The First Bike Ride of Spring

It’s been warm for ages now. It’s not Spring yet, we know that – and there will be plenty more cold days to come before winter lets go but right now, for day after glorious day, it’s been sunny and mild. Willows are turning red, green shoots are appearing and the geese are choosing mates. Not only that, but it isn’t turning cold on Friday afternoon and warming back up on Monday morning like usual, this warm spell is something special. The stars are in alignment and magic is in the air. It’s time to bring out my bicycle.

My friend Raven and I have cycled together before, and while she’s in seriously better shape than me, she’s equally rusty when it comes to two-wheeling so we make good partners. I was at her house in Buffalo Creek only a few minutes late, as the sun was just appearing above the canyon walls. With his back seats folded down, Angus the 4Runner makes a good bike rack and in no time, both steeds were bungee-corded to the roll bar and we were on our way.

The North Fork of the South Platte River winds its way from South Park through Bailey to Buffalo Creek and beyond before dropping into Waterton Canyon where a series of reservoirs provide water for the thirsty lawns of Denver. Once upon a time the Denver and South Park Railway ran on a narrow gauge track where the road now lies, transporting ice from the lakes which were once near my house, to the dairy, which was once near my office. Buffalo Creek Post Office has been owned by the Green family for generations and the story goes that in his dotage, the patriarch, old John Green would walk outside with his stopwatch to await the arrival of the train; even though the trains stopped running long before John Green did.

The South Platte Hotel hasn’t seen business for many a year, probably not since the railroad was torn up and today it’s a semi-derelict shack with plywood windows and holes in the roof. A sign informs us that this is now the property of the Denver Water Board and that they’re considering a renovation project. Nothing is stored inside, so please resist the urge to try and enter. We resisted the urge, entranced as we were with the beauty of this spot where the North and South Forks of the South Platte converge in a grove of cottonwoods. They weren’t too imaginative when it came to naming rivers in these parts but perhaps the early explorers were like us, simply captivated by the scenery.

Soaring cliffs towered above us, while the river, green-white with ice melt tumbled along below. Pine trees stretched to the porcelain blue sky while the occasional cotton wool cloud appeared, just to make the whole vista too perfect to be believable. What did we do to be so lucky?

Angus was soon tucked under a tree and we were rolling our way down a smooth dirt track deep into the ravine. Sadly, we didn’t get too far before the trail disappeared under a layer of thick, blue ice reaching out onto the water. It wasn’t until I was home and reviewing a map that I saw that this was as far as it went; the real trailhead was some distance away, and didn’t rejoin the river for several miles. Maybe we’ll try that one another day. For now though, we didn’t care; it was worth a short ride just to experience the exquisite magnificence of this canyon. I haven’t made it to Alaska yet, but Raven tells me that when I get there, I’ll find it to be a lot like this.

We were still only a dozen or so miles from Raven’s house, so leaving Angus where he was, we set off back up the banks of the river, following the gentle grade as it meandered towards home. Other than a handful of climbers, hikers anglers, and of course, cyclists, few people come down this way and the small number of houses we passed had an air of charming neglect, relaxing little by little with each passing year as the earth gradually reclaims them.

On through the metropolis of Foxton; half a dozen cabins with the old railway station, its log walls sagging and derelict. Raven is a veteran of 3 wild fires and too many flash floods to count so she knew all the people who’d had to be rescued, or who had lost part of their property. She also had names for each of the rock formations so even though I’d driven this way many times; I was seeing the landscape through her eyes, as if seeing it for the first time.

As we rounded a bend, an eagle flapped his way up from the riverbed. A juvenile, but still unrealistically big, his wings flashing brown, white and gold in the sunlight as he headed into the trees. Coming level we saw his breakfast, a dead goat, lying against a river rock, held fast by the current. Its belly slit open, entrails red in the sunshine. In a nearby tree sat a large black crow, waiting his turn to feast. Mother Nature’s recycling program working as designed.

