Hello from the land of wildflowers and afternoon showers. Even as I type, I hear the inevitable grumble of thunder... or is it an airplane? Oh, right. It's an airplane. But never mind, the thunder will grumble presently.

I am sitting on my "new" front porch, newly restained but still warped and splintered, at my actually new patio table. Oh, I love wireless internet. My plan is to go for a bike ride shortly, and to be back by the time BBD has to go to Denver. Our boss is leaving for Japan in a week, so Bobby and Marci will be driving down to his house this afternoon to get instructions on how to reset our server, located in his house, if it turns itself off while he is away. I am hoping I have given the trails enough time to dry since tghe rain last night. Thursday is the next Diva's ride, so I will not be riding between now and then, so my legs can be nice and fresh. Those women could kill me on the uphills.

I did ride this morning, for the first time in about a week. First the rain, then company, then work, then more rain...I took the whispering pines trailhead- the closest trailhead to my house-back into the back ranch system. I ended up on highway nine, by Breckenridge, and had to do a little road riding to get back to a trail which would take be back home.

There are two trails notoriously tricky and technical for mountain bikers just outside my door, and I try to work them both into a ride, since the ranch system is conducive to riding loops. One is the Blair Witch trail, a dry, sandy trail, littered with needles fallen from dead lodgepole pine trees. The lodgepole pines all look more or less the same, and the trail winds and doubles back on itself and twists, and wherever a dead tree has fallen across the trail, instead of moving it, riders have merely lain piles of logs beside and over it, so the men may be separated from the boys. The men will ride over the piles of logs, but the lesser men fear a nose dive, and endo, do not trust their bikes to take the shock, and stop to walk over them. The first couple of times I rode it, I chose the walking route, but I have since come to discover that while my shocks may not be able to take a fourteen foot drop out of the keystone drop zones, (never been tried) or even a three foot drop off a log drop on the top of keystone's "cowboy up" trail, (been tried), they can certainly take anything I subject them to on the ground. I have also stopped fearing the mightly endo, since I have several of them behind me, with minimal injury except to ego. So I hit the piles of logs. New this year, I have also stopped walking two by six plank bridges. It is all in one's head. One can ride a six-inch wide trail for miles, never veering out of it, but when one does not have the option, because the trail is now a plank over water and rocks, one tends to freak out and inevitably fall off and down into the stream. I have decided to not accept falling off as an option, and ignore the fact that I am on a bridge. It seems to work. I discovered last year that speed in an eight-inch wide, four inch deep trail was possible if I focused on the trail six to eight feet ahead of me rather than under my front wheel, and gave nary a thought to the trail immediately under me. That was the day I began to love mountain biking. Expanding that strategy to bridges has worked wonders.

The other is the Mushroom trail. I do not know why it is named the mushroom trail, since I have not seen any mushrooms along it, but it is a tight, narrow, winding trail through a much greener forest than the Blair Witch trail. One must time their pedaling so as not to scrape the rocks on the trail, and one's must be fairly comfortable with one's handlebars, so one does not wrap one around a tree. it is the perfect end to a ride, because it coasts down into Summit Cove. When one is too exhausted to think about tackling another climb, but is not ready to put the bike away just yet, they can take the Mushroom trail down and enjoy a technical, narrow, slow trail all the way down.

I love my bike.

Do not get me wrong, I love my little purple and brown Gnu snowboard. It has gotten me down some amazing terrain. It has sustained injuries to it's metal edges that would have caused a less loyal (or less broke) rider to replace it. It's wood and fiberglass core has lost some camber, it has nearly outlived two sets of bindings, and it still takes me down the most amazing runs, allows me to keep pace with friends who frequent those runs.

And I love my new Volkyl Attivas. The blue and white skis, the shiny new boots that in no way look like rentals, the new poles. They are a new love, so far limiting the terrain I can experience, throwing curves at me, new and unfamiliar. With them, the frontside runs that I have done a thousand times and know by heart on my snowboard become new and somewhat menacing. I cannot jump off cornices, I must slow down for turns, I do not dare to go in the trees. I have poles to be mindful of, where to plant them, to make each turn a neat arc around them. I refuse to do the "texas swing" with my shoulders, and try to force my hips and legs to move while keeping my upper body calm, the way I see skiers do who know what they are doing. Every day on the Volkyls is a learning experience. And I love it.

And I love my cross-country skis. All the freedom, the thrill of the downhill, but without being tethered to a lift. Hiking trails now open to winter access. They kick my butt, throw me face-first into the crusted snow, they are the trickiest to control, but allow me to ski in the great white stillness that is unmotorised trail usage n the winter. I come home awed, humbled, scratched, bruised, and sore, and can't wait to go out again every time I return from a cross-country ski jaunt.

And running, well, nothing is like running. I love it, but I hate it. It is pure endurance, pain, but so conducive to introspection. And the accomplishment one feels after a run by far overshadows the accomplishment one feels after other sorts of exercise. Running puts one into an instant club. No contraptions, no noise, just feet on a trail or on the pavement. One can run in a sports bra and no one thinks twice about it. Other runners suddenly become chatty. It is universally assumed that when one runs, they are training for something. What is it, a marathon, triathlon? Big race? And that just makes them instantly cool.

