A Bike Ride in Telluride

About five or six years ago, I got to go on a trip to Telluride, Colorado, with my mother and sister for a week of relaxation in the mountains.

Only a few weeks prior to the trip, I had bought myself a brand-new mountain bike with one of my first paychecks, and I was eager to ride it everywhere I possibly could. The bike was nothing special - nothing more than a Wal-Mart special with an aluminum frame that kept it lightweight and speed shifters built into the handles. But at the time, I thought I was as cool as they got. So as we were leaving, I stuffed my new toy into the back of my mother's van at the last second, and we were off.

When we first got into town, it was late, and I'd had a long day of travel from Phoenix. So the last thing on my mind was going out biking for a few hours. The next morning, I was ripped out of a peaceful slumber by loud crashes and booms shaking the sides of our rented condo. I ran to the window and pulled the drapes aside to see lighting flashing as torrents of rain fell from the heavens.

"Big deal," I thought to myself. "I've got a week to ride; one day won't kill me."

Throughout the day, the rain would let up for a few moments, allowing me to dart from shop to shop within the town, trying to find a good bike trail to ride along after the storms.

On day two, sheets of rain still fell from the sky. On day three, I'd still be soggy if I tried to go out biking. Even on the fourth day, the onslaught of rain continued. Finally, on the fifth day of the trip, I woke up to the sun's rays spilling through my window. No breakfast for me; I had to hit the bike trails before it started raining again. Time is short, and this may be my only chance. I threw on a clean white T-shirt, some denim shorts and a pair of sandals, and I was out the door before my mother could say a word.

I hightailed it to the start of a long trail that had been recommended to me by one of the local bike shops and went tearing off down the trail. I made it about a quarter mile or so down the nicely paved trail when, suddenly, a gnarled root seemed to come jumping out of nowhere. Luckily, I saw it just in time and hopped the bike over it, quite proud of my short air time, which quickly came to a halt as my bike plunged two feet into a cold, muddy puddle that had formed during all the storms. The rich, black muck quickly swallowed one of my feet and coated the rims of my tires in slick grime, but I pedaled out of it quickly and took the trail with a bit more caution.

For nearly two hours I would climb rocky inclines and try to coast down hills, meeting bog after slimy bog of cold, black mud. I hit a few of the deadly puddles much faster than I would have liked to as I would careen down a hill, brakes clamping my slick wheel rims and my sandaled heels digging into the slippery earth. I even ran into a small woodland creature that had fallen into one of the pits of muck and not made it out, adding a horrid stench to my muddy appearance.

Finally, a light at the end of a muddy bike trail: I saw a gas station. I quickly made my way to it, leaving my mud-caked bike in the entryway. I slogged into the convenience store, leaving muddy footprints behind me, pulled open the door to the drink cooler and grabbed a bottle of Surge. I set it on the countertop as the clerk stared at me in astonishment. I set a nearly indiscernible soggy dollar bill on the counter, flashed him a grin and walked out the door.

To this day, I still have my once white T-shirt, now stained a wonderful dark brown from all the mud and muck. The sandals didn't make it home, as they had been destroyed when I tried to use them as crude brakes. I still have my bike, stuffed away in the storage closet of my apartment. Since that ride, I just haven't been able to part with it, and even now I still take it out for rides from time to time.