My bulletproof week. Well, theoretically.

It’s been a while since I’ve set aside the time to write. I don’t plan to bore you with the justifications. But leave it to the universe to pull me out of my voiceless comfort zone, and to throw me a few bones this week.

And with bones comes a great story.

I’m lucky to be alive. No seriously. I seem to have mastered the artistry of cheating death. I’m not kidding. Not once. But twice. IN ONE WEEK people.

[Insert dreamy harp sound effect.]

There I was on a Sunday morning, an innocent trail runner and a pathetic-looking one at that. Not unlike writing, it’d been a while, so I found myself clumsy on the loose gravel, each stride coming down harder than the one before. It was Mother’s Day, and I was determined to do a number of things in honor of Suzie Bell, my fabulous mother. The first on the agenda, naturally, was running.

Groggy from the morning, I was tuned into my favorite NPR podcast, Radiolab, and thoroughly tuned out of my surroundings. It wasn’t until I’d made it half way that I noticed the flit of black specs darting in and out of my line of vision – one, then two, then three, four… A flash realization jolted my mush brain awake, and a montage of news stories citing killer bee attacks in Arizona began to play.

What do I know, what do I know, what do I know? Bees… They will sting you and send signals to the other bees and kill you... 40 stings kill a man… or is it 50? You can out run them… can’t you?  RUNNING. You can outrun them. They’re not distance bees. Something about ¼ of a mile… No time… I think one just stung my elbow…

I was like a flash of lightening released into the Arizona wilderness,  with fear in my heart and a dangerous level of hope that I could beat the bees. At one point I remember rotating my head backwards to see if I’d gained distance from the hive, and I could see their dotted outlines still close on my tail. That was the moment I pulled out my headphones, got serious and ran full speed ahead. It was one of those surreal moments that I recall (a) being one of my easiest runs of all times, likely a personal record for pacing and (b) a moment in which pride and grace was thrown to the wayside. I didn’t stop running until a few miles later, and I’m pretty sure I shouted warnings like “killer bees!!” and “run a quarter of a mile!!” to unsuspecting passerbys.

But by the time I reached my car, I was alive. And my getaway dive into the driver’s seat was nothing short of the caliber you’d see in a James Bond movie.

Fast forward from Sunday to Wednesday morning.  A mere three days later. I approached my vehicle, again in the early seven o’clock hours. Only to find I’d been the survivor of a drive by shooting. And Sam (the car, for those who somehow don’t know! )… Sam was the victim of this battle.

Yes, those are bullets. Also a victim, the nearby Palm Tree... 

But after a little CPR...

... We were back in business. 

Turns out, the entire street got shot up -- old cars, new cars, black cars, white ones, green ones. It felt reminiscent of a war zone as I gazed down the palm-lined street in the aftermath; each victim had its wounds exposed, their once intact shells glistening beneath them in remains of broken glass and rubble.

It brings the question of chance, and random occurances to front. Why was I, the innocent hiker, chosen by this swarm of bees? Why was my car selected as one of the few to shoot in the street? Why was the street itself selected? Why this night, when half the days of the month I'm not even home?

I just might have gotten my curiosity back.