Hello and welcome to An Altitude Problem, where we fly by the seat of our pants. At least that's what it feels like I've been doing lately. My new job, all two days of it so far, has been a long series of faking and bluffing because the truth is, I really know nothing about what I am selling. The store is no longer a bike shop, but a winter sports shop. I was not there for the flip, so I have no idea where anything is, or what is there, or what is lurking in the back. When someone comes in looking for bikes or bike gear, what little there is left, I am all over it, but that only happens a few times a day. The rest are looking for ski gear, which is my department and I know nothing about, or snowboard gear, which I know about but is down a flight of stairs and staffed by it's own group of gearheads. Yesterday was a sink or swim sort of day. I managed to dog-paddle my way through the murk that is my basic knowledge of ski boots, skis, bindings, snowshoes, gore-tex, fleece, polarized lenses and helmets, plus navigate a computer system that is, to me, rather convoluted and relies on shortcut keys that are not exactly clear to me. Plus learn a language that was developed long before my time, pet names for certain areas of the store or certain display cases that make absolutely no sense to me.

I commuted via rollerblade yesterday because of a scheduling conflict- B wanted to leave for Denver after work and I did not want to get back to the county and have to pick up my car from down in town and drive it home after we got back. I could have ridden my bike, but then I would have had to lock it up somewhere in a store already bursting at it's seams and hard to navigate, and find somewhere to stash it when we went to Denver. Rollerblades are a great solution for that problem. Much more compact (not to mention less of a loss in the event of theft). They are also great for preparing for ski season- the hip flexors and quads are used in ways they do not get used while mountain biking, and are more similar to skiing. My brakes are shot, so I have to spend a lot of time making s-turns down long, steep, curving hills. Two miles of downhill takes as long as four miles of rolling terrain. I do love that at least one of my jobs does not demand that I drive to work, then drive all day long. I am finally able to go an entire day without a car.

Moab and Fruita were 75% fun. This was one of those vacations where we did not truly relax and start to enjoy ourselves until almost our last day there. It started out great, B wanted to ride bike, I wanted to ride bike, Andy wanted to run. We camped up on 18 Road in Fruita, on BLM land. The camping is nice up there, fire rings and nice, level campsites and maintained roads, and free. We found a cozy campsite, a small patch of land over a dry wash with a view of the town of Fruita, a green oasis behind miles of dry grass and rolling hills behind which rose the Colorado National Monument in shades of reds and purples. Our campsite was right in the middle of the Bookcliffs trail network. Andy and I did two loops a day to run off his excess energy, then B and I left him in the camper while we rode a loop, then B hung out at the camper while Andy explored the dry streambeds while I did another loop. It was good, but after two days we had ridden all of the 5 mile loops that we thought we could manage with out technical skills, and B was not interested in starting on the 20+ mile loops. We moved down into town for a night so we could ride some trails on the other side of town in the Colorado River canyons.

That night we got back to camp after an amazing ride just as a violent windstorm swept into town. We spent a half-hour frantically scurrying around chasing our campsite, then assisting neighbors as they did the same, holding corners of flapping, ripped awnings, taking down tents as tent poles bent and fabric tore, keeping an eye out for live embers flying out of fire pits.

The next morning, we left for Moab, driving past highway signs flung into ditches from the wind the night before.

Once in Moab, our moods got foul. B absolutely, positively did not want to ride bike. (We have this conversation often. It is true, I am a bit more manic about biking. He is more like a normal person and enjoys campfires and long walks on the beach.) I was antsy because we were in Moab, for goodness' sake, and trails were calling, and we would not be back to ride them until next spring. Andy needed exercise, and B did not want to hike the same trail we hike every time, but it is the only dog-friendly hiking trail in the area. He didn't want to climb hills on his bike because his legs were sore from Fruita, but the only flat riding was through environmentally sensitive areas so Andy would have to be on his leash. We finally settled on a bit of a hill-climb, up Gemini Bridges, a well-maintained 4wd road a little way out of town. Turned out, we rode about 12 miles- much farther than we had planned, and through deep sand and standing water which was more red mud than water, which Andy delightedly rolled in and emerged covered in muck, which made us have to stay out even longer so he could dry before we drove back to camp. And then B got mad. When we got back, I gave Andy a bath, then asked B when he wanted dinner. He thought I should start on it right away while we still had daylight, so I heated canned beans and set out the toppings for haystacks and called outside to tell him it was ready. He was busy on his computer (we were in a campground with wifi) and did not come in. I called again. Nothing. I sat down and waited. Nothing. And then I got mad.

It took us a while, about a day, to simmer down. B had been checking his email and answering his phone, which made it impossible to leave Seymour Lodging behind, I just wanted to bike or hike, he did not want to, I offered to go by myself, he did not want me to, and he did not know what he would do in the campsite all by himself, I did not know what I would do if I had to stay in camp and do nothing, I had finished my book, he didnt want to spend $20 on a new one. Andy wanted to go swimming in the river, which we camped beside, we would not let him, he wanted to explore on the other side of the highway, so he had to be tied up, and when we walked away from him, he howled.

B finally compromised by taking me out to the 24 Hours of Moab venue, where the course was already marked for the race the next day. I rode the 15 mile race course with about 30 other riders, most of them registered for the race. I now know what I am getting myself into if I race it next year. I thought I was going to do it this year, but it fell through. I was almost relieved, since I knew nothing about the course. While I was riding, B took Andy to a lake and let him swim, then came back and picked me up and we were all three in better moods.

The next day, we hiked the same old trail with Andy, Negro Bill's Canyon, which is delightful in spite of the fact that we have done it so many times and it has a lot of poison ivy along the trail. Andy splashed in the stream and thanked us with a wagging tail and big doggy grin. We slept for several hours that afternoon, then went out to the race and cheered for the riders we knew, then found a sidewalk sale outside a bookstore. That evening, B dropped me off at Negro Bill's Canyon and I ran it, enjoying the shady cool in the bottom. We were finally on vacation- no cell service, no internet, no angst and miscommunication. Just us and a fire sending shadows to dance in the leafy canopy above us, the river whispering below, the last of the sunset glowing on the canyon rim.

The next morning we went home. I started juggling a new job and my regular job. Grandpa Weldo and Grandma Gladys brought my parents up for my moms monday chemo. It was good to see them. Things have been a blur ever since. And now, here I sit in my pajamas in a house that somehow has become a disaster area since monday. I go to work in an hour and a half for a 10-6:30 shift. I have no idea what I am going to wear, since all my clothes that conform to the dress code there have been worn and are dirty. I must start swimming again, because I have a sinking feeling that I am not going to get everything done I want to unless I get off this couch.