Colorado flashback, July 26–Midway thru the Midway
I decided to catch a fifty mile headstart in the van so I’d be fresh for tonight–a group ride from Henderson Park into City Park, accompanied by about three dozen black jersied camp followers.
Waiting from two to three in this quiet park added a little suspense to that “Showtime!” feeling when you’re expected to Do Your Part.
As we all know, the 42 ride is a rolling advertisement for vodka (a major Faustian bargain), but it’s also entertainment, complex social ritual, and physical challenge.
I was dressed to kill (60’s shift, neon flower pattern, ugly tan tights and birkenstock sandals)–the only cuckoo in a flock of ravens ringing their bells and chatting. Most impressive machine: John Ireland’s long horned low-rider the Denver Cruiser. It was hard to ride (well, it is a recumbent of sorts)..but featured a big ‘gas’ tank with a camelbak plastic pouch full of…42 below vodka. Here I am, sucking madly on the familiar blue surgical tubing…
Downtown Denver beautiful beautiful. Scary architecture–lateral angles stabbing a walkway above busy thoroughfares. Old churches, gold leaf domes, old brick everywhere. And somehow I still manage to steer straight, with that shit eating grin (I love buildings, I love riding, and I love singing about buildings when I’m riding…).
Last 2 nights were at boatin park s(Sterling Res, Jackson Res). Amazing eastern horizon lightning show (silent variety–as good as aurora borealis) plus a sinking red sliver of moon in west.
Jon and Bryan did open hub surgery/lipectomy but the poor balls were matte-finish: ruined. Will have to get that fixt in town.
Others need work. I feel unfairly advantaged with an uncomplaining steed.
Party in Denver: Amy Lewis and Evie–long time wombat sister pals came to Theorie (throbbing downtown bar, the kind with twenty flavored vodkas…) to meet me and chew the fat. The great fat fajitas that is.. and appreciate what a luckout I am to re-experience youthful frivolity crossing the country on someone else’s dime, but my own precious time.
While we caught up (it had been ten years since our Wombats campout at Beaver Lodge in Winter Park), the horrid creature (who needs names?) marched up to us expectantly, looking for an opening so she could introduce her friends, a couple of ill-at-ease young dudes. I desperately wnated to ignore her, but it would have been awful for them, so I was gracious. For them.
Within a couple days, she’d be ‘evicting’ me from my hotel bed, because she needed to have it all to herself.
That’s another story.