Old Colorado City; That's a Good Start

I've alluded to this this time in my life as a "new chapter" to numerous of people, only because, most of the time, when one either meets new people or sits long enough with old acquaintances, the subject of who you are and what your plans are comes up. This is very prevalent when dealing with people who know you're doing something new and exciting. At that point, you're almost required to spill and spell out what you intend to do with your life. So, I simplify it by labeling my plans as a new chapter. And when I say "new chapter", I mean a completely different lifestyle; I mean to say that "from here on out, my life is going to change, not for the better or worse, but change in regards to finally grabbing onto that wagon that will eventually pass by what I'm going to do for the rest of my life; a wagon being some sort of  metaphor for how I will accomplish that rest of my life, which I hope to find in the confines of the Barnett's Bicycle Institute. So, I find myself in Old Colorado City pursuing the first paragraphs in that new chapter that will, in a way, set a foundation for what will become of the rest of me.

Starting out, I. . .built a wheel. One can feel extremely satisfied after building a wheel from scratch. It's as though you are taken back in time and you can say that you were a part of re-inventing the wheel, part of a very basic idea that changed the world; it's very Neanderthal in its concept, but more modifying in its process. It isn't as simple as rolling around a smooth cornered rock; you;re able to say, "Take that caveman. I just improved on your most ingenious invention. I will say this, though, that what's even more satisfying is doing what you love to do, letting that take you out of what you've known all your life and dragging you across the country to a whole to state, physical and mental. This allows one to start out anew, and for me, that starts here at the base of Pike's Peak, which is draped over my back at 15,000 feet, scraping the sky and cutting into clouds with it's snow-spilt top.


Aside from visually taking in the scenery, one who loves to be outdoors as much as behind a window, he must take his bicycle and take on the physical aspect of the terrain and territory. And that's exactly what I did. After having been settled in the area for a couple of days and trying to grow accustomed to the fact that I couldn't multi-task at this altitude by simply walking and talking at the same time without feeling like I just ran a marathon, I took a bike ride through one of the tourist attractions here, Garden of the Gods. Now, as beautiful and breathtaking(literally) as Garden of the Gods was, the first hill that presented itself to me and Ted, my riding partner, was one of those hills that might have taken a square inch of your breath in the south and you could have gotten away with not having to rest, just having to catch up on breathing on the decent down; here, in the mountains, that hill didn't seem to have an end; it became an illusion being that when it did seem like it was about to level out for your heart and lungs, there was about twenty yards left, that last bend turning into a taunting grin. Let me tell you, those twenty yards was the longest distance I've ever had to cover on a bicycle, or so it seemed. When I got to the top, I hung over my handlebars with my head buried close to the top of my wheel, trying to see how much air I could suck out of my tube and get away with it. I had to live up to the realization that the air here didn't melt down my throat like molasses and settle in my lungs like honey as it did back down south; here, it skips your mouth all together and whatever air the locals haven't stolen just blows over you and you're left coughing up any of the commodity you might have stored in the compartment you built inside just to be able to adapt. But I think that just about covers the complaints and intensities about the air up here.
When you do go to Garden of the Gods and decide to scale the road and pound the pavement with your pride, and you reach the top, a wide mouth opens itself to an expanse of red-rock protrusions jutting up from the ground with the tips of some scraping the ever changing sky with clouds that roll in and out of bundled formation, giving the cloud-buster an all day job. In and out of the towering rocks where bike, horse, and walking trails wind and spots of arid land give the impression of an western picture show, the footprints of wild mule deer, rabbits, and other local wildlife ran rampant and "wild", including the many a wondering tourist that had to have felt as moved as I did as I rode through the winding roads that carried me up and down the gradual hills that lent themselves to an awe-inspiring view of a snow-capped Pike's Peak that, during that day, was being enveloped by a drooping mist that poured over its side like a fog-laced waterfall. And in that moment, I realized that I was seeing the world; not the whole world, mind you, but a part of it that you only always read about and see on post cards and in movies. I was finally doing it, just me and my bicycle; and I felt free. Not the kind of freedom that you always see stamped with an American flag in front of it or lined with gunfire; I'm talking about the simple kind of free that you feel and can truly experience when you look around yourself at the foreign territory that you can call home for more than a week and finally say, "I'm here. Just me."

While I enjoyed the beauty of the surrounding mountains and their companion clouds, I dove right in to the local feel when I first arrived, snuggling up to the local coffee shop and swinging open the doors to the local restaurants that were well stocked with the best microbrews. Having frequented the coffee shops back at home, I didn't see any reason why I shouldn't there, seeing that I still liked coffee and still liked to write and study about the skeleton of the bicycle and how to operate as a surgeon-mechanic. Aside from sipping down a good black ale or writing a story with a good dark cup of coffee in front of me, I got to interact with the local life, trying to set a goal of meeting a new person each day and getting to know about them; of which I did a decent job at doing. The two sets of sixteen people that came through the school while I attended there did wonders to the extent of meeting new people. I met people from all over the country: east, west, north, and south, islands, and Canada. At the coffee shop, I conversed with strangers ranging from "raised here in town" to "I've been here 'seven' or 'fifteen' years". Each person with their own unique "why's", "what's", and "where's". Sitting at the local tavern, I got to know my classmates better, laughing at all the idiosyncrasies that we could muster up and we talked about the big things we were going to do and the big places we were going to see in our own lives; and it's comforting to find people out-and-about like yourself with the same like-minded goals, ambitions, and/or interests as yourself. It makes the trip/experience out here that much more meaningful and worth while, having good people to walk alongside while you live your life to the fullest and breathe in the sweet, thin air of success.

The first week, or the first course of the class that included the basic bicycle maintenance and assembly procedures, there were only a couple of people that were willing to venture out of their hotel rooms and having a couple of drinks or go for a ride or two in the area. When the second course rolled around, which consisted of a more in depth study of bicycle mechanics and focused more on repair and overhaul, I found that the students in the class were more apt to go out and take on the city: rummaging in its mangled streets, scaling the heights of its lengthy hills, and drinking the substances from its local dives and coffee shops. We found things to do that I wouldn't be able to find without the aid of dedicated adventurers such as the ones I met attending BBI. Our travels took us to movie theaters, bowling alleys, downtown bars, the old city's carnival, interacting with the tight community that bustled about in its depths and around its antiqued corners. We walked under waters in the Denver aquarium and meandered through the capital's streets, passing through the quad-monthly farmer's market and touring the setups of local bicycle shops. I have to say that the four weeks in Colorado Springs where some of the best I've experienced, even topping college, because it was self-made and real. It wasn't dream or a hallucination and neither were the good people that I shook hands with. We were virgins of Old Colorado City and stepped out saturated in the pleasures of what it had to offer.

this post is dedicated to my family and their support.