Articles by drew

I hate mosquitoes. Hate is a strong word, and I am using it. If I could rub a genie bottle and wish for one thing, it would be to kill every mosquito that comes within five feet of me. Now, I don’t use this lightly as I am aware of the parable where a man wished everything he touched turned to gold and soon starved to death. There are consequences to our wishes and everyone who has ever thought through the process of wishes, can attest to this. We already know what happened to the gold guy and think how miserable I would be today if I really had become the best Lego builder in the world. A life doomed to sit in my parent’s basement building my next pirate ship masterpiece or maybe a castle with a moat full of sharks. These are tragic events. There is probably some reason mosquitoes need to be in my personal space, but I haven’t found one yet, and I don’t care if this wish comes with an unforeseen consequence or two. Bring on the basement. At least I know there aren’t any mosquitoes there.

I bring this up because at my lowest of lows yesterday, I was confronted by an attacking army of Mosquitoes. These guys were mean and hungry. Imagine, if you will, sitting on a bike for 13 hours in 90 plus degree temperatures over 120 miles and not having the energy to bike another six miles to an oasis known as Lander. Now imagine a gang of middle aged roadbike warriors passing you at this moment saying, “come on . . . you can do.” That is like your big sister telling you to suck it up after she brought you tears from a sucker punch to the gut. Regardless, I was feeling like little Mr. Cranky Pants. I was hangry and my water resources were exhausted.  I had bonked and all I wanted was my sleeping bag. This is where the mosquitoes came in. They bombarded me with their buzzes. Around the ears, near the ankles; they knew all the vulnerable spots. I was running in place screaming just to keep them away long enough to lower the rancher’s gate where my motorhome sized bike had to pass. I was singing “I am a maniac . . . maniac on the floor . . . and I am dancing like I have never danced before.” Name that tune? Name that movie? You get the idea. I was bolting for higher ground in hopes that the mosquitoes would give up and go back to their low land haciendas. No luck. They followed me into my tent that ironically looks like a coffin. Room for one man and twenty blood sucking death merchants. I spent the better part of an hour subduing their buzzing which is a nice way of putting, I killed them one by one. In a very strategic way I might add. I baited them with a little thigh. White and supple. They were powerless to it. They would eventually land on the whitest part where the contrast of their dark bodies could be seen in the subtle tent lighting. It all ended with a bang. Better to kill them with a loud noise. I hope to go out with a bang or at least a fireworks display. Put me in a bottle rocket and launch me off a mountain. A high one where no mosquitos can ever flap their little wings.

Drew

PS Why do bikers shave their legs and, more importantly, where do you stop shaving? Suggestions? Thoughts?

Giddy Up. I am all saddled up and ready to bolt through the tribal lands of Wyoming. The interior. Draw a straight line between Steamboat Springs and Lander, and that is the maze of backroads I will be crossing over the next three days. Roads with such names as CC RD 561, Big Rubber Rd and Three Forks Atlantic City Rd. Some seem to have two names. Some don’t have any name at all, and I have absolutely no idea if any of these will be marked with a sign. I will be sure to wear my tightest lycra bike shorts and flashiest cape when asking the ranchers which way to the promised land. The International Climbers Fest in Lander, Wyoming is my destination and its going to rock . . . pun intended.

You have no idea how excited I am to actually use these silly climbing shoes I have been carrying around since Telluride. To be surrounded by climbers, will calm me. Ever since I started this biking hobby, about a month ago, I have become overly nervous when someone from the biking tribe approaches me. He, usually a male, will stop to talk shop about my gearing ratio or some other two wheeled semantic detail that I have no idea how to answer. I seem to leave them disappointed with my apparent ignorance, but everyone can relate to the butt soreness. You can always talk to a biker about that. I am working on my biking vocab, but I fear I will never care what my seat post weighs when I am pulling a 70 pound trailer. Oh bikers. Not that climbers are any better. If I have to hear about another “sick splitter” (climber talk for “cool crack climb”) around the Indian Creek campfire, I might just start wearing lycra when I climb. Actually, I have tried that once and it was very funtional in off-widths. I digress. What I am trying to get at is that every tribe has their own language, and the key to this adventure lies in my ability to play it off like I speak them all. I am working on Biker, and I am about to get some practice with Rancher. Wish me luck. See in you three days.

Drew

Independence day has decended upon Steamboat and the invasion has left the town smothered in a red, white and blue gravy. Some of the tastier chunks in this stew include overhead explosions, rodeos and the occasional cowboy wearing an American Flag with pearl snaps for buttons. Wrapped like a patriotic Chipotle burrito, these cowboys have started to gather in numbers, and I wonder if there is going to be a second wave to this invasion? Are they coming to wrap me up in Old Glory?

There was one Patriotic trooper last night checking himself out in a window as we both waited in line for some late night sustenance. I love catching people in this vulnerable moment. His shirt was tight and bulgy like a tarp around a motorcycle; quick pointy in parts. The stars and stripes had been disassembled and fabricated into what appeared to be a stylish shirt for such occasions in such places. Wranglers created the foundation to this masterful ensemble and his lady friend smelled of diesel exhaust. The pair fit together like beer and rodeos, but at that particular moment, when my voyeuristic tendencies kicked in, he was alone in an assailable moment. He started near the top of his reflection looking for anything out of place. Hat straight, Check. Collar down, check.  Belt buckle big and shinny, check. Wranglers too tight, check. Boots pointy, check. Everything was in its right place as his eyes began to drift towards the menu. There was a line that appeared to interest him, extra bacon-two dollars. I pegged him as a carnivore but you don’t want to jump to conclusions in this day and age. I didn’t see any remnants of an omnivore’s life style in his handle bar mustache, but then again he could just be hygienic. “Bacon Cheeseburger, extra bacon . . . honey what you want?” His wife was standing behind me at this point and his honey comment caught me off guard as his gaze was sent in my general direction. She wanted more of the same. I finally had my chance to order and my scrumptious salad wrap probably matched my artsy glasses just as his bacon cheesburger paired well with tight wranglers. We were stereotypes dancing for a moment.

I am off to a bar-b-q and a fireworks display. I have already eaten two hotdogs, red white and blue pancakes, a root beer float and all the other edible treats you might find around the fourth of July. I particularly enjoyed the deviled eggs, but who doesn’t.

Drew

There is no steamboat in Steamboat. Perplexing. I made it, but as you can imagine, I am a bit disappointed with this realization. Maybe they are hiding it from the tourists. Maybe it only comes out during holidays. I will keep you posted as it is July 4th tomorrow and if there is any holiday to bring out a steamboat, July 4th would be it.

Just one photo this time as I am working on a longer blog that will have more attached. A lilac bush greeted me atop a very large hill. This was moments before I bonked. There were no banana chips or water to pull me out, so I did what any tuckered out biker might do, napped.

Drew