In summer, my commute rocks. Through divine intervention, good karma, more luck than I ever thought possible - I am charged on a daily basis with losing some 3,000 feet of vertical through the very heart of the most gorgeous "country" I know. Up at 530, coffee, walk the dogs, oatmeal, eggs and off the deck, down the stairs and onto the trail on the 1x. Most days it’s a 400 foot climb to the top of our road, and then diversions and excursions into whatever group of trails seem most appealing on a particular day.

The 32 X 18 that some of my flatlander pals ridicule (but are slowly switching over to as they do more riding in the hills) is a bit stiff for some of the climbs, but with ample warm up there is a groove – like the rhythm of the ocean or of snow piling up in the winter – I can find that groove, and then the commute turns into the daily ritual/lovefest that keeps me out of the papers – out of prison – and balanced in a crazed world of commerce that I am working so hard to escape.

On the right day, with the right bean, and the right trail - the aspens are spinning slowly with the deep green of early June rains – rolling myself out in the early morning dew – it’s not Jerry that I see (Jerry’s dead, Phish sucks – get a life) – it’s John Denver – pre – alchohol/plane crash death – John D – singing "Rocky Mountain High". He’s got a cup of cowboy joe brewed freshly at his feet (no campfire – if he did I would have to eviscerate him with a blunt object) and he’s enjoying the morning – letting the beauty of the day run through his finely tuned instrument and voice. He’s on it, he’s stoked, he is in his element and complimenting this baggies and jersey approach to the daily descent into the salt mine(s). Traction is good on this morning – as most – the light moisture from the over-night dew sitting in the top soil – just pinning my bumblebee Hutschinson’s (purchased for the sole reason of being more Meriweather like) to the trail. The bike corners like a studded shit-head driven jeep up at lake Dillon. I clean many things, I flow like a river, the no derailleur silent as a stealth bomber 17 pound hunk of love underneath me rolls (the bike is firing as well) to the silence of the Colorado morning. I roll to the Trident at about 8:20, ample time for single Cap and bagel and a little socializing. Someone finds offense in my One Fucking Speed sticker – I kindly offer them the opportunity to not read it to avoid their suffering. A few blocks to the orifice, and the day is on the way – to be complimented by round II, on the way home the very same evening.

In winter, my commute sucks. On the wrong day, late December, with no coffee (we were out) and light drizzle/snow/rain it is an entirely different story. Those in between times are the most challenging – as with a 3,000 foot elevation loss – cold and rain combined with long 30+mph descents are not your friend – they are heinous, blood sucking enemies that will chill you for days.

The trick to riding snow – is to know what’s underneath it. I ride these trails every day – so I usually remember where the standing water (now ice) lies in wait beneath that coating of powder snow to take me down. This day – I am spacey – too many Wheat beers the night before. My hands are freezing, my zipper on left booty is blown – I am preoccupied – I am down in the dirt sliding towards a large, menacing hunk of deadfall surrounded by small, sharp rockettes. I see John again. The half burned remnants of his guitar in pieces in the burned out fire. It wasn’t enough, John didn’t make it. He is stone cold, frozen turds. There is solidified drool running down the left corner of his mouth effectively staking him to the light dusting of snow on the ground. He ain’t singin’ – but as I stare over into his lifeless eyes, he winks, and the ice coating on his face cracks slightly as he grins: "Rocky Mountain Fuckin’ High, Baby – Rocky Mountain Fucking High". I re-mount, noticing the blood oozing from my right knee – through my ROACH pants –(I guess that makes me authentic) and I continue to the road portion of the descent. The first mile isn’t so bad as the stuff falling from the sky is still snowy. I pass through the snow, and then the sleet, and then into the rain – I am becoming quickly frozen, and less tolerant of the over-sized recently transplanted Texan’s and Californians nearly running me off the road in their Excursions and Yukon’s. They are too busy adjusting their 12 cd changers and making sure their Latte’s are waiting for them at Starbucks to jog the wheel 2 centimeters to the left to avoid almost killing me. I make town, the bike path is a mud bath, and end up in the huge line at the Trident that happens whenever it’s gloomy and cold in the republic of Boulder. People stare at my frozen snot, and mud encrusted face. I stare back and try to accidentally brush up against them to get some of the day onto their physical, tastefully decorated person. I am cold, but happy. I am frozen, but alive. I am affirming my existence in this world by participating in it – diving in – if you will – rather than hiding behind a tinted window and leather heated seats (Can you say BALL CANCER) blunting reality – staving it off like a hungry bear scratching down my door.

Cars are Coffins – get out in it – commute – get it on ‘ya as my friend the Reverend used to say. Get it on ‘ya while you can – today – now.