“Fatuity” means stupidity. Thought I’d save ya a google there.
The other day I woke up feeling pretty good after the previous evening of staying in with some ladyfriends waiting for one of their booty-calls to show up while drinking “Peanut Butter Wine”… that wasn’t it’s real name, but apparently my palate was less picky than the rest of the crew who were sipping cham-head-pagne.
So anyway, that morning I started to entertain the idea of going on a nice breezy bike ride down the Rio Grande trail for a few hours before work. I threw on a tank top, dabbed some sunscreen on my face, and roped on a fanny pack (yes, I go there) with a bottle of water in it and my phone and wallet for emergencies.
The first part of the trail is paved and then it turns to dirt. I’d never ridden out past the power plant and airport… basically the edge of this small town, but that day I was feeling adventurous. I kept peddling and peddling… shady trees turned into rugged hot and bright rocky terrain- total cowboy-movie territory. I was going farther and farther, noting that a lot of the distance I was covering was slightly downhill. I knew that the Woody Creek Tavern (a local landmark) would come up at some point, so I kept riding until I found it.
I’m sure the Woody Creek Tavern was what it claims to be… an eccentric community shack of a local-fave colorful hang out… the kind of place where photos adorn every square inch of the walls… but when you have a long line of women dripping in diamonds sporting designer pink capri pants waiting in line for margaritas to “sample local flare”, it really all starts to feel like it’s authenticity jumped the shark sometime in the 80s.
The place was buzzing with people and I wasn’t in the mood to wait 45 minutes for a $15 sandwich so I hopped back on my bike. My head told me to turn back now- the terrain I had just covered was pretty dusty and bright- but my heart wanted to explore a bit further.
I biked past horse ranches and red stone cliffs and even two abandoned train cars that had been converted into private homes. I finally stopped when I reached a sign that said “Basalt Trail” because I realized I’d biked clear into the next town…. and about TWENTY MILES.
With a slight sense of urgency I turned around and started back. After an hour of biking back up that “false flat”… aka a trail that looks flat but is actually demonically and invisibly tilted upwards so that you are continuously pedaling and working… I was praying for the Woody Creek Tavern on the horizon so I could refill my waterbottle and not end up one of those bleached bone carcases of cows people see in the desert.
I was totally bonking. I hadn’t eaten breakfast, I was dangerously dehydrated, and I was in the un-shaded midday heat. During one of my NDEs on the treck I knew I was gaining an intimate understanding of 2% of what Lance Armstrong feels when he talks about “digging deep”. This was one of the most challenging physical brier patches I’d ever accidentally fallen into.
My parched corpse finally reached the Tavern and I would have cried if I’d had any moisture left in my bod. I refilled my water bottle twice from the cooler on the side of the building, gulping it down. I sat in the shade for a bit and asked the waitress if there was a bus stop nearby where I could save myself from certain death if I attempted the last 10 miles home. She said there was a bus stop by the highway, but that the hill to get there was so incredibly steep I’d have to walk my bike up, and that by the time I made it I’d probably have already ridden to Aspen.
I was not thinking clearly. A sane Tweetakeet would have called a cab at this point and paid $50 to be taken home, or not heeded the waitress’ recommendation and gone for the bus. But the water was starting to alleviate my misery and I numbly got back on my bike and back on the trail.
Very quickly I felt extremely ill and wanting to ralph up all the precious liquid I’d just consumed. I had to get off the bike and sit in the shade of a dead bush for ten minutes and visualize the oasis of home to motivate on. I got it together and got back on the bike, peddling up the slow and torturous incline. I kept chastising myself… of COURSE it was going to be all uphill on the way back… there is a reason that the river flows the other direction… and that reason would be gravity. There is a REASON why they call Basalt “down valley”… cause it’s DOWN, as in lower.
I had to stop 4 more times. I contemplated leaving my bike in that barren wasteland and just walking home. I called Hot Stuff and asked him to pick me up. I told him I had died and was dead and could he please come get my body for a proper burial. He replied “The birdies will eat you”… . Silly me, not having a sense of humor at that point. I texted him a suggestion of what he could eat and powered on.
I got back to a portion of the trail that has a large waterfall and I soaked my tank top in it to cool off. I made it back to the paved trail, and finally, agonizingly, SIX HOURS after I had begun I got back to my condo where I stripped off all my clothes, ate two Jello Tapioca Puddings and a PBJ, wrapped myself in a blanket and shivered from extreme need of food and rest as I noted that my fingernails, toenails and lips were purple. That must be some side effect of moronic overexertion.
One hot shower and a take-out order of chicken and the most GLORIOUS mashed potatoes ever later, I was at work and bragging to anyone who would listen about my epic biking misadventure.
So some tips kids: You are the all-singing-all-dancing crap of the world and you CAN NOT go from zero to 40 miles of bike riding in a week. It’s probably better not to peddle in the middle of the day for 6 hours and 40 miles in a tank top unless if you want a sunburn that looks like screwed up red angel wings on your back whose pain forces you to wear soft togas for 3 days afterwards. And you should definitely make sure you’re dating a knight-in-shining-armor instead of a smart-mouthed-snowboarding-instructor before getting yourself in a jam in the wild west wilderness, cuz John Wayne isn’t around anymore to save your ass. And if there’s no knight arms to collapse into in the end … there’s always the ever reliable and understanding Mr. Dazs:
Tweetakeet 