Bear Safety In Alaska

It’s amazing how much scarier things are/seem when it is dark out.  

About a week ago I was riding my bike home from a friends house late at night.  Emily was out of town and I was totally bachin’ it.  I had been at my friend Andy’s house playing board games and Halo.  Good times.  Andy lives about 3 blocks away, but the alley is quicker.  I always get scared riding through the alley, mostly because of the high concentration of stray pit bulls on the south side of Kalispell.  I’m not joking.  Seriously, I’m not, there is an abundance.  

scary

My senses are heightened (because of the pit bulls).  My head on a swivel.  Eyes wide.  Jumpy.  I make it through the alley just fine (PTL), and am about 5 houses from our place when I see a shadowy figure that appeared to be coming straight towards me, riding right down the middle of the road.  As we get closer to each other I realize it is a fellow late-night bike rider.  

When the figure (who I can now see is a man) sees me, he starts yelling.  Most of what he is saying is not comprehensible.    I get scared.  Mostly because it is dark.  I realize that what he thinks is that I am his friend that he is out riding with (which I am not).  Upon further inspection, I realize the man is intoxicated (duh).  

scarier?

Dude is drunk, on a bike, at 3 in the morning, and thinks I am his friend who apparently ditched him.  I pass him as he is mumbling something about me going the wrong way, and I respond with a “you don’t know me”.  Smooth.  I sound like a teenager responding to a parent’s accusations of drug use or mental illness.  He turns to follow me.  He didn’t seem to understand at all what I was saying, still.  ”I’m not your friend”, I say.  Nice.  I pull up to my driveway.  

Not wanting him to know that I live there, I just stop and stand in the street by the driveway.  He passes, me and attempts to do a u-turn in the middle of the street, still yelling incoherently.  As he is turning (too sharply) he falls to the ground.  Hard.  When I ask him if he is alright, he responds with a great sense of humor for a drunk guy.  ”It’s called ’style points’”, he says.  ”Nice work”, I say.  Laughing audibly, I watch as he sheepishly picks up his bike, realizes this is a case of mistaken identity, and rides off into the dark.  

I guess the moral of the story is that I have scarier things to worry about in Kalispell than dogs.  Especially in our neighborhood.