For reasons best known to themselves, the county has spent some time re-grading the road in stretches but it was smoother in the parts they’d left untouched. Still, the deeper gravel gave our legs a bit more of a workout than the gentle slope would have done. Still not too taxing, this is the first run of the year after all, but enough to feel as if we were getting some exercise. Even so, twelve miles go by fast when you’re surrounded by scenery such as this and we were happy to take things slowly.

But, all good things must come to end and too soon Buffalo Creek hove into view. The church parking lot was empty now, the parishioners home for their lunch and the weekend’s chores. They’d spent Sunday morning at their place of worship; we’d spent it in ours. Back to the house and cool water from the fridge, and a sit on the front deck listening to the breeze in the forest and the creek babbling below.

No, the ride wasn’t long enough, and yes, snow is forecast for next weekend. And we may have to rely on the memories of today to last us through weeks of office-bound servitude. But we had our first bike ride of the season, and if any of our future ones are as good as this, 2006 will be a very good year.

The World’s Most Irritating Dog ™

It’s kinda rough watching a dog get older. Particularly when the dog has been your best buddy for over a decade and has always been so irrepressibly full of life. But, it has to be said Wiley is starting to slow down these days and since turning twelve last December has been acting stiff and sore when we’re returned from our weekend hikes. It hasn’t been an easy decision to make but I finally decided it was time to cut her back to shorter strolls around the neighborhood. She’s not too happy about it but that sentiment is not shared by Dog #2, referred to here in the past as "The World’s Most Irritating Dog ™". Sasha has coiled springs instead of muscles and the husky in her drives a primal need to run. So, she was over the moon at her field promotion to Official Hiking Companion.

I’d been resisting this for some time; not just because of my admitted favoritism, but because she’s never been an especially relaxing dog with which to hike. Northern breeds don’t tend to go much for the whole obedience thing and while it’s obvious she knows what the commands mean, she simply doesn’t feel the need to follow them. On the leash, her natural exuberance causes her to bounce around like a whirling dervish, while on the rare occasions she’s succeeded in getting off the leash, it’s "So long, suckers!". Oh, she’ll come back, but not until she’s good and ready. Usually about 2 hours after the neighbors are well and truly ticked off.

We knew all this about huskies before we adopted her and while I was somewhat captivated by their appearance, knew they weren’t the best breed for our lifestyle. However, when we saw this quiet, mellow and obedient dog sitting calmly in the pen while all around chaos reigned; and when we read the bio listing her as a "Collie Mix", well, we fell for it. One look at her face and you could tell this dog had husky in the ancestry but the body shape looked more like a collie and certainly the behavior had "Lassie" written all over it. The look of a husky with the personality of a collie? That sounded like a pretty good combination…didn’t it?

Dear Wife headed home to pick up our other two dogs (sadly, we lost Cleo a while back) for the meet ‘n’ greet and I used the time to run this potential new family member through her paces. I had kids petting her, big guys standing over her; I made sudden noises behind her back and walked her in and out of crowds. I introduced her to big dogs, mean looking dogs, repulsive little yappy dogs and not one thing, not one thing I did fazed her in the slightest. She simply gazed back at me with those enormous dark ringed eyes which said "When you’re done, let’s go home and start having fun."

"A little bit of training" I thought, "And we’ll have a pretty darn good dog on our hands".

No, it wasn’t until we’d completed the paperwork, handed over our $60 and walked her across the threshold that she reverted to her true personality. A quaking, nervous, nutso dog completely terrified by every aspect of modern life. Cars, automatic doors, people, other dogs, linoleum...everything was new and intimidating. I swear the shelter must have had her on valium. Still, over the four years we’ve had her she’s wormed her way into our hearts and with those beautiful eyes, her lovable appearance and affectionate nature, we’ve found ourselves excusing her for a multitude of sins.

