Tag must tap some deep instincts. I got chased by some dogs while riding my mountain bike in steep, slippery wet conditions towards dusk. The dogs' young owner called after them to little avail. One stopped after I gave it a quick bark and backwards glance, but the other kept a snarling and a barking and a bounding towards my exposed lower extremities. I found that the trail demanded strict attention to avoid a muddy fall, leaving little attention left to fend off Dog No. 2. Sometime in this tricky and heart racing section I became aware that a part of me enjoyed this chase on a very deep level. The trail leveled off and I turned to yell some unintelligible baritone challenge to the hell hound on my heels. It worked perfectly and the dog ran back to his frantic teenager. I disappeared into the shadows of the forested valley below, feeling ecstatic and remembering the thrill of tag I played for hours as a youth. The thrill of chasing and of being chased, so primal and excellent, something towards the adrenal jumbo that comes with kicking the shit out of someone, or having the shit kicked out of you.
I can see the sea gulls past my monitor, wheeling and circling, inviting me to join them. They shriek that they can take me to my forgotten dolphin family, sing me songs that tranform and heal. My neck gets the same tension our German Sheperd's neck gets when we drive past a park and he sees the other dogs playing from our backseat. Must try hang gliding.
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