Spot is such a faker. I go into the kitchen on Saturday to fill my waterbag. Unbeknownst to me Spot was at my heels and staying very close to me. I turn around, my calf bumps her and my foot touches her paw.
She makes an annoyed kitty in pain noise, not a screech, and runs away. Somewhat concerned I find her sitting in my bedroom doorway holding her right front paw up against her chest like it was broken. I calmly approach her to check it out and kiss it to make it better when she runs away on all fours, turns around, sits, puts the 'injured' paw on the ground and stares at me.
Silly cat.
So I bumbled along the various side streets which ran parallel with Uintah, climbing a block at a time rather than all at once. That's when I discovered that most of these little side streets were dead ends and had not outlet onto Mesa. I had planned on cycling down Mesa to Fontanero then to 30th and pursuing the final leg to the fabled Garden of the Gods.
Ended up going up a street called Espanola, going north on 7th until I ran out of 7th much to my chagrin. Fortunately Colorado Springs is riddled with alleyways and the northwest side of town has its share of these hidden urban byways.
Around this time is when I started crapping out something fierce.
Eventually I made it to Van Buren and rode halfway up its incline. When I dismounted to walk the rest of the way I felt like I was fit to bust. My heart was racing, my breath was labored and when I slaked my thirst with my camelbak I coughed the water back up because my need for oxygenation outweighed the necessity of hydration. Eventually I made it to the top and was met by a neighborhood of half-built McMansion town homes. I was already in a strange state of mind from my exertions and having the nagging daemon belittling me for not cycling the whole distance!
Each one of these buildings was an affront to me. Who the fuck are these people razing this patch of Earth? Can't they leave well enough alone and stay in their own fucking state? Yeah, I came out here from New Jersey and I was fucking invited to come out here. Sure, my welcome has already been worn thinner than a dying breath and is already eroding the soles and souls of anyone associated with me.
Pardon me for a lapse from being secular but "soles and ειδωλον" wouldn't have worked.
Anyway I collapsed on an overgrown stub of sidewalk, listened to my breathing and one of the escapepods I downloaded last week. I took the first of many photographs during my journey. You may notice that I included my bike in most shots as proof that I rode it all the way. No cheating by taking public transportation and having my bike ride reverse-garbageman. I'm fucking hardcore, faggot.
I decided my rest was over before I was fully ready to pursue the rest of my trip. Was I going to take the long, meandering street through this abomination of a would-be neighborhood or would I take the road less travelled marked with "ROAD CLOSED" signs?
Being a glutton for punishment, I took the latter. In fact I thought this would be far easier than the winding incline of that street. I'd offroad it and take a parallel road which would avoid most of the steep hills and get me to my destination much quicker than I had expected to arrive.
Roads are such a fine invention. Romans should be commended for their roadbuilding skills. Dirt paths get muddy, bogging down travellers and create irregular grooves which make traversing them treacherous to the unfortunate. Within ten feet my tires were gunked up with mud. Twice I almost went ass over teakettle but maintained my control of the bike.
This little patch of land had me thinking I was someplace relatively secluded. Heck there was a big bowl that I had to ride down where the sound of the wind overwhelmed my podcast story. Pikes Peak was ahead of me, Garden of the Gods couldn't be much further, cxu ne? In the distance I saw a black dog running across a ridge. Must've been about a half mile away but that didn't stop me from calling out to the pup. By now my left ankle was starting to hurt and it wasn't long before I performed the second station of the Ride of Spivak.
Exhaustion was upon me like flies to a corpse. My personal hydration unit made a loverly pillow for my head. Exhaustion's daughter Irritation was heckling me from afar. Their vile ministrations had overwhelmed the mad daemon who constantly belittles and diminishes my accomplishments and character. In a fit of pique I stopped the podcast, yanked the buds from my ears and listened to my labored breathing and the wind in the trees. Our sun was hot on my skin and gave me a measure of succor considering Saturday May 10th, 2008 was brisk to say the least. I was clad only in a black t-shirt and loose black shorts which left nothing to the imagination. Fortunately, gentle reader, I was not 'going commando'.
I rarely 'go commando' anyway.
Did I mention that my backpack was really fucking heavy? First it had three liters of water which is like four kilograms. Packed into one of its numerous pockets was my Kryptonite New York chain. This fucker is about four or five kilograms of hardened kryptonite. Needless to say the weight of the world was upon my shoulders and contributing little to my journey other than a warm swig of dihydrogen monoxide.