If we could just rely on her to come back when called, we’d be able to give her much more exercise. Even long walks on a 4-foot leash isn’t enough for a dog with her energy and brain hard-wired to run. Sometimes when she’s especially bonkers we drive around the neighborhood with her running happily alongside the car; a practice that draws smiles or scowls from passers by depending upon their views on such a method of dog exercise. I take her with me when I run myself but at the pace my exercise program is progressing, she’ll be as old and slow as Wiley before I can tire her out.

As I said, she does know the command "Come", and will race up to us when called in the house or anywhere else enclosed. And she’s been behaving pretty well recently. So, this Saturday I decided to take a huge chance, and after hiking for an hour or so along a deserted trail, I put her in a ‘Sit’, reached down, unclipped the leash and gave her the magic word. "Okay!" And you know what? She behaved beautifully.

She explored the trail, the bushes, the frozen creek and the banking on either side, but she was never more than about 50 feet away and what was encouraging was that she kept checking to see where I was, as if she was afraid to get out of my sight. Three times I called her back to me, and each time she came. I petted her, told her what a good dog she was, and released her again. Away she went, and returned when I asked. This was going to work.

Of course, I knew that if a deer, a squirrel or worst of all, another hiker with a dog should appear she would take off to investigate – I wasn’t deluding myself that she was under full control or anything. But at least this meant that should I take her on an overnight camp, or a long hike far from other living creatures, I wouldn’t necessarily have to keep her tied to me at all times. I wouldn’t want her loose anywhere near traffic for example but maybe, just maybe, I might be able to make a decent hiking companion out of her after all.

I was thrilled, and ended up e-mailing people to let them know. "Guess what Sasha did today? Yes, and she came back each time. Isn’t that great?" I started making plans for future outings. Maybe the Colorado Trail might be do-able now. Certainly some of the local hikes.

"Pride cometh before a fall" sayeth some smart guy a while back. I didn’t fall exactly, just dropped the leash as I was pulling off my gloves while walking up the drive after our jog the next day. And my beautiful, obedient and reliable hiking companion took off. Straight into the neighbor’s yard. From where no amount of calling and coaxing would make her return.

Until she was good and ready that is.


The World’s Most Irritating Dog ™

Let's drink to to the Temperance Movement

So I’ve given up alcohol.

It’s OK, don’t panic – your bookmarks haven’t redirected you to someone else’s Blog, this is still me talking. And I haven’t taken a pledge or joined AA or anything like that. Note to British readers – that’s not the Automobile Association but ‘Alcoholics Anonymous’ – a place where you can get drunk and nobody knows who you are. (Baddaboom tssshhh! Thank you, I’ll be here all week; don’t forget to tip your waitress.) No, it’s nothing so nefarious, or so permanent. I’m just taking a break that’s all.

I do it once a year, usually about this time. I simply give my liver and kidneys a bit of a holiday from the trials they suffer the rest of the year let them have a month off. This is a fairly recent act of virtue and I’ve only been doing it for the last seven or eight years. I’m old and tired these days and have no desire to recreate the kind of Bacchanalian excesses to which I subjected myself twenty years ago. Plus it’s a whole lot easier to live a life of quiet sobriety as a middle-aged guy then it was back when I had energy.

However, I don’t intend to turn this Gunsmoke File into a boast about how much I used to drink. I’m much too mature for that and besides, I learned a while back that it doesn’t impress girls as much as I thought. Instead I want to record for posterity, all that I can recall of the legendary night Roy, Tommy and yours truly sank half a pint in every pub in town.

There were 32 in all, ranging from Plastic Poseur’s Palaces to the linoleum floored drinking dens frequented by elderly gents playing dominoes. (Even as a young man I preferred the latter as the beer was invariably superior, as well as being cheaper.) The town center comprised of a fairly small area, 2 miles or so long and about a mile wide, with almost every pub being located within shouting distance of another, sometimes literally across the street. No, distance wasn’t our challenge – that came from the licensing laws.

