Boomerland: "Sporting dog" refuses to chase over-the-hill bicyclist – Walla Walla Union-Bulletin

I love dogs. And riding bicycles.
I knew I was getting older when the dog refused to chase me.
Lurking in the shade of a farmhouse, the Australian shepherd scoped me out. I rode by. He yawned.
It was one of those sunny, no fear, no anger, no rage October days. I had left social media behind in town. In the countryside, peace prevailed.
Perhaps the Aussie is a sporting dog, I thought, and would only chase if I had a chance of escaping.
The dog looked in prime condition. He was a hunter turning down the equivalent of a slow elk on a game farm.
The dog was a shopper looking at my “Best Before Age 60” label and giving the product a hard no.
Since I semi-retired, I have slowed down. I go downhill about the same speed as the Tour d’ France professional bike riders go uphill. No worries. I go my own pace and smell the cow flops, which do not give me embarrassment or mental anguish.
I grew up on a ranch far out in the country. Cow flops only bothered the new neighbors, urban refugees.
I ride a bike for my health. In our younger years, we acquire wealth — and enough possessions to supply a flea market. In our older years, we acquire prescriptions.
Wanting to battle that trend, I made bicycling one of my three daily prescriptions. The others are jogging and golfing. They’re preferable to the most common Boomer prescriptions — for blood pressure and heart palpitations from watching TV news.
Like many Boomers, technology has outpaced me. My bike has 30 speeds. I have one — slow.
My bike also has three chain rings — large, medium and small. In my 20s and 30s, I rode the large ring, flying down the road. In my 40s and 50s, I rode the medium ring, maintaining a good pace. In my 60s, I ride the small ring — and sometimes get passed by tumbleweeds.
I am now going at such a turtle’s pace I have contemplated entering a slow bicycle race. That’s where contestants balance on their bikes and go a foot at a time. The race course is 100 yards long. The last bicyclist to cross the finish line wins.
No town festival in the Northwest, though, offers a slow bicycle race, probably because of insurance. You wouldn’t want someone toppling over at 0.001 mph and getting a scratch.
Insurance is taking the grit out of us. Dogs, too, are suffering from less grit. In the old days, dogs had more grit. They’d walk in snow up to their armpits, uphill, to their unheated doghouses. They’d eat Old Urp dog biscuits without complaining, and sleep on polyester couches that had the comfort of a bed of nails.
They’d supplement their diet with 10-cent balsa gliders, pea shooters, dodgeballs, paper airplanes, sometimes even roller skate keys.
I’d ride my Stingray bike with banana seat by the neighbor’s house and be chased by their pack of red-eyed wolves who thought I looked as yummy as bacon grease. I built enough grit outracing those salivating mutts to last a lifetime.
If a farm dog yawns as I ride by today doing my slow bicycle race impression, I approve. Dog predators need to save their energy for Generation X and the millennials — more competitive prey.
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