Holy crap…

Forecast for Boulder And Jefferson Counties Below 6000 Feet/West Broomfield County Updated: 9:37 PM MDT on June 06, 2007
High Wind Warning in effect until 12 PM MDT Thursday… Rest of Tonight
Partly cloudy. Very windy. Lows in the mid 40s. West winds 25 to 35 mph. Gusts up to 100 mph in locations right near the foothills.

Thursday
Partly sunny. Very windy. Cooler. Highs in the lower 60s. Northwest winds 25 to 40 mph with gusts to around 100 mph in the morning.

I love the “around 100 mph” estimate. You know, ninety, one hundred, whatever it takes… The sliding glass door is already bowing in response to the wind blasts around here, and I don’t see myself getting much sleep. Uh oh, better post this since the lights are browning out…

So, my fabulous weekend came to an abrupt halt this morning, quite literally. As I was flying though the air, I thought, yep, weekend’s over. Lemme back up a bit.

I was riding to work, about to join the Foothills bike path when this dude making a right onto the Boulder Creek Path decides he’s just going to use the entire bike path to make his turn. Problem was, I was thinking I might just use the right half of the path myself.

We collided, I went flying up and over him and ended up on my back, thinking “what the hell just happened?” By the time I got to the office I was a little light headed and was starting to sense that I’d done some things that are definitely gonna hurt in the morning, and the collection of scrapes and bruises all over my body are testament to that. Worse than that is my right index finger, which apparently acted as cushioning for my brake lever when it slammed into the other bike. It’s swollen, purple and stings like hell, four hours after the incident. Gonna go get it looked at, I think.

I hope the other guy is alright. He seemed fine, but so did I at the time. My trusty On One commuter bike is fine; the front wheel is a little out of true and the saddle lost some leather, but otherwise it’s ready for more action.

I also think Boulder is rubbing off on me; instead of ripping him a new one for ruining my morning, I showed genuine concern for the guy, even after he fully admitted the crash was all his fault. If this was Jersey, I’d have been spewing expletives before I’d even landed.

This morning I went for a ride in the mountains, an activity I have just recently started doing and I realize I am remiss in reporting on here. Suffice to say, it’s amazing. All the splendor of the mountain scenery that I witness when I go hiking, plus high speed descents and the camaraderie of the road. Opportunities for nature spotting abound; often there are raptors circling high above the canyons I ride in, and occasionally one can see a deer up on a hill, or a squirrel will dart out across the road. A couple of weeks ago I even saw a fox run cross the bike path with breakfast in his mouth. But today, I was treated to an even more unique nature experience. Today, as I started ascending Left Hand Canyon Road on my way to Jamestown, I caught a glimpse of a black bear. Actually, it was a really fucking good glimpse. Specifically, I almost hit him.

I was riding along, minding my own business, when I heard a rustling in the bushes just up ahead and to the right side of the road. As I searched the area of the rustling, imagining a rabbit or squirrel was about to make an appearance, this brownish furry mass just exploded out of the bushes and lumbered onto the road. He was dripping wet — must have just taken a dip in the stream that I was currently riding over — and he seemed about as surprised as I was: he, to be standing in the middle of the westbound lane of Left Hand Canyon Road, and me, to be staring broadside at a black bear that was about as big as my Volkswagen and galloping across the street about 15 feet in front of me. I hit the brakes for a second, but since it appeared he was determined to make it across the street, I picked a line behind the bear, between his ass and the edge of the road and — this is the slow motion part — I rode right behind the galloping bear as he made his way across the street. If I’d reached out real far I could have touched him as I passed. This didn’t seem like a great idea.

Luckily I was going uphill; I was only going about 15 miles an hour, so I didn’t have to hit the brakes too hard to avoid hitting him. But if I was coming down the hill and he’d come out from that side of the street, things would have been very different. Food for thought.

Another Colorado memory that I will remember forever!

About a week or so ago, I received a flyer in the mail announcing the coming of the Liberty Belle — a restored, airworthy, Boeing B-17 bomber dating from World War II. She was going to be at nearby Rocky Mountain Metro Airport (formerly known as Jefferson County Airport), right down the road. Rides would be available.