I understand Britain’s drinking laws are more relaxed these days but as late as the 1980’s, they were based on a set of arcane codes put into place to keep the factory workers semi-sober during the First World War. Simply put, British pubs were required to close between the hours of 3pm and 6pm, then again at 11pm. Night’s end varied from town to town, but that was the gist of it. In those days our town had no night clubs so at 11, you were done for the evening whether you wanted to be or not.

So. 5 Hours, 300 minutes, 32 drinks, a shade over 9 minutes per pub. That included getting to the bar, ordering, being served, chugging the drink and on the next place. Dead easy.

We had our route carefully planned out. It was important we finish at the White Hart in the center of town because that’s where everyone ended their Saturday night and what was the point of doing this without witnesses? That meant a section in the middle where we’d to race about 1/2 a mile to the edge of town, before working our way back. No problem; we calculated this into the schedule. What we didn’t plan for was that the FA Cup soccer final being played that day, would be one of the most exciting in years and would go into extra time. I was watching it at Roy’s house and we had to run all the way to the first pub. We needn’t have; they opened 6 minutes late.

No matter. Half pints are easy to drink, particularly early on and in no time we were back on track. We even had time for a quick game of pool in the Oddfellow’s Arms although we had to bend the rules somewhat to keep things moving. I was official timekeeper and had to keep reminding Roy and Tommy that this wasn’t a night for savoring the subtle nuances of the ale, or in-depth philosophical discussion – we had an objective. My nagging meant that by 8:30, we were at the Ring O’Bells and exactly on target. It was a curious feeling to be chatting to friends who were just beginning their night out while we were already well on the way to being sozzled.

We were almost thrown for a loop when we rolled up at The New Inn to find a notice on the door proclaiming them closed for renovations. Nobody had told us this and it cast a serious doubt on the integrity of our mission. Our target was 32 pubs, not 31. Fortunately, the day was saved when noticed that a restaurant across the street had a drinks license. That would do, so in moments we were ensconced at a linen clothed table quaffing our half pints while the bemused diners looked down their noses.

Things started to unravel a bit when we faced the last geographical challenge of the night; The Rifleman’s Arms, situated at the top of a loooooooong hill. We were up to drink 25 or thereabouts and were each feeling less than Olympian. By the time I bellied up to the bar, Tommy was a hundred yards back with Roy even further behind and both blowing hard. I was done with my drink and on my way out the door when Roy finally arrived. "Izzon the bar" I mumbled, pushing my way past him. Then I sprinted, sprinted down the hill to the next target.

I have to confess, things got a little hazy after that. For a spell we thought we’d forgotten the Kendal Hotel altogether but fortunately people we know saw us in there. And Roy has no recollection of swiping the ashtray from The Angel (he’s a non-smoker) although it was in his jacket pocket at the end of the night. But I do remember elbowing my way through the press of bodies in the White Hart arriving at the bar moments before the landlord called ‘Last Orders’ and beating him to the punch by crying triumphantly “Three half pints of bitter please!”

The Guinness Book of Records never expressed any interest in our feat. And there are no plaques or photos on display to commemorate it. And the hangover was a doozy. But even so – we drank half a pint in every pub in town, in one night.

And while others may have tried, as far as I know we’re the only ones that ever did.

As Easy as Falling off a Bike

So in last week’s Gunsmoke File I made reference to a long ago bike crash, which I suspect has contributed to the unconventional curve my spine takes today. A number of my regular readers (well, two) asked for more details but in relating the tale, I realized there have been many number of bicycle accidents over the years and really, any one could have been the cause.

There were the inevitable prangs of childhood of course. Even in my formative years, testosterone played a big part in our two wheeled antics and you weren’t a real man unless you could create sparks from the pedal as it scraped the ground during sharp turns. Tumbles, slides, cartwheels and wipeouts are all part of being a kid, or at least they were back in the 19*0’s when I was a lad. Looking at the children riding around my neighborhood today with their helmets, and elbow pads and mattresses tied to their backs, one has to wonder if they’ve ever experiences an owie-boo-boo in their cosseted lives.

