We got off the freeway on the way back from Idaho Springs. Bicyclists crowded the road taking advantage of the almost non-stop 20 mile downward glide to Golden, Colorado. They all wore the same spandex uniform. It used to be the uniform of the androgynous big hair bands, workout tape enthusiasts, late disco dancers and delusional fatsos of the 1980’s. Now it’s called “under-armor” and is topped off with an ovoid plastic helmet and expensive metallic sunglasses.
Very, v-e-r-y few rode against the grain peddling upward at high altitude. Flagellants and true believers addicted to the pain, even though age had robbed them of any hope of competitive laurels. They kept on going.
AC grew up here. He had no respect for these dilettantes, who mocked the settlers who died in these mountains. Natives shunned the treacherous and barren Rockies, but europeans swept by like a wave. And the ones fate had chosen, randomly, cruelly; the wanderers given to a careless moment were ruthlessly culled from the herd. AC only knew the dead he went to high school with and marked the places they died as we drove to the summit.
Bicycles swarmed like gnats around the traffic, and AC scowled.
I remembered Lookout mountain as one of the landmarks played 24-7 on vacant channels of newly minted Denver cable T.V. panning left, then right, then left again in a never ending automated cycle. It was never focused on the monuments. It was always staring off in the distance. There was never any people in view.
There were at least 2 signs per mile pointing the way to lookout mnt/Buffalo Bills Grave. In case you missed it? No, that was impossible. More likely to over sell the museum/gift shop, plaque, grave/gift shop. We parked. Looked out into the distance. I used the porta-john and tried to remember what Buffalo Bill was famous for... We took some pictues of the view and the outside of the museum/gift shop, then we left. The ride was what we’d come for.
The road cut back and forth like a skier would to slow his/her descent. All the while, bicyclists cut in and out. The view was at times fantastic, majestic and frightening. Half way down, AC had notice a pair of stone columns. “Wow, they really fixed them up.” It was the highwater mark of developing Denver. They abandoned ruins for decades, but no matter how historically significant they could not be left as is. That would clash with the new homes, and well watered landscapes.
At the foot of the mountain was Golden, Co. It was home to Coors Beer, and I was suddenly thirsty. But home was miles away down the flat, hot city streets to Denver.
