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.
The Greenland trails are a hot, dusty 30 miles from Dog Central.
As usual, I didn’t get much riding in during the recently concluded three-week Cirque du Frog. So I thought it would be swell to ride the New Santa Fe Trail to the Greenland trailhead and back yesterday.
I knew it would be hot, so I planned an early start, which I did not get. What I did get was a stiff headwind for all but a few of the 30 northbound miles, and that first 90 minutes was a bitch. The trail was in poor repair after July’s heavy rains, with ruts and sandpiles in abundance, and my legs felt like sacks of very old garbage.
Finding myself running behind what I considered decent time at two checkpoints — way behind — I thought about turning around at the North Gate to the Air Force Academy. Naw, why do something smart at this stage of your life? The Universe would become confused. Onward.
There are plenty of water stops along the way, at Baptist Road, in Monument, and in Palmer Lake, but I was a little light in the electrolytes department, and it caught up with me on the way back, when the temperature hit 96 degrees. I dragged ass back to Dog Central looking like Death eating a cracker. Seems 60 miles of sand on a cyclo-cross bike was about 10 too many in my present alarmingly decrepit condition.
I limped into the house, drank a tall glass of juice with a tablespoon of concentrated electrolytes, chased it with a couple glasses of ice-cold water, and then stretched out with my legs elevated, a cold washcloth across my forehead, meditating for a while upon the pure white light of stupidity. Then I ate a chicken-and-provolone sandwich with some salty blue corn chips and a banana and began feeling vaguely human once again.
The only half-smart thing I did on that ride was skip an extra-credit loop at the Greenland trailhead that would’ve put me even deeper into the pain cave on the way home. Maybe next time. Are we not men?
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