No, as a child, I bounced. It wasn’t until I resumed my cycling career as an adult that the falls started to take their toll. There weren’t all that many of them really, and only three particularly stand out. It’s just that as a grown up, the body is nowhere near as...springy as when you’re a child. Slamming down onto hard blacktop at high speed usually meant something had to give way. And it was rarely the blacktop.

Big crash number 1 was a comparatively simple deal cause through no fault of my own (no, really!) but a defective back wheel. Tooling along, minding my own business and not bothering a soul, the rim suddenly turned itself into a taco. Down I went with a splat, turning my left leg into a pizza and smacking my (un-helmeted) head down with a force that left me repeating the story for a month. ("No, I wasn’t in a fight, yes, it really was a bicycle accident, no there weren’t any witnesses" etc.) I was working retail at the time so showing up for work with a battered physiognomy didn’t go down too well.

So fortunately, the damage from my next big prang was contained to my shins which were covered up during work hours. I have to confess that alcohol may have played a small part in this particular accident, in the sense that I’d sunk a few over the course of the evening and this might have impaired my judgment somewhat. It was one of those long, warm summer evenings where it’s still light after 10pm and with which rain swept Britain is occasionally blessed – too nice to spend sitting in a bar in town. Nope, it’s a country pub for us boys but that left the perennial problem of who was to be the designated driver.

"Not to worry" piped up someone, "let’s go on our bikes". A capital idea that one, so we spent a wonderful evening riding from hostelry to hostelry, sampling the fine ales and breathtaking scenery for which our corner of northern England is rightfully famed.

Evening’s end came soon enough and we turned for home. We weren’t too far from town when someone realized that if we put our heads down, we could catch the chip shop before closing. A race then, and within a few minutes, we were spread out over a mile or more as we each gave it all we had. I was never known for my sprinting ability, but the others were feeling the effects of the beer more than I and soon I found myself well out in front. I could see the chippy a few hundred yards ahead and knew that if I could hold off the challengers just a little longer, the race would be mine. Down went my head and my legs pumped like pistons as I aimed for the finish line. My friend Pete came round the last corner not long behind me and just in time to see me hit the curb of the traffic island at a ninety degree angle and take off into space. I do recall a feeling of disgust that my brakes were of so little help but fastened securely as I was, into my toe clips, there was nothing I could do to retard my velocity. It took the pavement to do that, and a fine job it did too. It was several days before I could comfortably bend my legs.

However, when it comes to the big one, the real doozy, I’m afraid that to this day I have no idea what happened. A group of us were sailing down an endless hill one lazy Sunday afternoon when suddenly I found myself going down through my bicycle frame. Whether a wheel buckled again, or I hit a rock, or an invisible hand gave me a shove I’ll never know and as I was at the back of the line, nobody else saw it either. Even studying the mangled remains of my bike afterwards, it’s difficult to determine in just what direction I went. I do know that I cartwheeled, span and slid for about twenty yards, lowering the surface of the road bed some 1/2 an inch and taking my skin down to the bone in several places.

The emergency room nurse told me it was the worst injuries she’d seen on someone who hadn’t broken a bone and by the time I left some five hours later, I was bandaged almost from head to foot. It was three days before I could dress myself, a week ‘till I could shave and almost three before my hair got a proper wash. I was in constant pain and the source of horrified conversation amongst my entire social circle for weeks to come. That said; I still consider myself to have been very lucky that day.

You see, the crash took place a little ways past a slight dip in the road. I lay prone and bleeding, but completely invisible to any upcoming traffic. I was conscious enough to recognize the danger and after assuring them my neck and back were undamaged, begged my friends to carry me onto the verge. Only seconds after they laid me in the grass, some cretin of a boy-racer came screaming over the crest. I would guess he was doing about 90 along this winding country road, secure in his infallibility as a race driver.

If he’d come along the road thirty seconds earlier, he would certainly have killed the lot of us.

So uh, guardian angel – if you read The Gunsmoke Files...thanks.