There are a handful of these flying specimens touring the country at any given time and they serve to remind people of the sacrifices made by the so-called Greatest Generation and to preserve the legend of these magnificent aircraft. The usual deal is you make a reservation to fly in the thing, pay your money (in this case, $450 for a 30-minute flight), and enjoy a very unique aviation experience. The money goes toward offsetting the enormous operating costs associated with flying a four engine heavy bomber manufactured over sixty years ago — when the word “hybrid” was never applied to an automobile — while you get to launch into the wild blue yonder in a piece of friggin’ history. Not a bad deal, considering. The typical passenger profile ranges from curious thrillseeker, to aging veteran, to child of some crewmember who never made it back from those very dangerous skies over Europe in the early 1940’s, when the B-17 — A.K.A. the “Flying Fortress” — was plying her trade. I’ve seen video interviews of passengers filmed during and after these flights, and their testimonies are always enlightening, but the ones from the kids of these crewmembers will always, always make you a little misty.

Now, $450 for a half-hour ride is a little rich for my blood, especially for a flight wherein I don’t get to actually fly the damned thing. So I immediately opted out, but I stuffed the date in the back of my head. After all, I had already mentally mapped out the ideal flight plan for a 30-minute sightseeing flight from Jeffco, and it would have taken the flight northwest, directly toward Boulder, then along the Front Range toward Longmont, and then, with a nice sweeping turn back to the southeast, back toward the point of origin.

And that’s exactly what the Liberty Belle did, all day today.

This morning, around 9:30 AM, I was sitting in my living room sipping coffee and reading email when I heard a sound that I never hear around here. It was the rhythmic, synchronized, throaty thrum of four Wright Cyclone air-cooled, piston-powered aircraft engines. I immediately recalled the flyer I had received, realized today was the day, and ran to the window. And there she was:

The Liberty Belle, now showing in Boulder, Colorado! I grabbed my camera and ran from my deck to the front porch like a maniac every time the plane came by on another run. Seeing the object of one of my many infatuations flying past the mountains that have become my latest love was nothing short of breathtaking. I took a few shots, that will appear to most as pictures of mountains with a speck in the sky. But I know what that speck is, and now so do you.

Here’s the photo album: B-17 Over Boulder

I went for a bike ride shortly after the third run, but the ‘Belle continued to fly, and I annoyed my riding companions every time she flew by, imploring them all to look up and watch this magnificent assemblage lumber past. If you’re in the area and are so inclined, the ‘Belle flies again tomorrow. I’m hoping for better sky conditions and the chance for a few more pictures, myself.

From “The Escape Artist”:

The road makes a hard bend to the right and then straightens to point directly downhill to the valley floor. If the surface is dry and you are running on good tyres, if the way is clear and you can use the width of the road, if you have all your courage and your wits about you, you can make it round that curve without touching the brakes. You hit forty-five, fifty, right at the apex. You cannot see the exit and it is crucial to pick the right line. If you start running out of road, the camber will be against you, shrugging you off the blacktop. Once committed to a line, it is too late to use the brakes. To crash at this speed is unthinkable.
And then, in a split second, you are round and free… You have taken flight.

Matt Seaton’s book The Escape Artist is one of the few books I’ve read more than once, and I read parts of it again today, as low clouds and snow visited us again here in Boulder. Matt’s descriptions of the cycling subculture and the joy of cycling in general are wonderful, and his integration of his Real Life with his cycling story is simply fantastic. Matt’s book was inspiring when I first read it, as a commuter train-bound rat race runner. Now that I am back into the cycling world, Matt’s book and his words hold a newfound meaning, and connect to a deep love of bicycles that I have — and have had since I was five years old. Living in Boulder and brushing up against some of the legends of US cycling, having a neighbor who is actually using his USCF mechanic’s license — the same one I got in 1991 — living next to the Rocky Mountains, riding my bikes against and in the amazingly beautiful backdrop of these humbling formations; once again, I’ll say it: I can’t believe I live here.

After a long, long, very long winter, I’m here to tell you that spring is on its way, and is settling in nicely. I realize I just marshaled the weather gods to unleash a furious last ditch winter storm sometime in the coming weeks, but I don’t care; Colorado is becoming beautiful again!

I went for a bike ride today, in 70 degree weather under blue skies (and discovered that my new bike has a really nasty propensity for high speed front end shimmy). Last week I read the latest Backpacker magazine and picked out a few choice fourteener hikes I want to do this year. Brenda and I made some headway on our foyer & landing flooring project this weekend, and I hope to be done with that one soon so we have more free time on the weekends to go hiking. This time last year, we had already crested Green Mountain and Bear Peak, but this winter was a whole different animal — one that I hope is an endangered species.

