And pretty hard core, in this weather. I'm keeping my long efforts to the bike for a while.
I need to drag my bike out and spin around some.
Were the cows in the field near VT-12? I felt lucky to get past them unscathed when I did this as a one-way to Killington a couple of weeks back.
Yes, Jersey cows munching away, just gazing at the knucklehead jogging past. No bulls, so nothing to worry about.
Running east from there to the White River has some pretty sections along the ridge lines. Open meadows, wild flowers in bloom this time of year (plus the berries).
Makes me think of a time 25 years ago when I was living in Thousand Oaks and I had a visit from my old friend Jerry Rice. We went for a longish run on trails from my apartment, many of the places not places any more today, developed into gated communities and other useless stuff, but then pretty swell. A little road, then another trail up into the impossibly beautiful China Flat that belonged to Bob Hope back then, past some fields of cows and eventually coming down at Chesebro Canyon, where we ran a bunch more, and eventually Rhonda met us there and gave us a ride home. So maybe 20 miles or so.
Anyway, Jerry and I are going through China Flat, there are cows all around, and Jerry asks me if we should be worried about being bothered by these bulls. “Grew up in the city, did you?” I said.
Agreed, no bulls. But still, they were very interested indeed in me, quite contrary to what I was expecting. Had to walk backwards across the field shooing them off, while they tried to get as close as possible. It must have been the time they expect to see their farmer (6:15am). Cows are docile, but they also weigh more than me.
My own favorite bovine gender identification story: On a transcontinental geology student winter break expedition, driving across the Texas panhandlein 3 vehicles connected by CB radio (this was the 1970s). We passed some grazing bovines whose coloration pattern apparently attracted the interest of student "Bill". Bill on the CB tried to raise Missy in one of the other vehicles: "Hey Missy, what kind of cows are those?" Don't remember any more why Missy was supposed to know something about these animals, maybe she was from Vermont while most of the rest of us were from, say, Massachusetts or New Jersey. But before she could answer, a deep Texas drawl came over the CB: "Them ain't cows, them's steers."
Jogging in Scotland in 1999, I was crossing a pasture oblivious to threat or otherwise. I was wearing a red sweat shirt. A huge bull took keen interest in me from, I'm guessing, 50 yards. I retreated ASAP, with a heart rate that must have been close to 200!