Riding out of Denver towards Boulder in 94 degree heat was what I imagine it must be like to do Bikram yoga in a steelmill. Fumes and noise and the constant threat of being runover by someone in an improbably large truck. Navigation was a headache with so many turns and streets and cars. So many cars! I'm reminded of a standup bit about noticing two logging trucks pass eachother on the highway. "If they need logs over here and they need logs over there, one phone call could save these people a lot of trouble!" Apparently landscaping is a big deal out here; I've never seen so many weedwhackers in one day.
Boulder itself is a pleasant blend of weedwhackers and, well, weed. There is clearly a lot of money in this town, but the kids on "The Hill"- the local name for the student ghetto- keep things real for everybody. The downtown pedestrian mall reminds me of Burlington quite a bit, but the Colorado spirit of dangerous outdoor hobbies is pervasive. I would love to live here as a teenager or financially solvent 30-something, but alas there is no relief from a quarter-life crisis to be found here. I visited a friend from Crested Butte who teaches kids mountain biking at a terrain park on the edge of town. The afternoon thunderstorm rolled in and I took cover with the grounds staff in a garage. I joined them in a wordplay game to pass the time and ended up with a couch to stay on for the night. This seat-pant-flying thing seems to be working alright.
The riding has been easy, with no mechanical issues to speak of. My knees are holding up, but each time I rip out of my clipless pedals I wonder if that will be the last time. The air is hot and thin and I can't drink enough water. Maybe it's all the beer.
Boulder itself is a pleasant blend of weedwhackers and, well, weed. There is clearly a lot of money in this town, but the kids on "The Hill"- the local name for the student ghetto- keep things real for everybody. The downtown pedestrian mall reminds me of Burlington quite a bit, but the Colorado spirit of dangerous outdoor hobbies is pervasive. I would love to live here as a teenager or financially solvent 30-something, but alas there is no relief from a quarter-life crisis to be found here. I visited a friend from Crested Butte who teaches kids mountain biking at a terrain park on the edge of town. The afternoon thunderstorm rolled in and I took cover with the grounds staff in a garage. I joined them in a wordplay game to pass the time and ended up with a couch to stay on for the night. This seat-pant-flying thing seems to be working alright.
The riding has been easy, with no mechanical issues to speak of. My knees are holding up, but each time I rip out of my clipless pedals I wonder if that will be the last time. The air is hot and thin and I can't drink enough water. Maybe it's all the beer.
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