He Tried Running From a Bigfoot Attack. What Happened Next Will Shock You

I Tried to Outrun a Bigfoot on My Bike — And It Let Me Live

I used to believe that if you were fast enough, skilled enough, and smart enough, you could outrun anything.

I was wrong.

My name is Derek Hullbrook. I’m 48 years old, and I’ve spent most of my life on a mountain bike. In the 1990s, I raced downhill professionally—courses that chewed up fearless riders and spat out broken bones. Whistler. Moab. Mammoth Mountain. Speed was my language. Gravity was my partner.

A crash in 1998 ended my racing career, but it didn’t end my love for the trail. By 2000, I was designing them instead—carving lines through wilderness, shaping flow and danger into something beautiful. Trails weren’t just dirt paths to me. They were stories written into the mountains.

In October of 2003, I was hired to design a private downhill trail system on a massive forested property near Mount Hood, Oregon. Three weeks alone in the woods, mapping terrain, flagging trees, building features. It was paradise.

On that morning, I was filming my first full test run. Helmet cam on. Bike dialed in. Conditions perfect. I clipped in and let gravity take me.

The first miles were flawless. Smooth berms, clean rock gardens, controlled airtime. I was narrating into the camera, already imagining my client’s reaction when he saw the footage.

Then I saw the tracks.

They crossed the trail at an angle—huge, barefoot impressions pressed deep into the damp dirt. Too big. Too clean. Too… real.

I slowed to a stop and stared at them. Sixteen inches long at least. Clear toe definition. Massive stride length. These weren’t hoax prints. Whoever—or whatever—made them had real weight. Real power.

A chill crawled up my spine.

I told myself it was nothing. A prank. A trick of the mind. I clipped back in and kept riding.

That’s when I smelled it.

A thick, musky stench—wet fur, rot, something primal. The kind of smell your body reacts to before your brain does. Every instinct screamed danger.

Then I heard movement in the trees.

Heavy. Crashing. Purposeful.

I stopped again, heart pounding, and turned my head slowly toward the sound.

Through the brush, I saw a face.

Not human. Not animal.

Massive brow. Deep-set eyes. A face that didn’t belong in the world I understood. We locked eyes for three seconds that stretched into eternity.

Then it stood up.

Seven and a half feet tall. Maybe more. Covered in dark, matted fur. Arms hanging too long. Chest like a barrel of muscle.

It roared.

I didn’t think. I reacted.

I pedaled.

The trail blurred beneath me as my racing instincts took over. Speed climbed fast—30, 40 miles per hour. I could hear it crashing through the forest beside me, matching my pace without effort.

That should have been impossible.

This thing wasn’t running like an animal. It was learning. Cutting corners. Anticipating turns. When I leaned into a berm, it cut across the woods and came closer.

It was smarter than me.

I hit sections of trail designed to scare experienced riders. Devil’s Run. Steep pitches where mistakes meant death. I let the bike fly—50, 55 miles per hour—knowing one wrong move would end everything.

Then I saw it ahead of me.

Standing in the middle of the trail.

Blocking my escape.

I veered off-trail at full speed, crashing through brush, barely keeping the bike upright. Trees flashed inches from my face. Branches ripped at my gear. I jumped logs that should have stopped me cold.

Behind me, it followed effortlessly.

At one point, I glanced back and saw it leap over a fallen tree in one smooth motion, landing without breaking stride. My bike struggled. Its body didn’t.

When my rear suspension finally failed with a metallic snap, I knew I was done. Somehow, I reached a creek crossing. My bike barely made it over the wooden bridge.

The creature didn’t trust it.

It stopped on the far side, chest heaving, watching me pull away.

Our eyes met again.

And I saw something unexpected.

Not rage.

Not hunger.

Recognition.

It let me go.

Minutes later, my bike seized completely. I was alone, injured, miles from help. And then I heard them.

Multiple voices.

Low, complex calls echoing through the forest from different directions.

They were coordinating.

I abandoned the bike and ran into the woods, tripping, falling, tearing my wrist. I burst into a meadow and dove behind a fallen log.

Three of them emerged.

The first—huge. The one that chased me.

Two others slightly smaller.

They looked directly at where I was hiding.

They knew.

The largest one made a sound, sharp and deliberate.

And then… they turned away.

Walked back into the forest.

They could have ended me in seconds. They didn’t.

Later, when rangers finally found me, I lied. Not completely—but enough. I said I’d been spooked by something large. A bear, maybe. A bad decision. A crash.

One ranger, Chen, looked at me differently when I mentioned Bigfoot. Like she’d heard this story before.

“Some things out here,” she said quietly, “don’t fit into neat categories.”

She warned me about the footage.

Think carefully before sharing it.

That night, back home, I watched the video.

Clear shots. The face. The chase. Three of them standing at the edge of the meadow.

Proof.

Enough to change everything.

And that’s when I understood the real shock of what happened that day.

They weren’t hunting me.

They were herding me.

Driving me away from something that mattered to them.

Territory. Family. Home.

They let me leave.

So I made my choice.

The footage stayed with me.

The trail was never opened.

And I never rode those woods again.

Because sometimes the most terrifying thing isn’t being chased by a monster—

It’s realizing the monster understands mercy.

And chose to use it.