From atop my bike, I’ve had many run-ins with bugs.
I’ve swallowed ’em and inhaled ’em. I’ve never had a bee in my bonnet, but I’ve been stung, bitten and crawled upon. I’ve had bugs down my shirt and up my shorts. They’ve gone down the hatch, up the nose and in the eyes.
But last week I had a creepy-crawly experience so harrowing I barely can bring myself to think of it without a shudder.
It was a clear night with a nearly full moon.
Earlier on my ride, I passed a grassy field and was dazzled to see hundreds if not thousands of lightning bugs putting out their signature booty call. Their primitive sexting reminded me of paparazzi bulbs going off in a darkened stadium.
But their presence also alerted me that little winged beasties were afoot (or is that a contradiction in terms?)
The ride progressed without incident until I was about a half mile from home.
Occasionally, I get bored with my usual pedestrian pace and have been known to engage in sprints to liven things up. The Swedes call it “fartlek” training; though I don’t train, I do like using “fartlek” in as many conversations as possible. It’s always good for a titter.
So there I was, sprinting (or fartleking; see, that’s titter-worthy) like mad when I looked down the road and saw a huge moth headed my way. We were on something of a collision course, so I angled to the middle of the road — it was, after all, the middle of the night — and instinctively shut my mouth.
The moth made a beeline for me.
I angled a little more.
It beelined a little more.
I tilted my head, braced for collision … then was stunned the fuzzy little missile lodged itself in my left ear.
To fully understand my predicament, it’s important to realize I was riding my fixed-gear bike. When the wheels are turning, so are the cranks. No coasting. And the faster you’re riding, the faster the cranks are turning.
So there I was, legs flying, pedaling like mad in the middle of the road with a massive moth sticking out of my head.
My first instinct was simply to pluck the behemoth out of my auditory canal, but a quick prod suggested the foul creature needed to be extracted, not merely dug out. I feared pushing it farther in my head.
(And, dear reader, I know what you’re thinking, but I already considered that Mr. Moth might be attracted by the light shining in my noggin from my right ear. Afraid he’d be lured deeper inside my cranium, he might be tempted to move in — LOTS OF LIGHT! ARCHED CEILINGS! A REAL FIXER-UPPER! — so I shielded my right ear. So there.)
Amid my flailings, I saw a splay of headlights behind me and realized a car had turned onto this quiet little residential road behind me.
Somehow, I managed to latch onto one of the winged wonder’s beating wings — and, believe me, I think every one of those wing-beats landed squarely on my tympanum — and plucked it from my ear before it was able to unfurl its creepy little proboscis thing and suck the tiny brain from my head. (Moths do that right? Or is that zombies? Or zombie moths?)
Anyway, I extricated the thing just in time to look back and see the car behind me had turned off. Talk about anticlimax.
But I have to admit, I was a little disappointed.
I would have loved to see the look on the driver’s face as he pulled alongside me, legs whirling, arms flailing, face made all alabaster by the moon with Mothra flapping from the side of my head.
I figure the driver could have done one of three things. 1) Eyes front, hands at 10 and 2. Didn’t see anything. 2) Pull over, attempt to render aid and pray Mothra hadn’t developed a taste for human flesh. Or 3) floor it, hurry inside and barricade the door behind.
