Ol' Skeeter Guts

It looked like the aftermath of the Battle of Antietam, if my body were the battlefield and mosquitoes were the dead and wounded. So many were laid low by my swatting hand, as they stuck their proboscises into my bloodstream. Bumps arose on my skin like so many mounds of dirt before a mass funeral. This was the scene along the Buckeye Trail last night.

Rain had made muddy birthing grounds for these bloodsucking flies. They were not so noticeable on the outbound trip, but on the way back did they ever bite! Swarms upon swarms of swirling mosquitoes attacked the backs of my legs and upper arms. They could not be outrun.

The route carried me back to the place that smells like maple syrup, though it smelled not like maple syrup on this day. The stubby tree branch had grown a tuft of green leaves. The clearing was now a mossy green, from all the moss, you see. Up the next hill, downed trees marked my last turnaround point, but this time my legs made it to the wood plank bridge just before the trail crosses Columbia Road. It was after this point that the bugs mobbed my veins.

The required walk break on the long uphill that leads away from the stream crossing signaled the dinner bell for those bloodthirsty pests. My hands began to flutter and smack at tingles and itches, a manic tick that would not stop until a shower washed away the mix of sweat and mosquito guts.

Last year, Vitamin B became my anti-bug deterrent, when it seemed horseflies were the scourge of my running existence. Perhaps the pee-yellowing pills will fend off this year's bane. It could be worse, I suppose, like my runs could be haunted by the lobster-earwig hybrids that invaded my dreams last night. Those were fucking terrifying.