Mad cow (no pun intended)

Or .... "The best workout of my life" ... or "Only in Vermont". I couldn't decide what to call this post, so here goes ... I hate running. I believe that if God wanted us to run, he would send someone to chase us. But the nearest gym is too far, and I get tired of doing Burpees and push-ups in my livingroom. I have virtually given up yoga because I simply can't bear the thought of giving up 1.5 hours for anything that isn't culinary, and the teachers, quite frankly, touch students too much. I am not that friendly. But everytime I look out my window and see this amazing river surrounded by a glorious collection of trees and wildlife, I simply feel guilty for not getting out and taking advantage of it. So, I choose to run along the river because I know that when I leave I would kick myself for not spending more time in the beautiful Vermont outdoors when it was right on my doorstep. (And why should the cyclists have all the fun ... they already get to wear costumes.)

But, as I embarked on my last run up Route 5, I brought along my digital camera. We are just now entering the legendary Fall Foliage season, I had a bright idea to capture the changes week by week and share them with my friends and family who have either never experienced the splendor of Autumn in New England or who miss it terribly since moving to California. So, I on this particular day, I decided to kill two birds with one stone and snap pictures while getting in a good workout. How efficient is that? (I am German after all.)

It started out business as usual. I tie up my running shoes and warm up with a brisk walk up my road a quarter mile to the "friendly" neighbor's pier (and stopping before I reach the house with the PRIVATE DRIVE sign in the yard so the cranky old bird who lives there won't catch sight of me and chase me down the road spilling hot coffee on her mud boots like she did once before.) I snap a few photos, then turn back for the serious run along Route 5.

Now, the serious jogging begins. I start out at the train trestle and head north to Thetford. I brave the bridge that cuts over the river inlet and hope no Mac trucks are passing at the same time because I am both afraid of heights and, well, Mac trucks. From there it is usually smooth sailing. But I bring my inhaler just in case.

One of my favorite spots, though, is a hilly pasture on the West side that usually hosts a dozen or less medium-sized cows. They all have horns, so Aaron says they are bulls, but I call them cows anyway ... some of them have babies and I can't be sure which ones have horns.

Now, let me just say that I love cows. I love their giant brown eyes and serene expression that seems to suggest they are right with the world--no matter what their fate, and largely because they don't know their fate. And they get in a hurry about nothing ... or so I thought. Because on this day, I spotted one of the herd loose and eating up a patch of my neighbor's lawn. (By the way, I call everyone who lives within walking distance of my house my neighbor even though they don't have a clue who I am.) This is the quintessential black and white cow you might find on a milk carton .... not because he is missing or something, but because he ... she ... whatever ... looks like a Jersey Cow. And he is chewing a load of tall weeds that are hanging out of both corners of his mouth. He looks at me nonplussed, and I think this is the perfect photo "op." So, I snap him.

It is then that I notice that a section of the barbed wire fence that keeps the cows in place is loose and I wonder what has keep the rest of the herd from the sweet grass across the street. Good behavior? Fear of Mac trucks?

I run on.

Within seconds I hear the sound of something pounding the pavement and I know it isn't my girly-girl pink and silver Reeboks. I look back and the damned cow is chasing me ... and what's worse ... his fellow bovine gang members are following suit, jumping over the broken barbed wire and mooing at me as if I had just made a leather jacket out of one of their cousins. I have never run so fast in all my life ... not even during track and field day at Collegewood elementary. But it is hard to run when you are also laughing, because honestly, what could be funnier than going for a jog and being chased by cows. At least in Pamplona, participants get a party afterward--if they survive.

I spot a dirt path that crosses the Green Mountain railway train tracks and make a pact with myself to find the first house that looks it has someone inside and that the inhabitants aren't serial killers. But as I run I realize that not only am I not brave enough to knock on anyone's doors, I don't even know if this dirt road is leading me back to Route 5 or not. All I know if that I heard a truck honk its horn, a loud "MOOOOO!" and I never saw the pack again. My heart rate is about 179 at this point (I highly recommend the Polar Heart Rate Monitor). I flag down a car carrying two women returning from a very important shopping trip to West Lebanon, New Hampshire. I know this because NO store in these parts carries packages of toilet paper as big as they had except for Wal Mart of BJ's, both of which are in West Lebanon. I don't know exactly how to explain myself so I say, "You are going to laugh, but ..."

They did. Hard. Especially when I told them that I thought it was my camera that had ticket off the gang leader. The passenger said, "Damn Paparazzi!" And they probably continued to laugh as they continued down the dirt road to their house where they put away loads of toilet paper.

On a positive note, I got to see a whole new view of the river bank and got some fabulous photos once I caught my breath. And sure enough, my little detour led me right back to the train trestle and right back home again. I tell you ... I have jogged through some shady neighborhoods, but nothing scared me as much as that cow. And my hamstrings are still sore.