Saturday 0600 hrs. - Helped set up bike racks and traffic cones for the Iron Horse Classic (one of two huge tourists draws in Durango. The IHC is a 50ish mile race up three mountain passes from Durango to Silverton. Cyclists are racing an old steam engine. If you don't beat it, you're either dead or morbidly obese. It takes nearly four hours for the train to get there).
Helped set off the 3,000+ cyclists in their different categories. The men with their penis envy and napoleon syndrome all clad in spandex and shaved legs and their carbon fiber aerodynamicized flashy-looking midlife crisis bikes (scarily enough, even some kids had these bikes!!!) - the men were all sizing each other up. Stone-faced. Leg muscles bulging and shining from the reflective grease smeared on their smooth skin. Every ounce of weight gone. Must. Be. Fast.

0830 hrs. - Home again. Eat pancakes with honey. I love Liz.

1030 hrs. - Arrive at Gouldine trailhead. Switchback after switchback after switchback after switchback after switchback up a mountain. We went nearly 3,000 ft. in about an hour and a half. Soaked with sweat. Trudging. Heavy boots. Winded. Can't stop though. We go a ways up the wrong trail. Moods sours. Turn around. Here's the trail. Shit, more uphill. Small steps. Sweating. Panting. Heart racing. I become discouraged and pout like a child. I can't do it, but I must. Stop go stop go stop go. She says we should turn around. Yeah right, I'll show her. Another ten feet. Repeat.
I think about the perfectly mechanized bodies of those perfectly calibrated men. Why can't I be like them? Why can't I have perfect skin? A beautifully Greek, statuesque body, which men would stare in awe at? Why can't I not break a sweat when doing aerobic exercise? I think about all my days of inactivity. The days I decided to burn up my lungs with smoke. The days of junk food. My years and years of not caring. Nihilism. I think about my dad. About my mom. About air pollution. Prescription drugs. And I cry. I cry and sniffle and trudge down the path. Reassurance doesn't matter. I'm too far down. It's self-pity. I realize this and chin up and look around. Where the hell are you, Nathan. In the most beautiful city you've ever lived. Listen to the birds, the stream, look at the gargantuan trees, feel the air, the water breathe the air here, look at her, look at you. Without the years of inactivity, the junk food, the dad, the mom, the hometown, the drugs you did, the high school, the old friends, the new friends, the past, the present, and the future, you wouldn't be you. Those perfectly musculatured beasts don't matter. They're not you. People love you and hate you for the same reason - you're you. Revel in it.

1600 hrs. - Home. Relax. Supper.

2000 hrs. - Walk to Carvers. Drink a beer that reminds me of one of my favorites from home. Three Floyds Alpha King. Talk with Liz about all my friends from years past and all the great ones I currently have. I miss them, but I laugh about it.

Mahalo - Nathan D. Brown.















Southwest Book Trader.














The three bears racing in the cruiser crit in downtown. The day after the Iron Horse, most of downtown is closed off. Cyclists do figure eights around downtown. It all is capped off with the cruiser crit, in which riders are encouraged to have fun and dress in costume. Durango is fun.