Getting back in the saddle

[Times photo: Lara Cerri] After cyclist Mel Lucas was knocked from her bike and attacked by a dog, John Sinibaldi, 88, a two-time Olympian who was riding not far behind her, pulled the dog off.

By JEFF KLINKENBERG, Times Staff Writer
© St. Petersburg Times
published April 23, 2002

A competitive cyclist braves danger when she races with the wind, but the pain she has experienced since she was mauled by a family's pet dog goes beyond the merely physical.

"I always considered myself pretty fearless," she says.

But that was before she encountered Rocky, a beloved family dog that had never bothered anyone until a bad morning last month in St. Petersburg.

Mel Lucas has a big scar on the bottom of her upper right arm and puncture wounds on her left thigh. Her neck was stiff for awhile, but it's better now. In some ways, she considers herself lucky. She could have been killed like the California woman who was horribly mauled last year.

Even as her physical wounds heal, Lucas is more troubled by what's going on inside her head.

Beyond insomnia and anxiety is her nervousness about riding. At 39, she is among the fastest women cyclists for her age in Florida and competes all over the South.

Cycling is her passion. Most weeks she rides 200 miles or more. On Saturdays, she does 40 heart-thumping, leg-burning miles, the round trip between Northshore Pool in St. Petersburg and Fort De Soto at the end of the Pinellas peninsula. The ride is so grueling that all but the strongest cyclists avoid it. Riders, most of them male, muscular and young, average 27 mph, with frequent sprints that exceed 32.

Lucas was riding her bike to meet her friends at Northshore Pool when Rocky, a mixed-breed German shepherd, charged out of his yard on 13th Avenue N and got her.

It took a former Olympian who happened to be riding his bike a minute behind her and a St. Petersburg police officer who happened to be driving down the same block to save her.

As they pulled him off, Rocky was in the process of chewing his way through her bike helmet to get to her skull.

Lucas is back to riding her bike now, but without the same fervor. She never rides alone and has to fight panic when she sees a dog she doesn't know.

"Out of the corner of my eye I keep thinking I'm seeing a dog coming at me."

The most dangerous animal

Lucas is a dog person. Knock on her door in Largo and her Heinz-57 variety mutt, Peyton, raises a ruckus. Her dog is playful, undisciplined, a tad obnoxious.

"Don't worry about Peyton," she says. "She wouldn't bite anyone."

For most of America's 55-million dogs, that's the gospel truth. Most of us consider our dogs loving companions and would trust them with the lives of our children.

[Times photo: Lara Cerri]	Hook, a 2-year-old male pit bull, was being held at the Pinellas County Animal Services complex in Largo last week, under a rabies quarantine after biting a young boy in the leg.

But the most dangerous animal in our country is not a shark or alligator or grizzly bear. It's the family dog. About 4.7-million people are bitten annually by dogs in the United States, most of them kids. About 800,000 victims require medical care. Of those, 6,000 end up in the hospital.

Mel Lucas was fortunate. She had to spend only a morning in the emergency room.

In a typical year, about 17 dog-bite victims die from their wounds. One notorious attack made national headlines in 2001 when a college lacrosse coach named Dianne Whipple was fatally mauled in California by a presa canario, a huge mastiff-type breed native to the Canary Islands and bred for herding and guarding and at one time, fighting.

The owners had been warned repeatedly about their dog, which had bitten and threatened other neighbors. Whipple, who suffered 77 wounds, bled to death after her throat was torn away. Last month one of the dog's owners was convicted of second-degree murder, the other of involuntary manslaughter.

Pinellas, like most Florida counties, has enacted tough laws regarding dogs. Dogs must be confined to a house, a kennel or a fenced yard. When outside, dogs are supposed to be on a leash or within strict voice command of their owners. If the dog bites, it's quarantined for 10 days until the threat of rabies has passed. If the bite is vicious, or if the dog has a history of biting, it can be declared dangerous and put to sleep.

If Americans are losing patience with bad dogs, it's not only because of the danger. It's also because of the expense.

Insurance companies increasingly are loathe to cover a homeowner who keeps a vicious dog or one of a breed with a reputation for causing mayhem. Allstate, for example, no longer sells liability insurance to owners of pitbull terriers. Apply for almost any company's homeowner's or renter's insurance, and you'll be immediately asked if you own a dog. If it's a pitbull, a Rottweiler or another large breed, insurance may cost more, or it may be denied. In 2000, State Farm alone paid $73.5-million in dog-bite settlements. The average dog-bite insurance claim is $12,000.

Pinellas, like any other populous county, has a dog-bite problem. Last year 1,528 bites were reported. Most were nips, but a few were vicious attacks, the kind that means a trip to the hospital or courtroom or ends up causing nightmares.

Mel Lucas can show you her bloody bike pants and bloody bike jersey. She can show you that mangled bike helmet.

An unexpected terror

She grew up in South New Jersey. Talk to people who knew her, and they'll probably tell you about her bike. Unlike most kids, who have to ride with training wheels for a few years, she mastered a two-wheeler at the age of 3.

"I was competitive," she says. "I saw the older kids riding bikes, and I wanted to ride a bike, too."

At least until high school, when nobody wanted to be caught dead in anything but a car. She kept her competitive edge through fast-pitch softball and tennis. Eventually she married, had a child, divorced and moved to Florida. A few years ago a friend lent Lucas a racing bike. She couldn't believe how fast she could ride. She bought it and has since bought others.

At first glance, Lucas hardly looks like a competitive cyclist. She's not tall or long-legged or muscular. She's a petite 5 feet and short-limbed. But take a gander at her legs, which are big and powerful.

"I have fast-twitch muscles," she explains. It's athlete's jargon that means she has the muscles of a cheetah instead of a camel. She's built more for speed than endurance.

