“All rise for the invocation of the ritual.” He said, as he pushed his horn rimmed glasses back up on his nose. His robes were in a sad state. He had the misfortune of spilling a thick, nuclear orange layer of convenience store, pump dispensed cheese and jalapeños on himself when he nearly ran a red light not an hour before. However, the pressing nature of the ritual required he bear the brunt of their scrutiny as he leaned into the pulpit.
The congregation stood up, the pews creaking as they were relieved of their burden.
They all recited, slightly off time and in an array of pitches, “Our shred father, who art in heaven. Jalapeñoed be thy name. Thy kingdom K.O.M. Thy will be done on dirt as it is on pavement. Give us this day our daily shred, and let us get away with tasteful trespassing, as we forgive the freds that pass us on congested bike paths. Lead us not into goat heads, but deliver us from headwinds. For thine is the kingdom, scar tissue glory, for at least a few more years or whenever. Amen.”
“Hail Overend!”
“Hail Overend!”
He paused for a moment.
“Bring forth the sacred banquets and I shall bless our day with some leftover bourbon. Does anyone here have the other sacraments? Does one among you have the blood…” he coughed. “The blood orange drink mix?”
“I do, brother.” A voice in the crowd responded.
“Then let us begin!”
On my frame, I had one bidon, now with but a few swigs of hot orange Gatorade left. The damnation of being short are smaller frames and on dirt, that means one bottle cage. This left me with a twelve ounce insulated bottle in my jersey, packed with ice and gummy colas, and at least nine miles of singletrack before I returned to the fork.
Decision time.
A saner man would have turned around now. The temperature had slowly been climbing and the wind swept desert was devoid of shade. Like the proverbial “frog in a frying pan,” I had slowly grown accustomed to the now hundred degree heat.
I could not turn back.
Yesterday afternoon, I had been napping after a gravel and road ride with my fellow Team Party disciples, when I heard a knocking on my apartment door. This was curious. I know none of my neighbors and the building requires an RFID keyfob or some errant resident to gain entry. Perhaps it was my girlfriend?
I leveraged my diabolical cat off of my chest and ambled to the door.
“Hello? Who… who’s there?”
Silence.
I opened the door and saw a stained manilla envelope.
It bore only the letters “TDP, TPB”
I opened it, holding my breath as a closing door echoed through the maze of hallway.
Inside I found a crude drawing, admonishing me to “Worship the beast.”
It was clearly a sign.
I was destined to visit the far off land of Pueblo that evening. I had heard tale of a series of trails around the reservoir that promised grand shredding and, perhaps, madness. I had been indecisive on choice of whip. Do I bring my Chiron, a titanium, all road monster or do I bring my hardtail and chance the diabolical heat?
The tradeoffs roared around in my head. On the one hand, finding strange new roads and boldly going where someone had probably gone before was compelling. On the other, the town was staunchly red in politics and, perhaps, riddled with cargo short besotted, flat brimmed, tribal tattooed weigh protein cadavers itching to roll coal and ensconce me in the blackest of smoke as I sweat and toiled on the shoulder. And on the third hand (the gripping hand, for the sci fi fans), I’d already ridden sixty miles this morning and wouldn’t likely be down in the bedeviled south again soon.
But here was a clear path forward.
“Yes, yes… you shall ride the heat blasted desert lands, but you will never get your hands on the Necronomicon!” My cat hissed.
“Shut up, Señor Smith! You cannot speak as a man! You are but a cat!” I said, hearing the sound of my empty words reverberate off of the concrete floor.
It was settled.
The trail was littered with loose bits of white shale, sedimentary mudstone or clayrock, akin to riding around on a field of shattered dinner plates, but the climbs were short. At times the trails were straight, slowly curving along the top of a mesa. At others, the trail was winding, diving in and out of the rim of the canyon along the coastline of the reservoir. I would catch glimpses of shirtless men, drinking cans of light beer on power boats or women, far in the distance, skimming along on jet skis. But our worlds were different.
I was cursed to toil upon the loose rock, amidst the faint sounds of distant rattles, dripping in sweat that was mixing with whatever remained of my sunscreen, hoping for a slightly cooler gust of wind from across the water while they, they were laughing, joking, and lounging about on their pontoon boats with the soundtrack of the damned! (Not “The Damned”, of course. Probably something horrid. Sublime and radio rock and such.)
The trails further from the water were often littered in tumbleweeds that I had no choice but to bash through. Occasionally one would embed itself in my rear wheel, and if I was lucky a few quick bunny hops would jettison it’s skeletal remains. If not, a stop, sweat burning in my eyes as I wrenched the bedeviled, undead flora free.
There were trails that careened down into arroyos, only to be blocked by purposefully stacked brush, a sign from the dark disciples of dirt that this trail was no longer meant for man.
There were others that contained rock drops and stacked shale ramps, steep ladder bridges, and narrow chutes. I managed to successfully navigate these, saddle brushing against my sternum and finding slight relief from the blazing sun, only to find that the absence of even the furnace blast of wind caused sweat to bead up upon my forearms.
After hours of navigating these trails, I finally broke down. I rent my jersey open (unzipped it), and consumed the last of the cold water, now rancid with the flavor of decomposing gummy cola bottles and screamed into the void.
“Dark master, take me now! Please! It’s really hot and I’m kind of tired.”
No response came.
Foolishly, I had left my communications machine in my infernal combustion vehicle, right near the camp office and, as such, I wouldn’t be able to reach out for an… uber ride or anything.
No. I could not give up.
Yes, it was folly, pure folly, that lead me here. I, high on my own hubris, thought nothing of the warnings of the towns folk.
“It’s gonna get real hot, up in there.” Said a woman named Grace at the drug store where I purchased the reddest of Red Bulls and a packet of honey roasted peanuts.
“Begone wench! I shan’t be stopped by the likes of you!” I yelled as she put my purchases in a plastic bag.
“Uh, okay. Just bring plenty of water!”
“Fah!” I stomped out.
Yet, Grace had been right to warn me.
And now, I wrestled with my possessed GPS device to find the most direct path to safety and cold beer. (All Garmin’s are possessed. It’s part of the rather shitty design of the UI.)
With no water left, and brakes moaning into each turn, I hastened with great speed to leave the sun drenched lands of the Pueblo Reservoir.
Within a few miles, I found my salvation, where I greedily chugged a cold beer and cried into the afternoon. (I totes broke the law: canned beer is fine in state parks, but it’s supposed to be 3.2% ABV. My icy Dale’s was 6.2% Live fast, die at some point. No rules. Just right. Outback Steakhouse.)
It was over. Thirty three miles of pain and heat lay behind me, and Denver to the far North.
For this season, I would not journey south again. The heat was too much and I would rather avoid such difficulty, if I can. Of course, winter is coming…
Epilogue: Yeah, I probably wouldn’t recommend riding these trails in the summer, unless you’re going to get out in the pre dawn light. It would be hard, even then, to do a significant ride. There are sessionable trails closer to the campground the guidebook recommended, but they are more of the baggy-short, pad wearing type. Not a good place for a hardtail. I also didn’t see a single other person in the three hours or so it took me to stitch together this ride. That is worrisome, especially when you are running low on provisions. I will add, that I’m glad I went. Not a bad way to celebrate turning thirty six six six. Hail seitan or satin or… whatever. Peace.