The point is, summer is on the way, and I couldn’t be happier.

Repeat after me: “Maxxis Locust CX tires are the greatest thing since coldcuts.”

After the third friggin’ 12+” snowstorm in as many weeks, it was time to get the last of our Christmas packages mailed off since we could not deliver them in person, but today, Brenda had the car. So, with my packages loaded in my messenger bag and my tires pumped to 75psi, I slowly rolled out on the Skunk Creek Path, slipping a bit but generally biting into the slushy icy muck. By the time I was at Scott Carpenter Park, I was passing mountain bikers and plowing through the worst of it, recalling the salient message of my very first bicycle lesson from thirty-three years ago: the faster you go, the easier it is to stay upright.

I have now mentally mapped out every single turn (especially the off-camber ones) on the Boulder Creek Path, and have a new desire for disc brakes on my everyday bike, but overall today’s ride was one of the most enjoyable rides I’ve ever taken.

P.S.
I got more coldcuts. Pending a favorable second tasting, I will post a review.

Well, if this ain’t the most non-standard Christmas I’ve ever experienced, I don’t know what is.

After the Blizzard of the Universe rolled into town Wednesday, dumping nearly three feet of snow in Boulder and Denver, our office closed on Thursday — my first-ever adult snow day! But the nagging pain in the back of my mouth that began with the first snowflakes continued throughout the snow day, and so Friday I found myself in the dentist’s chair, looking for answers.

Answer: my wisdom tooth needs to come out.

Extra information: It’s Christmastime, and no one is friggin’ around to do the job, so I get to complain to Brenda about my aching mouth until friggin’ Thursday. So, with my jaw barking at me, we decided to cut our losses and reschedule our east coast swing, avoiding the fallout from the blizzard at the airport (turns out our scheduled flight was only delayed an hour on Saturday) and allowing me to self-medicate with alcoholic beverages and rich food (I made steak tartare last night).

Last year was the first time I spent Christmas without my mom and my sister (we went to Brenda’s Mom’s place), but this year we will not be with any family at all. We’ve been wanting to do a Christmas in Boulder, but this certainly wasn’t the way we wanted to do it. But, we are lucky to have already amassed some great friends here in Boulder and we will party with them tomorrow and hopefully I’ll forget all about my tooth situation for at least five minutes or so.

If you have any painkillers lying around, mail them to me. The airport is open once again, and you could expedite the shipping. Meanwhile, accept my deepest wishes for a Merry Christmas and an enjoyable holiday season.

Sometimes you look out and it looks like a postcard… I’m motivated by the mountains. For some people it’s the ocean, for me, it’s the mountains. - Scott Moninger

It’s been a while since I’ve posted anything, I haven’t hiked a step since our Long’s Peak ascent three weeks ago, but rest assured I’m still here and loving every second of Colorado living. Been on a few bike rides, and every time I go I’m awed by the backdrop of the Rocky Mountains’ Front Range. What really hit home for me though, what really smacked me in the face and told me that I’m lucky to be here, was the arrival of the new Colorado Cyclist catalog on Friday. This is a catalog that I used to get regularly back east in my Hoboken apartment, my Glassboro dorm, and my Blackwood home. And when I’d look at the pictures of the models wearing the cycling clothing they’d invariably have these unbelievably beautiful mountain backdrops behind them. I used to wonder who these people were, and what they did to deserve to live and ride amidst such beauty.

And now I live here, and ride the same roads, and stare at the same mountains. I still can’t believe my luck.

The pictures in the Colorado Cyclist catalog took on a whole new dimension for me this time around, because now they were actually familiar. After twenty years of staring at those pictures and wondering who those people were, on Friday I realized that now I am one of those lucky people. And the article in the latest VeloNews — the one that contained the Scott Moninger quotation quoted at the beginning of this post — was fun to read, because it essentially pegged Colorado as the great cycling state that it is. I felt a sense of pride knowing I was a resident. After just 15 short months, I feel a deep attachment to this state, its scenery and its people. I think that says a hell of a lot.

Cyclocross, that quirky combination of cycling, cross-country and steeplechase, was always a curious mystery to me back east. In two weeks, the inaugural event in the annual Boulder Cyclocross Series will take place, right across the street from our house. I have access to miles of bike paths right outside my garage door. My neighbor across the street is the head mechanic for the Trek Mountain Bike Racing Team. Can you believe this shit?

