When something extraordinary or otherwise noteworthy happens to me on a bike ride, I often write it down and save it for posterity. Some of you mountain bikers out there might appreciate this one from the late 1990's.

I can still see the look in the eyes of the guy in full camouflage I encountered during a solo mountain bike ride in 1997. I was deep into a 12-mile trail in a place called Rocky Point, far beyond the point where a scream, a holler, or a gunshot could be easily heard by another human being. It was a breezeless, muggy Sunday afternoon and there wasn't another bicyclist in sight, nor another vehicle in the parking lot outside the trail. Suddenly, the bushes began to rustle in front of me and I prepared myself for a face-to-face meeting with a deer or a fox. Instead, out from behind a cluster of leaves, bearded Action GI Joe appears, walking in my direction with a serious-looking shotgun pointed up at the air. The anger (or drunkeness) in every pore of this guy's face sent a debilitating chill into my colon, nearly causing me to crap on my saddle.

As a reverse-adrenalin effect set in and my ability to pedal diminished, I made sure to lock eyes with this creature, never straying, regardless of how badly I needed to blink. He was a grizzly, bearded dude, about 6-foot-something tall and almost as wide, wearing a full army combat uniform. He didn't look to me like a Wall Street trader out for some relaxing Sunday afternoon recreation. In a panic, I attempted to reassure myself that this is exactly how all the weekend warrior deer hunters who use this preserve in the autumn and winter must dress for the occasion. However, I had never actually seen a deer hunter in these woods, so what did I know? Besides, deer hunting season wasn't scheduled to begin for another three months.

Soon, I had to make the decision as to whether I was going to acknowledge this psychotic looking character and perhaps say a word or two to him.

"How YOU doin?" I asked (because that's how all of us New Yawkas tawk).

His response was far from reassuring. In fact, I may have only imagined that he nodded his head in acknowledgment, but I'm SURE he didn't open his mouth to speak as he continued to walk toward me with the shotgun on his shoulder. That's when I knew I either had to stop the bike and attempt to convince this guy not to shoot me OR to look for a patch of thick brush I might be able to escape into.

Of course, this whole incident occurred in less than fifteen or twenty seconds, but felt like an hour as it was happening. Ultimately, resigned to the fact that, if this guy intended to murder someone that day, I had pulled the short straw and would be the sacrificial mountain biker. As we brushed shoulders while I steered around him and back onto the two-foot wide dirt trail, I remember saying something like "Have a nice day!" or "Have a good one!" When he didn't respond, I began to think I might never see my wife again or even get to finish the water bottle attached to my frame.

The next five seconds were among the most intense of my life. Once I passed this dude, I could no longer see him and had no idea if he had assumed crouching position or was centering the back of my head in his view finder. I suddenly wished I had installed that rearview mirror I had long thought about. I continued moving forward, keeping my speed at a moderate pace so that I might be able to keep the bike under control if he took a shot and missed or just grazed me. After a second or two lapsed, I tensed up my butt cheeks, preparing for the impact of the bullet. I thought to myself for a second, "Someday, mountain bikers will all have wireless telephones to carry out here in the woods." But I was pretty certain I wouldn't be around to see that, or even to reach the payphone in the lot where I parked my car again. "Goodbye life...but what a way to go out!"

The next thing I remember, I reached a wide open field in which bees were buzzing around vivid yellow dandelions and the sun was shining on my face as if I had just awoken from a terrible nightmare. Minutes later, two bikers passed me from behind, moving too fast for me to ask them if they'd encountered the same monster in the woods. These were the first cyclists I had seen on the path all afternoon. I realized I should probably never ride out into the woods alone again, and I don't think I ever did.

When I returned to the parking lot, I conveyed my experience to the park rangers and got a reaction that I can only describe as indifferent, at best. I never heard anyone else describe a similar experience on that trail and there have been no reported shootings at Rocky Point in the years since this incident. Perhaps had I made too much out of a deer hunter who had simply snuck into the preserve outside of the season; or perhaps this WAS all a dream.

I don't know if that guy was breaking the law or not, but maybe you should tell the story to the park ranger's supervisor.

Way too late now.

Sheesh.....don't ever book a cycling tour of Switzerland, lest you run into the likes of these....."monsters".

Your story is a pure art!

One of these days, I'll tell the story of when I crapped my pants during a ride up the Jersey Palisades and had to ride all the way home to Long Island covered in doo doo!