My mental capacity, likened to that off a child carried to bed from the car, begs for a disclaimer at all this. Too late for another latte and too long since the pre-swim fix and too ready for a minimum of 8hours in the fetal position.
(William and myself heading to the washing machine that is a Flatiron’s masters swim session.)
I am staying “up the hill” in a grand old home positively coming undone with vintage character that creates a homeliness a modern house simply could not equal. The floors moan with age and the tiny blue shutters seem reminiscent of early settlers and the pink bathroom must have been fashionable before I was born. I couldnt be happier. The house is ideally located on the corner of the Chautauqua park with its endless maize of trails beneath the Flatirons. It’s on Baseline which leads down to the pool and up to the Flagstaff climb. Its a three minute freewheel down to town’s centre but a nasty post dinner slog back up.
(Love at first sight. Excitement not unlike my Kelfords’ Fiesta back home. Helps getting back up ‘the hill’.)
Determined to end outings on a buzz not from a sugar low I’ve made the 49cc Honda flower powered scooter my own, and seem to have been soul mates all along like peas and carrots, now united and inseparable till ‘the hill’ becomes less elevated.
Boulder was to me as love in Paris is to most – some perfect thought never really considered plausible for experiencing first hand but just perfect for fantasy. Unsure why this was so, the attraction but lack of action to here. In any event, here I am in both Boulder and love. Town was designed by the gods of endurance sport favouring triathlon and is near perfect from what I can analyze seven days in.
The pool I’ve been swimming at is called “Flatirons“. And I’ll be referring to it as such, and perhaps the pool of death, the lactic bath, the rat-wheel and most other affectionate terms aptly describing a water once immersed into, seems to be frenzied till someone gets out about an hour later. The thing is, Dave Scott – a legendary name, is on the pool deck and commanding a sendoff I cant hold and there is a world champion in front of me and one behind and one in the lane to the left and one in the lane to the right. And my arms are turning as fast my heart is beating. Crisis times. One Thursday I was at the back of the fastest lane, meaning instruction had been given by the time I touch in, so too has the lane leader pushed off already. Was probably better not knowing, like knowing the end of the world or something that would alter actions is best not knowing. It was only the distance I was curious of anyhow, as the pace was all I had and the rest never much more than five seconds…
Boulder seems to riding as chocolates are the Willy Wonka. You never have to ride a road that does not have a bike lane, thats when you’re not on a completely separate bike path network through town. And if you happened to get lost onto a road with a designated bike path, concern not, for most cars passing you have a designated bike rack on the back… Everyone here rides. I saw earlier a mother pulling a kid on a half-bike pulling a toddler in a wagon; that makes five wheels in total I believe. There are endless flat rural roads for Ironman time trial’ing, and climbs of every length and gradient. So so good.
And the running, well every path I’ve found seems perfect excepting for the few individuals I share them with who are running visibly faster than I am (many of whom are of the fairer sex). I’ve not yet scratched the surface, and am excited to explore over the coming weeks. But its just so groomed, so manicured to my very needs, with smooth gravel pathways that have cars slamming breaks when they cross roads as I have right of way. Try that back home and you’ll be sanz lower limbs before your warm up is done. Imagine – trailheads have long drops with loo paper – so posh.
(It was necessary. With reference to the trim and not Will sharing the moment with my camera in hand.)
Next Thursday evening I intend joining Happy Thursday – a cruiser ride that gathers up to 800 weekly themed up characters and their stereos. “The Cruiser Mantras: One speed is all you need, Less gears more beers! Happy Thursday!”. We watched they passed in “America theme” last week. Looked like the funnest way to look peculiar on a bike.
(Birthday night out – girls heading towards the Thursday cruiser bike parade with their jukebox pulsating.)
I am trying to ease into training – when not sending off on 1:20 in the pool that is – and eating all I can before and after training, and making sure the shirt pockets are topped up. Not wanting a repeat of three months ago in the least. Form is certainly returning as is my motivation.
(The end of some climbing efforts. Still no road bike in Boulder. The Flagstaff climb.)
This coming week should have my shipment from Truckee coming in. Eish, that was a cruel call of friendship. I’d begged to leave my USA life in the basement of Truckee friends, and have had to ask them to ship three times. Once just the Epic, to buy some time in Richmond. Then gather a collection of race bits from various boxes of my guessing. Before a request to send them all last week. I am eternally grateful, and hope some day, some how, to make it up to this couple. Life as a full time fool is made possible by the help of others. No way round that. Many thanks guys.
Such pleasures in those boxes – like another set of running shorts which will relieve my current air washed pair from a daily salt lining… But mostly I’ll be glad for the road bike and powertap hubs. Its time to settle into some consistency and get the work done.
(Somewhere in the mountains up Lefthand. Cracked and did not reach the summit – ride down felt shameful.)
Did feel more coherent midway than at the start, but the fade is a steady free fall now and a necessary re-read and edit are as inviting now as twenty one legged jumps at the top of that climb above would have seemed yesterday.
