I adore life's rare cinematic moments. (Or maybe cinema truly capturing real life is the rarity.) Certain experiences possess such heightened beauty, quirkiness and/or emotion that you wonder how your insignificant self wandered into them.
This year July 4 possessed such magic. (Now that I think about it, last July 4 proved fairly surreal. Chris and I narrowly escaped death by North Dakota cattle herd while riding the Maah Daah Hey Trail. Yes, a loooong-overdue blog post awaits.)
I digress. Back to July 4, 2011, in Aspen, Colo.
The night before, we'd rolled into nearby El Jebel where our friends immediately swept us away to Snowmass for real mountain biking. My asthmatic lungs did not enjoy the elevation, but I gladly suffered to see this dream realized. Wiping out in front of a patio filled with people added injury and insult on an otherwise thrilling descent, but somehow it felt like an appropriate conclusion.
Because our hosts failed to do us in on night one, they woke us for an early-morning edition of "let's kill some Midwesterners." This time on road bikes. (Full disclosure: One of them grew up in Colorado, and they live in Minnesota now. They are both more accustomed to mountain riding.)
With labored breathing on hills that would faily to qualify as noteworthy back home, I decided thinking about it would only bring on defeat. Instead, I fed my ever-present bear/wolf/mountain lion fear. After all, a small being lagging behind the herd might appear a weak and tasty breakfast. Rustling bushes!? Oh, just a ground squirrel. And so on ...
As much as it hurt, I wished not for a moment to be anywhere else. Mountains, streams, fresh air and great companions surrounded me. We passed Hunter S. Thompson's famous former haunt Woody Creek Inn. The trail flattened, widening my smile. Somewhere on the road above two guys on a motorcycle sped by and heckled us with "Go Lance" or some other cyclist-heckling phrase du jour.
Focusing on maintaining a respectable cadence and pedaling smooth circles - a healthier distraction that unlikely animal attacks - I climbed some more before spotting the unthinkable on the horizon. "Oh my god! Do you see that?" I shrieked to my husband, who'd reached the hilltop and kindly circled around to keep me company.
Ahead of us two men tried to push a smoking and sputtering moped up a hill a la Dumb & Dumber. Tears may have welled up in my eyes. My legs found new strength as I moved closer to them. One hopped on the scooter. The other pushed some more. They both rode it away before repeating the entire process.
Finally, we reached not Jim Carey and Jeff Daniels, but two goofy teenage boys in scarves who smiled back at us. We recognized them to be our verbal assailants, now appearing quite foolish. "You know what you look like, don't you?" They nodded. They, too were Aspen-bound. We cheered them on before leaving them in our pathetic, 15-mph wake. Legendary.
That delightful encounter only marked the beginning of our charmed Independence Day. We spotted a certain retired pro-cyclist; took in a hometown parade complete with fire engines, fast cars and kids on bikes; successfully rode our bikes up a mountain; picnicked to a symphony and watched a remarkable fireworks display over the mountains.
And, to think, two more weeks of travel awaited.
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