Hello and welcome to An altitude problem , the blog that's posting from the couch. That's right, other than two painful (for both dog and human) trips to the vet, lunch, and a teeny bit of work, another day has passed, and the me-sized indentions in the couch are deeper.

Bobby has had a heckuva week so far. He ran around, happy, then bummed, then happy again as he and his friends planned a day at the drag races, then those plans got canceled because of a longer than anticipated wheat harvest, then on again, then off again...in the end, everyone bailed except his dad, so they went...and got rained out. This has been one of those weeks for him. If it goes wrong, blame the manager. If a guest complains, blame the manager. If they don't like the view, blame the manager. It has escalated in the last few days, first one thing, then another. The other night, the police broke down the door of one of our units to arrest someone inside, then called us at 5:30 am to report an "unsecure unit". You try making sense of that, coming out of a dead sleep. After the third try, poor B realized he was saying the door did not lock anymore. Since the parts broken were custom, it won't be an easy repair. Then, today, we got that call we dread so very much, a call we have not gotten for two years- little biting bugs in a unit. I don't know if any of my readers are aware of how hard bedbugs are to get rid of, but take my word for it- nigh impossible. They come in, just a bug in someone's luggage, and they have to feed five times, then they lay their eggs, which are impossible to kill until they hatch, and start the cycle over. This means that it is a very slow process involving frequent extermination to kill them. Nobody is quite sure why there has been such an explosion of bedbug infestation in the Colorado resorts in the last few years, but there has been- even the most expensive, highest class, five star resorts have been known to not talk about the fact that they are quietly trying to exterminate the little critters. We are actually extremely lucky, we have only had three units ever infested, but it is a bit of a drain on the company, since they cannot be rented until the problem is gone. Needless to say, unhappy guests, free upgrade. All in all, it has not been the fun weekend hanging out with his buddies that he thought it'd be. Never mind that he came home early from getting rained out at the races to find me on the couch, hurting, bloody and still a little loopy from the biggest bike crash of my life so far, and has now determined that I am a...oh, let me count the names. Little idiot, little moron, little big stupidhead, and an array of nouns referring to my posterior, following the adjective little and an adjective referring to my mental capacity. Usually followed up with a pat on my head, his code for "I think you're cute." It is his own brand of sympathy, his way of expressing relief that I am ok, thinly disguised.

And the poor boy has been so sweet to me, all but swallowed up in the couch cushions like I am these days. He drives to town to get more margarita mix for me, lest my cup should run dry, brings me ice water when I get buzzed from the margaritas (Ok, that was just one day, but Jose Cuervo and his limey assistant had me almost forgetting I was in pain that day). He even brought me daisies one day, shoving them at me with a gruff, "Here. Feel better. And don't think I like you, now, just 'cause I got you flowers."

Okay, here's what happened. On Thursday night, I rode with the Divas, a great ride up Keystone mountain for five of us who were gung-ho to do it, a ride through the Keystone Ranch for the other ten or so. I've gotta say, I had a blast. I kept up with the leader, and burned down, and ended on a great note, then went for apres-ride margaritas and nachos at Parrot Eyes, in River Run, where, in a boozy glow, caught a great compliment from one of the gals I really respect for being one tough broad, concerning my future career as a racer. It was the third such compliment i had garnered in a weeks time, and I began to wonder to myself if it could ever be...? And decided that there was no time like the present to find out, the only thing I might lose was the race, twenty dollars and a little pride. The next night, while our friends were at the Rockies game in Denver, and Bobby was at the NHRA drag races in Denver, I copied the turn by turn directions to the next race course, over by Breck, clipped into my pedals, and headed through the ranch and up the road to the starting point. I sweated, climbed, pushed myself. Took the downhills fast, didn't let myself slow for the uphills, pushing myself as if I had twenty tough broads ahead of me on race day. Got rained on, my feet went numb after 15 miles, and, I'll admit it, I was feeling pretty darn bulletproof. I was even thinking I might not come in dead last, as long as I rode the course a few more times and had memorized where the tricky parts were. At last, shoes squishing from riding through a stream, I turned toward home, still pedaling strong. At 24 miles, I hit the highest point and started downhill, shifting up into 3-9 and still pedaling, still in race-training mode. Faster, and low, behind my seat, and then a giant crack as the back of my helmeted head slammed into the ground and I bounced and skidded off the trail and into the trees, my bike tumbling behind me. In retrospect, I probably should have been going a little slower, so the tiny gully washed at an angle across the trail did not yank my handlebars out of my hands and send me over them. I laid there, wiggling fingers, then toes, then arms, then legs, and finally eased myself into a sitting position, only to have dark edges close in on me, so I laid back down. At last, I could sit, and tried to stand with the same results. Twenty minutes later, I could stand in a bent-over position, so I dug my Allen wrenches out of my backpack and loosened my handlebars, straightening them from the 45 degree angle the crash had twisted them to. Slapped about a hundred mosquitos on my intact skin, and waved them away from the bleeding parts of me, and tried to lift my leg high enough to mount my bike. At last, I succeeded, and, head hung low over handlebars to keep the edges from closing in again, wobbled my way down the trail, braking the whole way. I rode, ever so slowly and drunk-looking, past the crowd of tourists enjoying their wagonride dinner at the ranch, and made my way up the hoofmarked gravel road to the entrance to the ranch, pedaling with the leg attached to my only functioning hip. I decided that mosquitoes sitting on my raw back would feel better than my bike jersey rubbing on it, so I hiked my jersey up and tucked it under my backpack. And then, just as I got to the top of the ranch road, oh, the irony, a big white and red SUV pulled up, light bar on top, Keystone Emergency Services emblazoned on the side. I wondered if I should ask for help, and accept any charges incured in the process, or if I should try to sneak by. I opted for sneaking by, fearing an inflated charge for medical services, since I hadn't thrown up I was pretty sure I didn't have a concussion. I probably should have remembered to pull my shirt down, because the medic caught sight of my bloody back and hollered after me.

