The Beast

While out for a run, it’s not unusual to encounter wildlife. On many occasions I have spotted deer or rabbits, squirrels, etc. Never before have I feared for my life - until this summer.

It was during my 13 mile training run that I first encountered the foul beast. I had planned to run on the bike path up to the Rail Trail, then along the trail and back home to get my full distance. The path goes through Hilliard Municipal Park and along several lightly wooded sections in the same area. There is one such section that I would later know as the den of the monster. But on my first pass through, I ran by blissfully unaware of the horrors that lie within. My run went well, but it was a hot, sticky day. As I came back through the park, nearly finished with my 13 miles, I considered stopping to refill my water - which was getting dangerously low. But I decided instead to turn around a little later and come back for water, so I wouldn’t have to stop before completing the run. This decision would come to haunt me. I entered the section of trees and brush just south of the park, not knowing what was to come on that fateful morning.

I first heard a clicking noise. Unsure of the source, I continued on. Then a black specter started to enter my peripheral vision. First on the left, then the right, then left again, and so on. The clicking got louder and I could feel an awful presence. Then I heard it. It was not exactly a hiss, but I can think of no other word to describe it. It was the noise of a lifetime of suffering and hatred, expelled in one terrible shriek. The sound was not of this world, but some other dark dimension. And with that horrible sound, the creature swooped at my head. I ducked, and when I looked up it was perched on a nearby tree, still clicking and watching me. I ran past, shocked and a little confused at what had just transpired. Then I remembered my plan: half a mile left to go, I was supposed to turn around now to get more water at the park. It was another two miles (at least) to home, and drenched in sweat, panting heavily, I had no choice but to go back and refill my water bottle.

I convinced myself that the encounter with the bird was just a weird fluke. I told myself that the sound it made was really not that terrible, that I had just imagined it. But as I entered the same area of winding path through dense trees the encounter was the same. Click, click, click as the animal swooped closer and closer until finally making that awful sound and diving at my head. I ran past, my arms over my head, and didn’t stop until hitting 13.1 miles. I replenished my water supply and then worked up the courage to again venture through the beast’s lair. I reasoned that perhaps it would not bother me if I was walking. Maybe it took my running as a sign of aggression, I thought. I was wrong.

It attacked me again, this time the experience just lasted longer because of my reduced speed. I hurried past the best I could, and came home to tell Becky of the experience. But I don’t think she quite knew exactly what I had been through, or could even begin to imagine the sound it made. That is, until she herself experienced it.

A week later, Becky was going out for her 13 mile training run. I was biking alongside her to keep her company and carry her phone, some food, and extra water. As we came up to the same section of trees, we saw that there was a sign posted right in the middle of the path. It read: “BEWARE. Aggressive Bird.” As we passed I looked at Becky. “Oh my god…” I said. “It’s the bird. It’s the bird I told you about.” She laughed, and said “What? Oh, aggressive tern?” She had been focused on her run and misread the sign as "Aggresive Turn," and thought I was making a joke: a play on the words turn and tern. “No” I said. But it was too late; we were in the den of the beast. “Bird. Aggressive Bird.” And then there it was, clicking and swooping towards Becky. Then it made the noise. That wretched noise that would make death itself shudder and weep. It flew at her head. We escaped, but it was then that my vendetta began against that winged demon.

As we came back through the park near the end of Becky’s run, I stopped to use the bathroom. She continued on and indicated that she would run on the road, in order to avoid the horrible creature. I later learned that even on the road, away from the trees, the monster still attacked her. Even passing by its domain was a violation, I guess. When I came to its lair, I was ready to fight. I swiveled around on my bike as it came at me from different directions, keeping its distance this time. When it finally hissed and dove at me from behind, I flailed my arms wildly behind my head. I felt feathers hit my hand. It wasn’t a hard blow, but it was enough to defend the assault. I rode a little ways and then stopped and looked back. The winged demon was still following me, but from a much safer altitude. “You want a piece of me!?” I shouted up at it. It had no response, so I rode off to catch up with Becky.

The following week was my 15 mile run. We planned to go the same route. Becky was biking with me this time, but had to fill up her tires for the first portion of my run. So I was again alone when I came to the warning sign. I clutched my water bottle in my hand, ready to use it as a weapon. I jerked my head around waiting for it to attack, but nothing happened. I passed through without incident. There was a man fishing at the pond, who must’ve saw me emerge from the woods, wielding my water bottle like a battle axe, who stared at me as though I was crazy. But I didn’t mind, and just continued on with my run. Shortly after that I spotted something on the path. Bright red chunks and the first thing that popped into my head was that the horrific creature had killed some animal and feasted on its entrails. It turned out to just be some watermelon someone had dumped, and I let out a heavy sigh of relief. A bit later, Becky caught up to me, and I learned that she too passed through unscathed.

It was a tough run, but I kept my mind on the frightful creature. And when the time came to pass through the wooded section again, I was ready for it. But there was no clicking. No terrible sound. No attack. I finished my run and then realized what I had done. It was the farthest I had ever run in my life. This accomplishment meant something. It dwarfed even a victory in a skirmish with the awful avian. Whatever terror and pain that thing could try to inflict it was nothing compared to the grueling 15 miles I had just endured. And perhaps the creature knew this. Perhaps, with this revelation it fluttered off, back to whatever realm from which it came. Or maybe, it was still there, waiting. Silently perched, watching for something smaller to come by - perhaps a child or small dog - something it could more easily pick up with its talons.  I can't say for sure, as I never saw the bird again.

Since then I have run several distances beyond the 15 miles of that day. And each one seemed more taxing than the previous. Tomorrow I face the real beast: 26.2 miles. I will go in fighting. Whatever happens, I will keep my head held high.  I will not be defeated.