In the Rarified Air, Regrouping for the Final Push

The few days I’m able to spend with the Hoffmaster clan are every bit as therapeutic and regenerative as I’d hoped they would be, and even more of a detoxification from our road trip than I’d imagined.  I’m fed an entirely vegetarian diet, much of it vegan and raw; exactly what I needed to flush the White Castle and Sonic and Lord knows what all else out of my system.

Even my legs get a stretch and, on day two, having first provided me my preferred breakfast of black coffee and then a lunch of goodies from Whole Foods, Caitlin’s father Forrest takes me and the girls up into one of the state parks, where there’s scenic driving and good hiking to be had.  After a forty-five minute drive or so, we’re up in the mountains.

Crazy how low the temperature drops, up at altitude.  In the foothills it had been almost fifty degrees.  Up here, though, it’s down to twenty-three.  At the entrance to the park, a ranger admits that there’s “some snow” on some of the longer trails, higher up, but that the nearest one should be hikeable.  So, we give it a go.

When we pull up to the trailhead, though, next to this little lake, everyone in the car makes these little noises, like “Ooooh ahhh, ha ha!” which roughly translates as “Damn, it is much colder and windier and snowier up here than we’d anticipated.

Peyton, Caitlin’s sister, is adequately prepared for the weather.  And Forrest is überprepared, being the outdoorsman of the family.  Caitlin and I, fresh off the type of candy-ass winter that Virginia’s been dishing out since the so-called “snowpocalypse” of a few years prior, are decidedly and woefully unprepared, me doubly so, what with the abandonment of all my winter effects for my migration to warmer climes.

But, we get out anyway, to scope it out.  Or, to utilize a phrase Caitlin and I have been abusing recently (I’d just introduced it to the girl), we “case the joint.”  The girls even bring a blanket from the car, and after some good-natured fighting over it, decide to wrap themselves up together, huddling close for warmth.

“What do you think?” asks Forrest.  “Too much?”

I’m able to needle everyone on; it is not so bad, it is a short jaunt around the lake and, in jorts and a North Face jacket, I am arguably the most exposed to the elements, and therefore have the final say as to whether or not it is too cold.

“Is it cold, Daniel?”

“I mean, that lake is frozen as shit.”

And it is.

As we set off, not far past the trailhead, Forrest announces, “I have to go converse with the trees.”  I don’t quite get it, but wonder if the Hoffmasters don’t have some Indian blood in ‘em.  But, the girls explain.

“He always says that when he has to piss.”

“Oh.”

Actually, I sympathize.  The ride up had taken a hot minute, and the Hoffmaster women had been pushing water on me since my arrival, so as to counter the effects of altitude sickness.  And lunch had been accompanied by massive amounts of iced tea and coconut water.  I too must piss.

The girls keep trudging along, as Forrest and I trail them and talk about training in Boulder, specifically in winter.  By the time we reach the far side of the lake, we experience that peculiar thing called ‘the lake effect,’ and the wind coming off the ice carries on it these biting ice crystals blown off the snowdrifts.  Caitlin and Peyton, the wind and ice whipping around them ahead of us, look like they are lost in Antarctica, about to freeze to death.  One of them slips on the trail, and they both go down.

When finally we make it back around to the car, the girls and my legs are frozen.  It is decided that all haste must be made to get to Coffee on the Rocks, a java shop in one of the little mountain towns a little ways down into the valley.

We take the long and scenic way back home, on Rt. 7.  So different from the Rt. 7 back home in Virginia, this one hugs the mountain on one side and on the other overlooks the valley.  The trip down takes over an hour, and so idyllic that I’m lulled to sleep, this despite the cup of coffee I’d just ingested.

When we arrive back at the house, Forrest and I begin prepping for the run we’d agreed to go on.  This is a mortal terror for me.  Forrest may be fifteen years my senior, but he’s been rigorously training for an Ironman and, simply put, I am out of shape.  Even in regards to my running attire, I am outclassed.  Again, I’ve packed for the long haul in Australia, not my stint in the Colorado mountains.  So, it’s booties and a sweatshirt for me.

Actually, I fare much better on the run than I’d anticipated.  I’d feared how much the altitude would affect me but, aside from a splitting headache in the early parts of the run, it’s not much of a factor.