Long story short, I didn't have a concussion. Nothing except my ego, my helmet and possibly my hip was fractured. I had dirt and gravel embedded in my helmet, both forearms, and a six inch high, nine inch wide portion of my lower back. The medic gave me a ride home, along with a lecture on what to watch for in case of head injury, refused payment, and made me promise to call Marci to be my babysitter for the evening, in case I got weirder than normal.

I have spent an innordinate amount of time between then and now on the couch. It is a long process to get up and down, a feat trying to keep from moving my left hip joint too quickly or putting weight on that leg, avoiding three large raw spots and numerous smaller bruises and scrapes, a towel under me to soak up all the nasties that drain from the now mostly de-gravelled arms and back. But I am on the mend. As of yesterday, I can ambulate about the house without the aid of a ski pole, walls, and countertops. Well, it's more of a sideways shuffle, but still. It's a huge improvement. I do not think the hip may be broken anymore, considering the rate of improvement. Just a deep bruise, a huge relief. Bobby says he hopes I remember the pain, and it slows me down. I believe it just may.

Andy, on the other hand, is as of today, no longer a whole dog. I eased myself out of bed and into the car this morning, and hauled him to the vet. He is now bumbling around the house wearing a giant plastic cone on his head, to keep his teeth away from the stitches on his nether parts. I picked him up at 3:15 this afternoon, still a little dopey from the morphine, and he has been taxing my patience ever since, not at all the groggy puppy that he should be after such a procedure. It may have made him worse, since obedience completely went out the window afterwards, and I ended up crab-walking through the neighbor's yard after him, using my scary voice, the one that usually has him showing his tummy and begging for mercy.

It is now Tuesday morning, another idyllic mountain day. I believe this is the first day I will not spend on the couch, and I am loving the idea. Although neither Andy nor I are fit for the trails yet, we are ready to go and get a little sunshine, do a little work, hang our heads out in the wind and smell the smells out there. We've taken our pain pills, had our breakfast, even removed the cone from Andy's neck, and hope he will continue to leave his nether parts alone. Bobby has been out doing damage control for quite a while already. He admits, these days, to staying up later and later at night, just to enjoy a few more hours before he has to get up and do it all over again. As of this morning, the latest is, the unit damaged by the forced police entry and the fight that got them there in the first place, now has an owner checking in in two weeks. No doubt Keystone Resort (the master of reporting to owners, if it makes their private-company competitors look bad) called them up and embellished a bit, and now they must come up and see for themselves that they still have a nice condo. Which means it must not be in the same condition they last saw it in, it must be better. While bookings are up, especially last-minute bookings, and it is a good thing for the company, it is stressing us out a bit that now that it is The Season again. Traffic is a nightmare, and summer vacationers can make such a mess of yards, hot tubs, and decks, something we don't usually deal with in the winter, and everyone wants a grill, and does not understand why we do not offer them to our guests (fire code and HOA rules). So I shall run along and go offer my invalid help (a term that Bobby has been using since Friday, with emphasis on the -val-, not the in-.)