The Werewolf

     I have been running as long as I can remember. Age is catching up to me now though, and, after a long bout of resistance, I gave in and purchased a road bike. Now I find myself cruising the streets of Redlands three nights a week for cardio. I'm a creature of habit and quickly fell into a routine route. Each night I head up the steep roads that lead to Sunset, a windy path that skirts a ridge around the south side of town. On one side of the street there are well appointed houses filled, in my imagination, with doctors and college professors and on the other side of the street there is a steep drop off to the canyon below. I ride at dusk, timing carefully so as not to be out in the darkness, as the prolific stories of mountain lions are probably wildly exaggerated, but I'm not taking any chances. I stop at the top of the hill and pull over to the side of the road for a water break. As I pull my bottle out of it's holder something catches my eye from down in the canyon. The irrigation system has just turned off and the remaining light is catching the water laden oranges reminding me of glitter-covered Christmas orbs. A train speeds toward the crossing below, slicing through the groves as it blasts its horn in warning. For some reason a chill runs up my spine as the horn blows.

     As I drink I realize it's been a quiet night. Normally I see a plethora of other bicyclists on the route, but tonight has been exceptionally lonely. I glance to my left and notice the ancient cemetery that sits high above our town. I haven't given it much thought in the past, but tonight it draws my attention. I remember reading in the paper that the cemetery is the source of many of the purported mountain lion sitings. I'm a reasonably seasoned outdoors woman and I know that animal encounters, especially in a city, are rare, but I'm feeling on edge tonight. I slide my water bottle back into the metal holder on the frame of my bike and begin to make my way home. I peddle toward the end of the cemetery wall where it ends at an awkward four way stop. As I approach the stop sign I begin to notice a strange sound coming from the other side of the cemeteries boundary wall, something I think might be mechanical, yet seems strangely human.

     When I reach the four-way stop there are no cars around, yet the noise grows louder. I swing around the corner and notice another cyclist heading up the steep hill. The noise seems to be coming from his bike. I wait at the stop sign for a moment as he approaches, thinking I might need to offer him some assistance from the sounds of things. As he gets closer I can see he's in his late twenties, he's fit, and his bald head is glinting with sweat. He has a long, bushy beard that seems somehow incongruent with the picture. I sit at the top of the hill as he draws nearer, and once more I notice the strange unease that has plagued me the whole ride. I suddenly realize the noise is not coming from his bike, but he himself is emitting a loud guttural sound. He comes to a stop just below me on the other side of the road. He sets his feet down on either side of his bike and raises his arms skyward, he looks into my eyes, his mouth drops open and he spews out a ferocious howl. His face is contorted in anger, at what I don't know. I'm filled with sheer terror as I picture the werewolf of my youth and I begin to peddle like hell down the hill to get away from him. My adrenaline is pumping and I ride hard, glancing back every so often to make sure I'm not being followed. I pull into my driveway and open the back gate sliding my bike through. I slump over the bike and suck in a huge breath, sighing it out, I rise back up. I'm not sure what I just saw, but I'm once more sure there are things that I will go to my grave not understanding.