These days dangerous journeys, split-second decisions and the spirit of adventure seem to have gone the way of gunfights and swinging saloon doors. Maybe I can't recreate real wild west action out here in the East, but the least I can do is try to bring some of the spirit back. The problem is that people have forgotten what real cowboys are. “Back in the day in this town, things were different...” started my boss, John. It was already 87 degrees out at 7 in the morning and John, a 50-something tobacco-spittin', stone hauling machine who can shovel dirt like a human dumptruck and wield a backhoe like a 5th appendage, was telling another of his tales of how Shelburne used to be. Listening to his stories doesn't get old though, because each one isn't just a tale of how cheap gas was or how different music sounded. Every story is about people and places from a time when life was raw and unpredictable. “Now you're all set, Mick”, John assured me, spitting a wad out the window as we cruised down the road in our '88 Chevy Cheyenne pickup. I've just finished double knotting a bandanna with a Bald Eagle and the phrase This Bud's For You onto my forehead. Ever since I cut my hair I've taken to wearing a headband to work. They drain away the 5 gallons of sweat I produce daily I from rock hauling and brush cutting, and when I tie them around my forehead John is convinced that I'm a modern-day reincarnation of a young Mick Jagger. In the spirit of Mick, Hendrix, Moon, Bonham and all the other cowboy's of rock n' roll I decided on a whim Friday afternoon that it was about time for an adventure. At high noon I found out that Steve was racing in a triathlon in New Hampshire Saturday morning. I asked Steve if I could crash on his hotel floor that night and be a pseudo-coach for the event. Thinking I was joking, Steve replied “sure, we've even got an extra bed”. Within an hour of getting home from work I had packed my steed Big Red, found the town to get to, and pulled out of the driveway. “New Hampshire furdamshur!” I yelled, pounding the dashboard and gunning the busted muffler a couple decibels below rock-concert. Three hours later I was chowing down on a burger with Steve and discussing race plans. Despite some rain and a canceled swim leg, the Triathlon (now just a Biathlon?) went off with Steve having a great race.
The sun was shining by the time I left, but my adventure wasn't over. Driving down to the race the day before, I'd gone by signs for Mt. Sunapee. This ski mountain is where Kris Freeman, along with his brother Justin among others, have frequent hillclimb testing runs similar to our own trips up St. Regis. It was on. After taking a different route out of the tri course and ending up lost for about an hour, I pointed the wheels in the general direction of Andover and set off. Like writing cursive or doing math by hand, reading a real paper atlas or roadmap is a skill that seems to have gone to the wayside in today's world. I'm bringing it back. My plotted route took me right to the base lodge, empty and silent. I waited expectantly for a tumbleweed to gently bounce across the bunny slope. After running around looking for a trail I took my ten paces back, hit the watch timer and took off. I ended up running on a Kearsarge-Sunapee connector trail to the summit instead of the correct access road I discovered Freeman uses afterward (my sense of direction apparently doesn't work as well for vertical travel). Not much difference, it was gonna hurt either way. I hammered it out to the top of that hill like I was trying to break the course record. At the top I keeled over to puke, sat down on the lift chair and looked out across the valley and lake below. It seemed like my adventure was almost over. Putting a body through that type of pain and suffering just to be faster is another one of those experiences that seems to have gone to the wayside. But I'm bringing it back.
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