeds for varying distances.  For example a workout might consist of a slow, easy jog with the occasional all-out sprint thrown in from, say ‘the fire hydrant on the right to three mailboxes down on the left.’

I stopped beneath the safe zone of the light beneath the streetlight and looked back in horror to see Oscar emerging from the pitch black of the shaded road into the illuminated clearing where I had stopped to assess the situation.  I did just that (assessed the situation) and I can tell you one thing: It wasn’t pretty: There simply wasn’t any ‘quit’ in Oscar. 

The fartleks continued for two more streetlights—Oscar still in what I would call ‘casual pursuit’—until a car sped towards me, providing me the opportunity to escape whatever horror Oscar hoped to reign down on me.  Immediately after the car passed me and was positioned between Oscar and I, I ducked into the woods and ran a circuitous route back to my house with the hope that Oscar would continue down the road.  I won’t say that the plan worked exactly as planned, but I will say that when I got to my front porch and surveyed the front yard and the street running in front of my house there wasn’t a trace of Oscar.

Final time out: Escaping the jaws of Oscar the Fox was quite a relief.  I felt like the Roadrunner in the cartoons who always managed to elude the evil clutches of Wile E. Coyote. 

Final time out (this time I mean it): A roadrunner’s top speed is about 20 miles per hour, while coyotes can reach speeds up to 43 miles per hour.  My bowling team in college (The Acme Bowling Team, named after the company from which Wile E. Coyote always ordered the contraptions he used to try and catch the roadrunner) sported a patch on our shirtsleeves with Wile E. Coyote grabbing the Roadrunner by the throat.  

So to you, Oscar the Fox I leave you with the embroidered caption on that patch:

Beep Beep My A**!