Grumbling with consternation I understood that my journey wasn't halfway over so once again my bike rolled beside me as I walked over hill and dale in the vain hope of rediscovering pavement. A hundred yards later I discovered that I wasn't that far from civilization as I had deluded myself. Fontanero was RIGHT THERE. I already rode to Fontanero during a prior excursion. What the hell? Now I berated myself for not riding up the Greenway Trail to Fontanero and then heading westward.
Still, I soldiered onward towards my goal.
By now I had burned through two podcasts which meant half the ride had taken me a bit more than one hour.
Fuck.
Anyway I'm riding for myself, no one else. This isn't a race. My achievement means something to me and fuck everyone else if they cast aspersions upon my accomplishment and the path I took towards that end.
I was surprised my ride to 30th didn't take very long and I felt the nacenticity of renewed vigor with my challenge. Take the bicycle by the handlebars and pedal like there's no tomorrow!
Boreas had other plans.
The whole fucking way I was trying to keep on the right side away from traffic. I was surprised and pleased that no one felt the need to shout monosyllabic idiocy at me and everyone shared the road. Except Boreas.
A strong wind from the north kept pushing me backwards, keeping me from reaching the Garden of the Gods. Must've stopped to catch my breath five times along that stretch of road. Now I was starting to feel a gurgle down below and it was becoming more urgent with each passing hundred yards. Eventually I rode down a hillside towards some historical ranch area and tried to find a place where I could relieve myself. The visitor center to the east of Gateway was not something I could've reached in a decent amount of time and walk away smelling like a rose. Reckon I wasted a lot of time waiting for the pressure to pass so I could duck under a fence with my bike and poop under a tree. A few furtive minutes later and wiping with a rock I was relived but remained reticent to continue atop my aluminum steed.
Taking some of the back trails I stumbled upon a shelter and a wooden teepee where I sat, rested and reflected upon my travels. Some inner pep talk reminding me once again that this wasn't a race, what mattered most was actually reaching Garden of the Gods. Heck, I had psyched myself up to the point where I said I only had to reach Gateway then I could turn back. Heck, I might get lucky and Boreas would help push me back home.
Walking my bike into Garden of the Gods reacquainted myself with my body. Both knees were aching and each step sent warning signals to my meager brain. My wedding tackle hadn't gone numb at all much to my pleasure. Anyway my knees kept nagging at me as I reached one of the paved trails.
Now the sign said long haired freaky people need to walk their bikes. Even short haired respectable folk needed to follow this rule. Amidst the stony majesty of the alien rock formations which are the centerpiece of our Garden of the Gods I was humbled into glad obedience.
Strolling with my bike was just as stressful as my prior riding attempts. Makes me wonder if GOG is at a significant higher elevation than my neck of the woods. A mature gentleman informed me that it had just turned four o'clock, post meridian, mountain daylight time. I felt a twinge of defeat since I was hoping at the very worst I would've arrived amidst the rusty monoliths by three p.m. at the very least! Anyway I wiped, washed my hands and stared at myself in the mirror.
Later I took a family portrait of some Asian people touring GOG. After that I found a sunny spot, cracked open Coyote Frontier and rested as I read about the potential plundering of a planet. Orestes was in cahoots with Boreas except his winds blew briskly across me. The sun wasn't much help since it seemed to always be behind clouds and even when it did peek out its gentle rays did little to comfort my cold skin.
About seventy pages later I reached a stopping point and decided it was high time that I returned home. Soon I reached a proper road and pedalled my way back to a trail which ran parallel to 30th street but eventually I had to return to that road. In no time I had reached old Colorado avenue and Front Range Grill was naught but six blocks away! I treated myself to a large dinner and rode the whole way back home.
Spot's litter box has been cleaned, I took care of her water, refreshed her kibble and cracked a can of wet food for her pleasure. Unfortunately she remains loud and yowly so she's enjoying some time-out in the closet.
Here's to a quiet evening of uninterrupted sleep.
I'll post photos of my trip tomorrow but tonight I shall share some pictures which have been patiently waiting in my humble camera.
The aftermath of Spot viciously biting my nose.
The outcome of having the telephone box on the side of the house being vandalized by persons unknown, i.e. the criminals who go to their state-mandated psyche and drying out facility next door.
