Players:

TT: Rail thin, deranged high mountain dweller who insists on grimacing through 6  hour rides with the assistance of only a single gear (OFS, YFP) thereby putting other geared riders into an impotent state of wonder at the durability and elasticity of lung and leg.

JAD: Sting, new nickname – or King of Pain. Denies caring about being in shape, and suffers more than any other rider, with a smile, and always not far behind – and sometimes in front.

WJ: Legendary figure in the mythology of the high and lowlands for both 1X supremacy, and a love for all things that go ‘braaaaaaaaap – bdbdbdbdbdbdb – in the woods.

RV: aka – The Hulk; Sacajawea – aka – I just did 110 miles on my mtb with a bunch of road geeks. Rides like ‘butta’ (see WJ references) and yearns to be a high dweller.

RS: aka – the highest dentist in America. Elder of the ride by some 13 years at 48 – taking the lead above 10,000 feet and showing all above mentioned riders what experience looks like from behind.

The Dinosaur: see below – newest introduction to the “Beginning investing in applesauce companies” program.

Sunday morning, mid-summer, bacon on the fry, bagel in the toaster, bean in the gut by 6:15 – the happiest times are these – the simple anticipation of a full day in the saddle with the brothers – erasing concerns and washing away the sins of toil from the week gone by. Today’s route in the tour de butt pounding brought to you by DK, TP and RS. TP has been spending uncounted hours in his attic scheming connections and painful climbs to the southwest of the heartland. Maps in jersey pocket and leftover pizza in pack, he leads the middle portion of the ride. But first, we must reconnoiter some ‘new’ trails in the homeland (new to most, not o new to all). Seems a certain crew famous for large, trail closing size group rides has been whacking away in the woods (no pun intended) on some fine new, and not so new trails. Problem with this one is that Miner Joe has also found said trails slicing cleanly through his property and he ain’t too happy about it – hence – a nice ¾ mile stretch of serious slashing on our first hard earned descent. But, there is a fun, new bridge and some very sweet trail making. Due to the mature nature of this content, and the explicit need of certain groups to ‘bro-down and share this trail with millions – thereby relegating it to the pile of closed trails – we will purposely speak in generalities about the specifics of location here in (see above reference to the Boulder Trail closing committee).

At the base of said descent, we ogle The Dinosaur. Built with no intention other than utility, this object from decades past gives insight to the land far to the north and west where men are men and bodycasts are bodycasts and no spleen is ever safe. This bitch is high, long and narrow- and completely rideable. We stare in awe as Dino mocks our efforts of banging together meager speedbumps in the woods – and promise to return – for some of us sooner rather than later.

Off to the SW, up and over, and down to an undesirable but connecting road, we are separated on a long ‘freeride’ descent. Upon reaching the road we notice two of our number are missing, and hear the faint dinging of a bell. As they head into a labyrinth of redneck homes and driveways we pedal along the road at a distance not wanting to be hit by a stray bullet, or flying bodyparts.

Reunited safely, it is on and up into new and higher territory – to pick up RS – and climb beyond his rocking mountain abode into the hinterland where most riders choose not to explore. The climb is long and laborious, and loose – and I am feeling like a hedgehog that accidentally dropped a few Tylenol PM’s instead of the Aleve (vitamin A) that I thought I grabbed heading into the ride. The road turns rough, it is warm, and we all settle into that uphill grunt mode. Talk slows down, grinding ensues.

The view at the top is fantastic. The divide and all the space in between makes us swear we will never ride Betasso (the yak route) again. The space is so vast it’s hard to fathom actually knowing all of it. I have spent 11 years riding 250 plus days a year – and I do not know shit. A few of the boys opt for a safety check, and Sacajewea suggests abandoning the trail for a hike – a bike section up to a connector that “can’t be more than 200 feet”.

45 minutes later, after swearing at innumerable grabbing branches and rolling pieces of talus, we find the route again and head laterally across the face of un-named mountain. RS goes off the front, and the rest of us are left to try and follow in rough, technical – non - homogenized terrain. This is a great section of trail that begs for better riding skills than I am exhibiting. We exit into a large mine – again faced with the views that have us shaking our heads and thinking about spending more time with our topos. The mine we rest at is huge, and holds some strange yellow, powder like substance that defies natural description. Concerned about it’s effects on our manliness, we bail down a few thousand feet, back closer to civilization and out of the mystery gulches of the southwest.

Store beckons, cokes by all, some mini donuts that are THE essential fuel of champions ( they have been banned in The Tour since 1988). Refueled, a limited amount of energy stored for the return, we head back out and into some other sweet ST south of town.  It is here that we re-visit The Dinosaur. Without thinking of body casts and applesauce, I hook a left turn and head for the beast. WJ follows. I get started, and about 35 feet out onto the spine of the thing I start to shake. Visions of pee-bags and blow stick operated wheelchairs dance through my head. 15 feet from the end, I freeze, now about 35 feet above the tundra. Gingerly stepping off the bike, I am scared. The ride is gone from my legs, and I just want terra firma. I carry the end in time to see WJ hitting the start with some one legged balance adjustments, he pauses in the critical narrows, where my mind took over, and he plays through, gracefully exiting and getting that eye popping look going. We promise to re-visit Dino.

Upon gaining the ‘I – 70 Corridor” formerly known as The Habitrail, the group splits. A couple of us can’t bear the thought of seeing other riders – as we have been out for almost 7 hours and have not seen other riders. Seeing groups of 20 or more right now could send me into a Manson like rage.

TP and I roll the descent into the high school and beeline it for the flesh fest at The Tungsten. We peruse maps, spill beer, TP downs enough mayo to zittify all of Boulder High for a month. We are sated, whooped, sorry ass tired, and feeling great.

Along about pint # 2, the planning starts again….”what if we used inner tubes lashed together like a raft to cross this river, then paraglided over that ridge……..”