More debilitating, actually, are my biomechanics.  I’ve always had some level of muscular imbalances and, having not run in so long and atrophied somewhat, they’d only gotten worse.  Further wreaking havoc on me are the cumulative effects of the road trip, and my insistence on driving is coming back to bite me, now.  All those hours with my foot stomping down on the gas pedal had worked up a good bit of tension in my lower back, and I can feel it, now, manifesting first as a stiffening in my left IT band that pulls my stride, and finally translating into a grinding in my right hip.

But, you do what you’d learned to do as a long-distance runner; you grit your teeth and you man up.  Because the alternative is pussing out, which is no sort of alternative at all.  And, somehow, Forrest does not break me and, against all odds, I do not die.

The last half of the run is all uphill, back to the house, and when finally we take the last turn and it comes into view, Caitlin is out front, taking advantage of her break from being compelled to entertain me to finally unload her car.  I pull up short, and she asks me if I’m ok.

“Yeah, fine.  Still got it.”

(Caitlin would later tell me that I looked like death, but admitted that her father said I’d “kicked his ass,” thinking I’d taken it easy on him.  Well, I don’t know if that was the case…)

But, as these things go, the moment you stop running is the moment things start to lock up, and real pain sets in.  I gather a few of my lingering possessions from the car, and then make a strangely agonizing trek up the thirty-six steps ascending the Hoffmasters’ own personal slice of the mountain.

Forrest is taking the first shower, and so I sit down on Caitlin’s bed, zombed out, watching her unpack.  Well, I soon lay back, feet still cemented to the floor, and flirt pretty hard with sleeping.  So, Caitlin takes off my shoes, throws my legs up on the bed so that I can curl up all fetus-like, the way I do, and throws a blanket over me.  Thus, I sleep.

And am consequently woken up, all too soon, and am told to take a shower, become presentable and ready myself for dinner.  The hot water actually does wonders for my back, as does a generous dose of Tiger Balm.  Still, the walk down to the car is a limping torture, as is the trek through the parking lot to the Mexican joint where we’re eating out.

Peyton and Ali have gone to pick up one of Peyton’s friends, Delaney, from circus practice, of all things.  So Caitlin, Forrest and myself hold down the fort and wait for reinforcements.  (Read as: eat all the chips and guac and talk about Forrest’s overly and unwantedly sexually aggressive hairstylist)

The girls arrive, and we tuck into food.  It’s killer veggie tamale for me.  I’d heard food in Boulder was killer, and this affirms the sentiment.

Back on the mountain, the girls and I gravitate towards the basement, and listen to Mitch Hedberg, whom Caitlin and I had rediscovered on our trip.  It is good and keeps us lighthearted, and we spend an hour giggling together.  After getting our kicks, we settle in to watch Yojimbo.

Well, no one yet has ever gotten through Yojimbo in one sitting, and we all drop asleep where we are.

*  *  *

Next morning, and I’m up fairly early by my standards and, back stiff and feeling old, I do some rudimentary stretching, a dose of the good ol’ Tiger Balm and pop a few ibuprofen, and am thus readied for the day.

Great majority of my morning is spent, over a cup of coffee, trying to get the happenings of the last few days down on paper, and then from paper onto the computer and then out into the ether.

This is actually somewhat hard to do, what with the girls giggling away and carrying on and such in the kitchen, concocting some sort of egg, tortilla and salsa dish, calling Ali in every few minutes to come save the day.  Actually, for all the girlish antics that take place, the meal turns out to be quite excellent.

Caitlin and I had meant to get moving early on things and do another round of hiking but, well, I’m barely moving at all, early morning.  We fall back on the contingency plan, which is to hit thrift shops and the army surplus store, then visit Oskar Blues for a free tour in the afternoon.

Downtown Boulder is a happening area, and we meander down Pearl Street, scoping the little shops and coffee bars and people busking for a living, as Caitlin wants to do.  Overwhelming homeless population in these parts, though.

On the way down the strip, I have trouble keeping up and Caitlin notices the limp.  What can ya do?

We tool around the army store for a bit, mostly and ostensibly to find boots.  But, nothing pleases me aesthetically that would serve practically, and so we pick up only a few odds and ends: bandanas, work gloves, a shirt to be thrashed during harvest.  I toy with the idea of getting another knife, too; something more practical than the nigh-Bowie knife I’m currently operating with.  But, again, the right knife is not here.

On our way back to the car, Caitlin and I linger over a busker, a kid on a steel string guitar.  A genuine cowboy stands nearby, doing a jig and sporadically throwing bills into the guitbox case.

