Death by Deer Flies

I started my run at 7:30AM on the Fourth of July. I began up my 500-foot driveway, right onto Merrill Road, left onto Mountain Road, straight onto Lesnyk Road, left onto the dirt of Bog Road.

And here begins the realization that I was about to be re-introduced to the Tabanidae family: deer flies, yellow flies, horse flies, pine flies … 35 species or more of pesky insects that inflict painful bites on warm-blooded humans. Oh, yes, I had been introduced before.

I thought I was a champion when I stopped running abruptly, turned around and swatted with my bare hands at two deer flies. They fell to the ground, and then I stepped on each to ensure they were dead. “I can handle it,” I thought to myself. “Fight!”

By the time I next turned around, about 15 of the ferocious flies were trailing me. Kill or be killed. This was war. No sword was going to help me now. I looked like I had ants in my pants the way I was dancing around. One landed on my left arm. I slapped myself, the brave fly dropped to the earth, sentenced to death. I resumed running.

Interestingly, it is only the females that are vampire-like. The male flies collect pollen instead of blood. I know the determination of females since I am one. Fear it. Don’t mess with the Tabanidae family. And don’t mess with me.

I understand the power of visualization. I sometimes pretend that I am being chased by bears; that I am in a life or death situation, and that I must outrun that which is about to attack me. Under the fight or flight response, I intuitively choose flight. But here I was not having to pretend anything. I had to keep running because the vicious flies were gaining on me. The faster I ran, the more warmth and oxygen I gave off alerting more biting flies to join the pack of fierce predators. It was like I was Forest Gump, and along the way, I was picking up violent flies rather than jovial runners.

I tried to defend my super-self, but there were too many now. It wasn’t making me happy. Perhaps I should have remained sleeping with the enemy (i.e., longtime boyfriend) under the safety of rooftop and walls. At this point, it sounded like a better idea.

A massive swarm of flies were hovering all around me. One darted into my mouth when I let my guard down. I spit it out. “Ew. I mean, Gottcha.”

Occasionally, I used my hands to wipe the beads of sweat from my forearms to ensure they were free of feeders. My sweat whisked into the air like a water sprinkler on a lawn. The sweat was dripping down my legs, and my eyes glanced around to make certain that I wasn’t being assaulted.

Some of the flies were small. Some seemed giant-size, like the size of a bat whirling around me. I felt like prey. I felt powerless, as a fly landed on my back and bit me through my blue Montrail singlet. “Aaahh,” I screamed, while running faster and twisting sporadically to look behind me.

Has anyone has ever died from being bitten by these dangerous insects? Death by deer flies? I prayed that I would survive. With my survival instincts on high alert, I ran faster. Running with flies can make a slow runner fast. I know firsthand.

I counted the cars that I let slip away. Each one of the drivers could have rescued me. I’m sure they saw that I was running in a panic, my arms flailing behind my body and then whipping around to slap the air. I contemplated taking a rest in the shelter of a stranger’s screened-in porch, but I continued on my route instead. I dreamt of the retreat of my home.

Eventually, I made it home ... with only a few fly casualties and only a few actual bites to speak of. It wasn’t an ill-fated run after all. I declare peace.