I’m surrounded by mountains and cycling culture and loving every minute of it.

And I’ll scare them all away for you.

This weekend Brenda & I drove to Avon (a few miles west of Vail, CO) to meet my Cousin and Uncle for some fly fishing on Gore Creek and the Eagle River. I stunk up the joint.

To say my Uncle is an experienced fly fisherman is a serious understatement; he’s an ichthyologist by trade, has discovered an entirely new species of fish, and has been fly fishing since he was sixteen years old. He loves fish and fishing, and over the years we had thrown words at the idea of hooking up and having him teach me the finer points of the wonderfully archaic world of fly fishing. When we moved to Boulder, that put Brenda & I just under a few hours away from my Cousin in Avon, and so this summer Uncle Bob came out for a summer visit that included lots of fishing and a visit from his favorite nephew.

After a trip to the park for practice casting, I tried on the rental waders, which make you look like half a fireman. It’s not a good look. Down to the stream we went, but instead of flinging flies into the water we got a full education on the main food source of the trout — the mayfly. Picking up rocks from the creek bottom, we saw primordial creatures in the midst of metamorphosis, culminating in watching one mayfly literally crawl out of its skin, spread its wings and fly off of my Uncle’s thumb. It was pretty cool. Time to fish.

Uncle Bob set us up with some nice kit, some quality rods and reels and expertly rigged line, leader, tippet and fly. And that’s when everything went down the shitter.

I propose we change the term from “fly fishing” to “untangling”, since I spent 45 minutes out of every hour untying complete bird’s nests of leader line that got created after mere seconds of inattention while casting. Oh, and did I mention that trout have excellent eyesight, and so the trick in fly fishing is to use a super-thin leader so they can’t see it? If they can’t see it, you can bet your ass I can’t see the goddamned line either, especially when I’m standing in a river trying to untangle the aforementioned bird’s nest of this invisible thread for the umpteenth time.

Uncle Bob was more of a hunter on the water, able to spot the fish in all conditions (“there’s a fish, right there; you see it Rob?”; “yeah.” (no)), and his actions were more like stalking, his casts more like setting a trap. Me, I was wandering around the river like a drunk, sliding on the rocks and mindlessly casting into the river at nothing in particular and hoping for the best. I might as well have been playing the slots in Vegas, my odds of catching a fish probably longer than hitting a decent payoff on the reels.

But I learned a lot, Brenda & I had fun, and standing around in the Eagle RIver under a beautiful blue Colorado sky is not a bad way to spend a Sunday. Seeing Uncle Bob and Kate was great, and Kate prepared an awesome dinner Saturday night out of a 21.5” rainbow trout that Uncle Bob caught the day before we rolled into town. That fish was the largest he’d ever caught in all his yeas of fishing, and carries its own story which I’ll not get in to now. Naturally, his luck changed as soon as I arrived.

Brenda & I also got a taste of the hell that is I-70 east on a Sunday evening. I’m told this stretch of highway — the gateway to the Rockies from the Denver area — is a nightmare during winter, as all the weekend warrior skiers and snowboarders head back to civilization, but I was hoping that in summer the crowds would be a little lighter. Boy, was I wrong. After sailing all the way to the Eisenhower Tunnel, shortly thereafter we hit a traffic jam that brought us to a 12MPH crawl for an entire hour. And I thought the Jersey Shore traffic was bad!

We stopped in Idaho Springs for ber and burgers at Tommyknocker Brewery and formulated a plan to get home by staying off I-70 as much as possible: we took Rte 6 through Clear Creek Canyon, which revealed — once again — a beautiful, unwinding vista, this time all the way up to Golden and then it was a short ride back to Boulder.

A couple of odd sensations hit us as we arrived on the outskirts of Boulder. First, as “the flatirons” appeared on the horizon on our way, we felt like we were “home”. The flatirons are now “our” mountains, our identity with our place called home. Second, all our empty water bottles were compressed on arrival. This makes sense, since the atmospheric pressure in Boulder is much greater on average than it is up in Eagle. But that means that now when I think of going to Boulder, it’s going down to Boulder, even though Boulder’s at 5,400’ above sea level. After spending 37 years living basically at sea level, it’s kind of odd to consider this place, 5,400’ high and nestled against the mountains, home. But it is home, and I’m just as happy as ever to call it such.