Hello and welcome to An altitude Problem, where man and beast are shaking our heads to get rid of the firecracker-induced ringing and climbing out of our bomb-shelter bathtubs.

Yes, bathtubs. It was the shelter of choice for Bart, our friend's golden lab of the bad ACL, worse breath, and worst fear of things that go bang. We went to Bart's house on the 4th and he was fine until the fireworks came out. Then he huddled first in the living room furniture, shaking and panting, and, as the evening festivities wore on, disappeared completely. It was only after I went to the bathroom and heard his tail thumping behind the shower curtain that we found him again. No amount fo petting and cuddling and reassurances could convince him to abandon his shelter, huddled into a tight ball surrounded by his human's bath toys and rubber duckies.

My parents came up here on the 2nd. They got there in time to go to the Dillon Amphitheater for a military band concert and fireworks show over the lake. My dad spend the 3rd working on Grandma Rose's computer over in Eagle while my mom rode around with me while I inspected units checking in. I finished the units for the day and before starting to work ahead for the 4th, mom and I went down to Keystone Lake with the dogs, tied them to the railing separating the restaurant from the lake, ordered our sandwiches and sat and enjoyed the sunshine and the crowd,strolling along the floating walkway and paddling canoes, kayaks, and paddleboats around on the lake. Gaggles of geese (yes, that is a word. It means a group of at least five geese that are not in flight. In flight, they are called a skein. So there.)swam behind paddleboats, snatching at food thrown by tourists, mama ducks floated with their ducklings in tow, bobbing on the ripples. We stopped at Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory and ordered a pint of ice cream which we shared as we walked around the lake, then sat with Andy tied up where he could wade. I went back to work after I took mom home and dad got home late that night from Eagle.

The next morning, the 4th, we skipped breakfast except for the protein shakes I made for my mom and me. I took mom on a mountain bike ride, a three mile trail by our house. It wasnt a fast trail since it has a lot of tight trees and large rocks in the trail, so by the time we got back, it was almost noon. My parents took us out to lunch in honor of my birthday, then Mom, Marci and I scanned the factory stores for sales, I worked just a little, and got home in time to see them off. They narrowly missed a massive hailstorm on the way home, thanks to them deciding to stop in Denver, and had to sit in Limon while the hail was cleared from the road and the fog caused by ice on the ground meeting warm air lifted. Their five hour trip turned into a ten hour trip home.

We skipped the Frisco fireworks this year, choosing instead to hang with friends, margaritas and a roof over our heads while it rained and a howling wind blew the sparks from our roman candles sideways. BY the time we left, Bart still had not braved crawling out of the bathtub. Poor boy. Andy, on the other hand, seemed not at all bothered by the fireworks. We left him home, where there were pops and bangs happening around him. At his first fireworks, last year at Frisco, he had a momentary freak-out when the first one went off, but then I petted him and told him he was a good boy and he drank his neighbor's beer and he was fine. (He seems to have lost his taste for beer lately. It's just as well. We don't need an alcoholic Golden Retriever in the house.)

In between all of the eating junk food and drinking alcohol spiked with sugar, I have been trying to keep up my riding, training for the next race looming. The only problem is, the faster I get, the faster everyone else gets as well. I really should have been spinning all winter, preparing my legs. I barely hold my own on the downhills, but I find my legs burning and myself on the verge of throwing up on long, steep climbs. There's a small chance I may be racing on a team this next one...stay tuned.

And every summer, as summer racing season is in full swing, so is the Tour de France. We go out, pedal hard, then come in and cheer and watch the beautiful countryside slide past the beautiful riders and their beautiful, steel legs. And yes, I can call them beautiful. You wouldn't? I enjoy watching a human body pushing it's limits. We are such complex creatures, and it is amazing what we can do if we decide to. I admit to becomming a bit of a leg person- when I meet someone, I meet their eyes first, but it is not long before I am checking out the calves and quads, sizing them up, because a set of hard calves is a sign of the hard-core.

Watching the Tour is what we are doing as I write, as I sit here in the house waiting for the rain to stop and my friend (the one who races against me and always places either one place ahead or one place behind me)to get off work so we can go ride together. There are those who have predicted the emminent end of our friendship since we are so closely matched in our bike-handling skills, but so far, maybe because there is no real chance of either of us climbing on the podium this year, it is more about the after-race beers as it is the during-race rivalry.

Later, Faithful Few.