But nothing i own for fun, and I do mean nothing, is as beloved as my little Stumpjumper. From the moment I hit the saddle, till I unclip and dismount, sore and happy, it is where I want to be. The click of the gears, the feel of the handlebars, two fingers on each brake lever, pedals attached to shoes, shoulders low and relaxed... it feels familiar. it feels good. It feels like summer. It feels like good memories. It feels healthy and invincible. Bobby asked me a very serious question the other day, which I liked more- him, my new house, or my bike. Well, of course i like him best, but after that, I was a little bit stumped. He gave me a priceless look when I finally decided on the bike over the house that he has put so much time and effort and money into. I hastened to explain that I did love the house, yes. It's more than I asked for. But a house is a necessity, and a bike is a luxury, so I was free to love them in different ways. He was kinda obligated to find me a place to live, but he bought me a bike, which I didn't need, and even though it was a smaller purchase, it was worth more, ounce for ounce, than the house in brownie points. And I don't clean house to escape from my bike, but I do ride my bike to get out of the house.

Which is why right now, I am in my element. I am completely in love with the mountains, the trails, the weather. My contentment level right now is extremely high. It is mountain bike season.

Oh wow, reading back over this I sound pretty gonzo, don't I? That's not to say that I am. I have never climbed a fourteener. I don't kayak. I don't road bike. And I have never competed. Competing turns a bike rider into a biker, someone who runs into a runner, and so forth. Sure, I can run the distances they do, but not in the time they do. I feel like my life is like that- all the ingredients are there, but it'll never make a cake. Not that I mind so much. It's ok that my life remains without commitment, that I can enjoy a healthy lifestyle without any pressure. Maybe in a few summers, if I still have no kids and I work at it enough, I can be on a mountian bike team or something, but for now, I am just out on the trails doing my thing, and it's good. Although the thought of sponsors is certainly a rosy one...

Blah, blah... a blogger can certainly be a bore sometimes. I type what I am thinking at the moment, which can be centered around me quite often. But I almost feel I do not have freedom to write about anyone but me... so I am sorry that you have just had to slog though all the things I do to entertain myself.

Laci and Terra were here over the 4th of July weekend. We spent the 4th shopping the outlets. We had an al fresco lunch at the Grill by our office, in which I ordered a twelve inch pizza to feed me for the next two days... and ate all but one slice in one setting. Oh, I feel a little embarrassed about that. I tell myself that the fact that it was marinara sauce and tomatoes on a wafer-thin crust, lacking it's usual layer of cheese, that made it less filling than it looked, but I fear the truth is, I have just never eaten "like a bird". When the metabolism stops metabolizing at the rate it does now, I shall have to face the fact that I am actually a pig. Anyway, it was strange that the entire seven slices plus two glasses of water never did make me miserable. In fact, after a sun-baked, windblown afternoon of shopping, walking between outlet villages, driving in a windy, topless, windowless jeep, I was hungry again.

We grilled hamburgers, brats, and garbanzo bean veggieburgers, made pasta salad, and opened bags of corn chips for dinner, and just as soon as we had crammed down all we could hold, all piled into my jeep, sans it's top and doors, with our jackets and do-rags, and made our way to Frisco. Of course, no parking could be found. The first spot we located was about a mile from the marina, not a big deal since there was a bikepath that connected us with the marina. We ended up bushwhacking through a meadow, however, since a portion of the bikepath was closed, in the area where the fireworks would be launched from. Halfway there, Bobby went back for the jeep and illegally parked it much closer to the Marina, on a curb angled for a fast getaway. We met at the marina at darkish, the five of us trying to keep track of each other. Finally, we located a spot of grass along the water's edge, and settled in for the fireworks.

Fireworks always seem to disappoint me these days. They are never as loud, never as big as they used to be. Oh, well. I clapped and ooh'd and ahh'd and cheered like as if it was the coolest thing ever, to the point of drawing a glare from poor B. After the grand finale, we bolted to our feet and joined the jostling sea of boozy-breathed people and tangled dog leashes, pushed and shoved our way through, climbed into the jeep without taking the time to open doors, and before we were even all seated, Bobby had thrown it into gear and was bouncing off the curb and onto the highway. And we were lucky. We beat the traffic jam. There were 22,000 some more people in the county this 4th than last 4th. It was like Christmas-New Years in the middle of summer. As we drove back to our house along Swan Mountain Road, we could see down on the interstate and Dam road. They were both parking lots, unbroken strings of red lights, sitting still.

(a week later) hmmm. That's where it ended. I must have gotten distracted.

Our thoughts and prayers are with Aunt Margie's family. (I think she passed away on the morning I was writing this). I felt a little guilty posting it that day, prattling on as i was about all the fun I'm having, while others in the family were in the process of losing so much, and Aunt Margie was in the process of gaining so much.

Wow. What a reunion it is getting to be, Over There. Lately, Grandpa and Grandma have been doing a lot of welcoming, but it has been younger people, people they did not grow up with. Now, it can be someone they knew for a long time. They must be so happy to get to see Aunt Margie. Funny, how one fears that transition less and less, the more people over there that they know and love and miss. Honestly, I do not want to give people the wrong idea, because I am nowhere near being finished with my life, in fact I am a LONG way from being tired of living, but it makes me feel just a twinge of jealousy. I want to see them too.

It seems like the gulf gets smaller the more we lose to it. People who have never been more than a phone call away, still feel like the phone call we never make away. It still feels like if I just had the right number, I could call Michelle or Grandma and have them tell me about it.

And to all my family who I haven't lost yet, I want to say this to you. You rock. I love you. Every crazy, deviant, funny, sweet, beautiful one of you. Especially the dysfunctional, honest, human ones. I love having roots in such a diverse group, and getting to call you family is an honor. (And to those few I'm not actually related to- hey, I call you family too.)

I know that to say I haven't lost you yet may sound morbid, but if this year has taught me anything, it's that we lose those we love. Whether it's you or me that gets to move on, one of us will before the other one, and if it's you, I don't want to leave my last paragraph unsaid.

Cheers, me