Swooping Magpies of DEATH!
January 18th 2008 22:23
I don’t really have anything against birds, I’m just not that into them. The feathered kind, that is. Most of the time, I hardly notice them, unless I’m eating one of them. I have recently been forced to pay more attention to our feathered friends, after buying myself a fairly flash new mountain bike. To combat the boredom that defines most of my spare time in Wangaratta, I thought I would explore the surrounds on two wheels. It has been an excellent investment, and I have enthusiastically embraced the pleasure and fulfilment that mounting a piece of machinery can bring. There are some great tracks to be followed, especially the rail trail that links up most of the little towns in the area. Getting to work now takes about 1 ¼ of the time and I can carry my fishing rod and get to a secluded little fishing hole after work pretty quick.
It was all going pretty well actually, until Spring came around and the Magpies started getting all defensive about their nests. I found myself being bombarded by wing flapping assassins. The first surprise attack happened on the way home from work one afternoon. I was pedalling away with my headphones on, minding my own business when I felt a knock to the side of my helmet. Perplexed, I looked around. I immediately assumed it was one of Wangaratta’s many charmingly antisocial teens tossing rocks at passers by, probably spurred on by his drunk but supportive parents.
There were no dull eyed local yokels about, or they were doing a better job of hiding than usual. Suddenly another clacking knock flicked into my helmet, and I whirled my head to see an angry black and white bird hovering just above my head, preparing for another bombardment. The suddenness of the attack and the
I have nothing against feathered creatures, I enjoy their melodic twittering when I have my breakfast in the morning, I saw a doco about penguins once and I've wistfully watched an eagle sore, envious of the freedom that self-propelled aviation must provide.
Until recently, birds have occupied another dimension to me; the airy ether above is their domain, while I remain a citizen of solid earth, and we generally keep our distance. Until recently, our worlds have never collided.
I had heard of swooping birds before, but had always thought of it as a harmless inconvenience, a myth told by aviaphobes to scare wandering children. Until one day, as I was riding peacefully to work I WAS ATTACKED BY A FEROCIOUS SWOOPING PECKING DEMON FROM ON HIGH!!!
From out of nowhere a black and white squawking menace winged down and savaged my brow, viciously pecking at my head, desperately trying to puncture my eyeball and feast on the vile jelly within! This was no mere magpie. It was a denizen of Hades, a winged monster, a Valkyrie hell-bent on my immediate demise, or at the very least, permanent facial disfiguration.
On that day I had my headphones in, a vulnerability noted by the cunning spy in the sky. The crafty bombardier angled its flight to be invisible, knowing I couldn't hear the first approach. Being school holidays at the time, I at first thought I was under attack from one of Wangaratta's many bored and destructive delinquents. When the first blow struck my helmet I looked around, expecting to see some 13 year old street-tough, defiantly laughing at me and arming himself with another pebble. There was no one to be seen. I scanned the street up and down and then, out of the corner of my eye, I detected a black and white blur. I glanced upward and BAM! - I copped a savage beaking to the face.
I pedaled off with the areal attacker inches from my head, repeatedly peck, peck pecking at my skull. I sought refuge in a pedestrian underpass, and thankfully I was free . . .for the moment. As my racing heartbeat slowed, I inched my bike out from under the tunnel and sped home, slamming the door on arrival and heading straight for the hard liquor. I breathlessly relayed the incident to my uncaring housemate, who laughed at me and accused me of exageration. Not even the livid scratches on my delicate brow could earn any sympathy from that heartless spartan. The following morning I gave the angry feather-ball a wide berth. I rounded the corner and instead of turning right, I went wide left. All was well. I thought I was in the clear, until THWACK! - From out of an empty sky I was being savaged again. It was like a terrible scene from 'When Animals Attack Good Blokes'. I hammered along wailing and waving my arm above my head, nearly riding straight into a car in the process. Thats when I knew this beats had it in for me.
At work I fearfully inquired if there were any preventative measures:
“But of course” was the reply, and they handed me a set of eyes. Two big gazing eyes, which I was meant to stick on the top of my helmet.
Apparently, the craven birds will not attack if they are being watched. I stuck the ocular shield to the top of my lid. That afternoon, just to be cautious, I rode along the main rode, risking myself in the traffic rather than face another round of death from above. I was almost at top speed when I felt the first fluttering attack. I had little choice but to increase my speed and try and outrun my assailant; a futile strategy. My fear almost quelled my humiliation as I felt the laughing of the passengers in the cars overtaking me. In the end it was so ridiculous that I started laughing myself, while the belligerent bird unleashed a brutal flurry of beak pecks to the cranium.
Eventually I was riding an extra km or two out of my way to avoid the daily pummeling. One morning as I walked to work, too tired of the punishment to cycle, I saw a boy ride straight down the path of doom. No sign of the ambush. I rejoiced. The swooping season was over. That very same day I was pedaling along, my attention focused on a group of workmen in a yard when WOOSH! - I was hit. It sent me into a panic and the blokes on site into fits of laughter. Trying to defend my head with one arm I rode under the bridge, emerging on the other side to find I was still in the cross-hairs. I was obviously the sworn enemy of this truculent tweeter. I admitted defeat and put my bike away.
A month or so later, the danger had passed. For me, the damage was done. I couldn't approach a magpie without a shiver of fear. Every feathered creature I encountered I expected to turn on me and try to infect me with bird flu or gouge out my eyes.
With the hatchlings out of the nest, the next cycle began. This proved to be as annoying as the previous was terrifying. The fat, fluffy chicks whine and whinge constantly, with a squeaky, wheedling squawk. For some reason they congregate outside my window in the morning, invading my dreams with their high pitched caterwauling. These petulant infants are doted upon by their parent, their every whim catered to as worms are thrust beak-wise down their throats. It's like watching an obese kid at the super market throw a tantrum and be rewarded with a donut.
Damn magpies. The most annoying of all birds. But they better watch out because I have begun to study their ways. The tables will be turned . . .
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