I like to “work out” regularly. And no, I don’t “work out” to impress the babes. The only babe I want to impress is my wife, but she is more taken by a sparkling, freshly-clean toilet than a rippling six-pack. No, I “work out” so that when I am done playing rolly-bolly on the floor with my grandchildren, I am able to stand back up again. 

And I don’t really like “working out” at the gym because of those typical workout bullies. I am shamed by the gym bro who snorts in disgust watching me do air squats. Or I am embarrassed by the shredded woman who, after I finish my bench press, adds four plates to the barbell (for you newbs, 4 plates = 180 pounds).

No, I prefer to do my “workout” at the fitness trail by the Eau Claire university. That way, when I do my Pete Hegsethesque pullups, there are no swole crossfitters to ask me if I am experiencing a medical emergency. 

The fitness trail is peaceful, it is often my only experience of nature for the day, and there are plenty of invasive species of plants to puke on. But this idyllic setting was destroyed this summer by a new type of workout bully: an aggressive deer.

I espied this deer for the first time at the far end of the trail, about one hundred yards away. I’d do a set, look back, and the deer would be about ten yards closer. This kept happening, much like the scene from Monty Python and the Holy Grail where Lancelot is running toward the castle with his sword drawn. He never seems to get there until he is RIGHT THERE! This deer was like that; suddenly it was RIGHT THERE! I stared at the deer, the deer stared at me. I broke eye contact first. That’s when this deer knew it owned me.

I described my deer problem to my Sunday night group. The first question my friend Joel asked me was whether it was a doe or a buck.  I said that I had neither the time nor the inclination to determine its sex; I was too busy doing my aerobic workout. Joel asked, “Did it have horns?” Why yes, yes it did, if you are speaking of Satanic horns, which are the metaphysical representation of absolute evil. But Joel assured me that if it did not have physical horns (or antlers for you newbs), then I was dealing with a doe.

Two days later, I met the doe again on the fitness trail. I was doing Bulgarian Split Squats (and now I understand why Bulgaria never became a world power), and the doe was suddenly all up in my лице (that’s “face” in Bulgarian). I stood up on the platform and remembered what I learned from Shark Week on the Discovery Channel: make myself big, don’t turn my back, and don’t, DON’T bleed. 

I did my best Orca sounds to intimidate the deer: squeaks, whistles, and clicks. The doe looked as if it, too, wondered if I were experiencing a medical emergency – typical workout bully.

That’s when it hit me; maybe Wisconsin deer didn’t have that much in common with Atlantic sharks.  I needed to rethink my wildlife safety source material. 

In my next two confrontations with the doe, I decided to push it away from me with a fallen pine branch. I struggled to move it, but I’m absolutely sure it’s because the doe has a lower center of gravity and not because I can only bench press the barbell at the YMCA.

My wife thinks that my being bullied by a doe is hilarious.  She asks me every time I work out if I had a play-date with Doey. 

I’ve had five confrontations with this doe so far, and each time I have been the one to back down. And I’m pretty aggravated by it. That is why I am looking forward to hunting season.

Now, mind you, I am not a hunter. Not that I have any ethical problems with killing deer, unless they are animated (that’s Bambi, newbs), but I don’t need to be handling a gunpowder-based weapon – I’m still working on mastering pine branches.

But when hunting season comes around, I plan to bring popcorn and a Coca-Cola to my friend’s tree stand, and if he makes a shot, I’ll be able to stand up and yell, “Who’s the apex predator now, baby!”