Minor down note, here, as we approach the car.  We’re just in time to see parking authority ticket us.  Well, such things happen.

With all haste, we set out in the general Grand Rapids direction.  Somewhere between here and there is the Oskar Blues Brewery.  We know that a free tour is conducted at 4pm, but we are running late and also don’t really know where we’re going.

At five minutes past, we roll into what seems far too much like a dive to be the brewery proper, but sidle up to the bar anyway, and a typically hip she-Coloradoan in turn sidles up to us.  We inquire about the tour.

“You just missed them,” the barkeep informs us.  “Let me get you a drink, and then I’ll walk you in.”

Excellent.  I get a Ten-Fiddy.  What with me being a real man and all, I can handle the 10.5% abv and 550 calories per 12oz pour.  Caitlin, being a lady and only slightly more delicate than me, goes through a flight and orders something lighter.  Pils, or something.

Drinks in hand, we catch up to the rest of the tour, which is actually surprisingly small, consisting of just three other people.  There is one decidedly motherly type, a slightly metal chick, and a kid just out of his teens who is either a skinhead or has alopecia, I can’t decide.

The tour is good, and I’m kicking myself for not bringing a camera.  Even Caitlin, who’s not much of a beer drinker, enjoys herself.

By the time we circle through the facility and back to the bar, it’s 5 o’clock, and everyone who’s just gotten off their shift on the production side is there at the bar.  Bunch of regulars, as well, one of whom sits down on the stool next to me, is asked how he’s doing and is slid a beer before he can finish his sitting.  Bunch of dogs, here, too.  A pretty boxer, a fat and old chocolate lab, and a French mastiff and a Great Dane, both huge, brindled and obviously companions.

I love Great Danes (circa Meredith Wilson, concerning my affinity for the breed: “You know, they only live seven or eight years, right?  Aw, you like the heartbreak, don’t you?”), and this huge, bone-thin and loping lady comes sauntering up to us, and gets a lot of love from Caitlin and myself.

The tour guide comes up, and brings us a couple of double dry-hopped Deviant Dale’s.  The brew is thick and indulgent, the way Oskar Blues likes to do it, and hoppier than hell.  Delicious, but kicking.  Caitlin really likes hers as well, but asks me to finish hers, and drive home.  Well, okay…

We order some chips to try and sober up, and Caitlin flirts with the barkeep, who we both agree is the most attractive person we’ve yet seen in Colorado, male or female.  For all the talk about the generally beautiful health-nut hippie chicks haunting Boulder, I’ve been fairly underwhelmed by the local fauna thus far.  Tipsily, we make our way to the gift shop, and pick out a t-shirt.  Oskar Blues bandana, too.

Back at la casa de Hoffmaster, it’s spaghetti squash for dinner, which is excellent.  But, my mind is elsewhere, me finally getting nervous and flighty, realizing that there’s nothing but sleep between now and tomorrow, when I make my break with the States.

After dinner and a bit of wine, we gravitate towards the living room, where there’s a fire going and the girls are doing homework and Caitlin is reading.  I try to get some writing done, and hope some black tea will help facilitate.  This is a tea family, and everyone else is indulging as well, but with those lesser, caffeine-free varieties.  Everyone balks at my decision to drink black.

But, despite this and my intentions of staying up all night to prep, I quickly nod off, in that cozy environ.

I wake up in a panic a few hours later, being sure that I’ve missed my flight.  It’s quiet and late-seeming, the fire having died down and everyone else having gone to bed except for Caitlin, who’s asleep on the coach with me.

But, it’s only 11:34pm, and I still have hours ahead of me.  I set and double-set and check and double-check my alarms, then put myself down again.

Two hours later, and it’s the same drill: wake with a start and go reaching for my watch or alarm clock or cell phone or whatever.  But still, I have time.

But I know now that I’m not going to be able to get through the night like this.  Better to try and be productive now, and try and sleep on that long flight later.  I try to get up without waking Caitlin but, half-conscious, she murmurs, “Aw, don’t leave me…” Which is a cute and endearing and a little bit heartbreaking of a thing for her to have said.  “Aw” is right.  Aw, Daniel… She’s just a kid.  Well, because I guess I’ve become somewhat attached now, haven’t I?  Even in this short a span of time.  Daniel you sucker, that’s not like you.

Despite these protests, after a wide-eyed hour or so in the dark, I get up, and start making my final preparations.