Red Wing Blackbirds...viscous little
things. They look all friendly and innocent as they watch you peddle
past, but don't be fooled. They're laying in wait, scoping out that
perfect moment to come swooping out of the sky and peck you to
pieces.
The thing about these Red Wing
Blackbirds is that their favorite nesting areas are ditches..ditches
perilously close to the side of country roads with narrow shoulders relegated to cyclists.
During my first summer of riding in Wisconsin, I was pretty clueless about these birds. They were lined up on roadsides everywhere, hanging out and happily chirping, looking all innocent.
During my first summer of riding in Wisconsin, I was pretty clueless about these birds. They were lined up on roadsides everywhere, hanging out and happily chirping, looking all innocent.
It was a gorgeous spring day about two years ago. I was riding along a
lazy country road, a route I had taken a few times before. In my
peripheral vision I began to notice a red wing blackbird circling
angrily a short distance away. As I approached, its velocity only increased. Soon I was close enough that I could feel the wind from its wings as it
swooped and squawked at the edge of the road. Slightly alarmed, I sprinted away. The swooping bird faded into the distance. I didn't give it a second thought.
A few days later I was out on that same
route. The red wing blackbirds had been a constant spectator on my rides and I had
grown quite accustomed to their presence on the sidelines. As I peddled along at a
steady rate, I suddenly felt a bird swoop up behind me, heard it squawking
angrily. My heart rate skyrocketed even before I began the sprint
towards safety. The chase was short and I won uncontested.
I avoided that route for a while, but
the lure of that country road quickly overshadowed the memory of the
chase. But this time, that bird was waiting. As I peddled by, it
swooped up out of the ditch, squawking and flapping it's wings in a
rage. As I sprinted away, the bird pursued, inching closer and closer with each new swoop. The image of a bloody, scratched up
back put a pit of fear in my gut. I sprinted faster. A felt a hard peck
on my helmet and nearly screamed. I peddled and peddled as
fast as I could, long after the bird had lost interest. The fear had
solidified – I had been physically attacked by a red wing blackbird.
A few weeks ago, on a group ride, I
rode past the old danger zone. I kept one eye on the road, one in
the ditch, watching for a renegade red wing blackbird to pop up in
attack mode. Perhaps it was too early in the spring, or my old
nemesis had found a new nesting spot, but no attacks were waged.
That day, anyway.
I peddle prepared.
