Tag: The Broadmoor

House of Pain

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 8 Comments
The Broadmoor
Stately old pile, ain’t it?

Between deadlines today I slipped out for a pleasant 25-miler, doing a couple of leisurely laps around The Broadmoor.

There’s a short, steady climb between halves of the golf course — a bit of road that the resort would like to close, the better to attract prestigious gatherings of prominent duffers — that tops out at Old Stage Road, just below the Cheyenne Mountain Zoo, and you can approach it using three or four different routes.

Each summit ends with a shortish descent for recovery’s sake and a pass by the hotel itself so you can see how the other half lives before starting uphill again. It’s a nice way to flush out the headgear before getting back to business.

Upon returning I saw that our “leaders” in the House have decided that piling more misery atop the poor, infirm, elderly and unemployed is now called a “win.” How wonderful for them. Perhaps they can celebrate with a round of golf at The Broadmoor.

When the rain comes

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 7 Comments

Rain today, finally. Maybe the dust on the trails will finally turn back into sand. Asking for actual mud would be too much.

The Broadmoor
Stately old pile, ain’t it?

Last night Herself and I enjoyed cocktails and snacks at The Broadmoor, courtesy of an old college pal whose line of work dollars up on the hoof a little faster than does free-lance rumormongering. Our shared and violently colorful past was disinterred for inspection, tales of relatives, pets and exploding toilets were exchanged, and the whereabouts, whys and wherefores of absent friends came up for extended and critical examination. Hilarity ensued and the four of us agreed that we see each other far too seldom. Good times.

The Broadmoor is a Forbes Five-Star resort, so naturally it draws Republicans in the way that a gutpile does buzzards, and I felt as comfortable as John Edwards at a NOW rally as various Suits ambled past, occasionally glancing at me as though I were encamped on the pine-board stoop of a 9-by-40 single-wide with my bib-alls around my ankles, a copy of Maxim in one hand and a 40 of Olde English in the other, irrigating my tooth while a half-dozen three-legged pit bulls chased chickens, social workers and red-headed stepchildren through an overflowing leach field.

Happily, a couple drams of Bristol Brewing Company’s Compass IPA removed all apprehension and I even managed to shake hands with one of the sonsabitches when my bro’ engaged him in polite conversation (though I cleansed the hand vigorously in an unflushed toilet afterward).

It was something of a late night for us, and today we barely managed to get breakfast, chores and a two-hour ride done and dusted before the rains came. Rain? I don’t mind. Shine? The world looks fine.