Not Ohio actually. Nowhere near. Not even the same continent. No it was Spofforth, Yorkshire, England, Europe. And it wasn’t even bees, it was hornets.
Bees conjure up images of Pooh Bear and honey, warm woody words like bumble and pollen, or concern about their disappearance in the Medusa Cascade. Not so hornets. Descriptions of them more often than not revolve around adjectival terror like predatory, vicious, nasty. Hornets are Daleks and bees are Ewoks. Pooh Bear never met them in the 100 Acre Wood.
Well somewhere in the two and a half acre field I met them. Somewhere between 5 and 6 kilometres on the Spofforth Gala Trail Race. They came at me. Surrounded me. Beat me up and then moved onto the next runner. Suffice to say, we didn’t become friends. Bear with a sore head doesn’t even begin to describe it.
And it confirms my preference for roads over trails. I’d more happily battle tarmac and bad-tempered BMW drivers than a drove of vespa crabro taking out their pent up aggression upon hapless and mostly harmless Bank Holiday runners.
It’s pretty unlikely that I will ever be “carried to Ohio in a swarm of bees” (and certainly not accompanied by Matt Berninger’s heartfelt croonery), but having been chased to Spofforth in a school of hornets, I can report it would not necessarily be my transport means of choice.