She belongs to the West Coast Wheelmen, a serious Florida bike club, and also rides in the United States Cycling Federation. She races on the road and in the velodrome. But mostly she trains, rides every day after her work as a paralegal and on weekends.

Her hardest workout happens on Saturday. She gets up at dawn, eats and rides 10 miles from her house in Largo to rendezvous with other cyclists poised to do their 40-mile ride.

"Most of us who ride bikes are scared to death of getting hit by cars," she says.

It has never happened to her. But she has been hurt. Once, she collided with a cyclist who fell in front of her and broke her right shoulder on the pavement. A year later it happened again. She considers a broken bone or two paying the dues.

"It happens."

When your bones knit, jump back into the saddle and ride as soon as possible. Otherwise, you'll always be afraid.

She has had trouble following her credo this time. She's seeing a psychotherapist.

"I don't feel like I'm me," she says. "And when I get on my bike, I just don't have the same enthusiasm."

[Times photo: Lara Cerri] Mel Lucas, right, is among the fastest female cyclists for her age in Florida and competes all over the South. Since being attacked by a dog, however, she is nervous about riding. “I don’t feel like I’m me,” she says. “And when I get on my bike, I just don’t have the same enthusiasm.”

‘The puppy’ becomes predator

The boys were up early that morning. That's what Wendy Migliore, 32, remembers.

Her street, 13th Avenue N, is a popular thoroughfare for cyclists heading east or west. In fact, the city put up a sign establishing it as a bike route.

Migliore's sons, Nick, 7, and Vinnie, 3, were watching cartoons and eating Popsicles for breakfast. Rocky was with them, wolfing down a Popsicle, too.

The big dog was devoted to the boys. He knew he wasn't supposed to sleep with them, yet he always did. Migliore calls him "the puppy," but he was actually about a year old. She acquired him from her boyfriend, Mike Simons, as a house dog. Migliore says Rocky was never allowed to roam outside by himself.

"We never had a bit of trouble with him," she says. "Not even a hint. Those boys pulled his ears and rode him like a horse. He loved them."

A little after 8 a.m. on March 16, Migliore heard a piercing scream coming from the street.

"Somebody must have been hit by a car," Migliore thought.

A few moments earlier Mel Lucas had ridden her bike around the corner. She was in the aero position, meaning she was leaning low over the handlebars to thwart the wind and build her speed. Her cyclometer had climbed to 15 mph when out of the corner of her left eye she saw a big dog headed her way.

It was Rocky, growling and barking. Somehow he'd escaped the house. Migliore's front door sometimes doesn't catch when she closes it.

Lucas had outrun dogs on her bike before. But this time Rocky had a good angle and was moving too fast.

He slammed against her front wheel with his jaws, Lucas remembers. Still growling, he backed off and blocked her wheel. Lucas felt herself going down.

She hit the asphalt so hard the Styrofoam lining of her helmet shattered.

Then Rocky was all over her.

She doesn't remember much of the attack.

But John Sinibaldi does.

A concerted rescue

He was about a block behind her on his bike. He recognized her and was trying to catch up. At 88, Sinibaldi is a legend among Tampa Bay cyclists, a two-time Olympian who was there when Jesse Owens embarrassed Hitler at the 1936 Olympics in Munich. He is also famous for growing the most fabulous vegetables anybody has ever seen.

Short and wizened, Sinibaldi glanced up from his handlebars.

"Mel was gone. One minute she's there, the next, where the heck is she?"

Then he saw. She was on the ground on the side of the road. He leaped off his bike. She was sitting in a fetal position in a pool of blood, moaning and screaming. Rocky was draped over her, biting at her helmet. Then Rocky grabbed her right arm near the shoulder and started shaking. "Like he was trying to tear her arm off."

A neighbor had run out with an ax but didn't know what to do.

Sinibaldi pulled Rocky away. Rocky charged again. The old man used his own bike to swat Rocky away.

"The dog kept coming."

A police officer on routine patrol, Cedric Doss, pulled up. He jumped out of his cruiser.

"Shoot the dog!" Sinibaldi cried. The officer drew his gun, but didn't fire, fearful of hitting someone with a stray bullet.

Wendy Migliore appeared in the yard in her night gown.

"I saw Rocky, but I thought he'd followed me outside."

Rocky didn't respond to her commands.

Eventually, an animal control officer arrived and captured Rocky.

Hysterical and bleeding, Lucas was taken by ambulance to Edward White Hospital. Her wounds were cleaned and stitched, and she was released.

Rocky was taken to Animal Control in Largo, where he was destroyed.

"I'm so, so sorry what happened to that woman," says Wendy Migliore, who nurses cancer patients for a living.

"I'm also sorry for my boys. They keep asking me when Rocky is coming home. I told them he's in jail for dogs. I don't want them to know he's dead. They cry as it is. I took them to a pet shop but told them no more dogs. We're getting fish."

No lawsuits have been filed. Lucas' attorney is discussing the matter with Migliore's insurance company.

Trying to outdistance distraction

A dog barks in the distance. Mel Lucas snaps to attention.

"It's a small dog, and it's in a car," she says sheepishly.

She's readying her bike for a ride on the Pinellas Trail near Largo. She continues to work on her conditioning. She has a race coming up next month.

She pulls on her new helmet and starts pedaling, slowly at first, but then faster. But not fast enough to suit her competitive fires.

"I'm so tough on myself," she says. "I just don't have it right now, and I hate it."

Pedaling over a steep bridge, she strains with the effort. After 10 miles, the turn-around point, a discouraging wind blows in her face, sapping her strength.

Ahead, walking on the side of the trail, is a black Lab -- on a leash.

"It looks okay," Lucas says quietly. "It looks like the owner has it under control. It's okay. I'm not afraid. I'm okay."

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