Dangerous thoughts on a Boulder trail

bike-197229The tall, slender man rolled fast toward me
on his bicycle, talking to the purple-haired
woman riding next to him, looking at his phone,
unaware of his likely imminent demise.

I had the body mass index advantage, I said
later. I had a helmet. I was going downhill
as he was going up. He was shirtless and the
road rash would be ugly if he even survived.

My bicycle was new, nearly scratch-free. I had
things to do, a looming deadline, bills to pay.
I shouted, too politely, and spared his life,
as I had with the oblivious guy the other day.

The next time he may not hear me and we’ll collide
but I swear in advance that I tried to avoid him
even though I was tempted to teach him a lesson.
I really don’t have time to waste in prison.

 

I shot the piper

Out for a sunny Sunday morning bicycle ride, in search of good coffee and wildlife, I heard the reedy chant of the elusive Boulder County piper as I rolled into the little town of Lyons. I stopped at the corner, looked to my right, my left, ahead and behind, but could not find the source before it fell silent.

Thinking to press on to the Stone Cup and hoping to spot the wily creature on the way back home, I clicked into a pedal and pushed off only to stop again as the mournful drone and melody came right back to life.

Up. I looked up, and there it was.

God help me, I shot it. I bagged my first piper.

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Roadkill

The Duke lies still and dead on the edge of the road, his pink flamingo finery fluttering in the breeze. The Jester rolls to a stop in the loose, dusty gravel of the shoulder, then pedals away to the east. A string of purple beads glitters in the sun.

The writing on the bus

The Flatirons rock formations, near Boulder, C...
The Flatirons rock formations, near Boulder, Colorado. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Writing on the bus makes the commute go faster. Sometimes too fast.

My morning commute to work is complicated, which to me is a good thing. It varies from bicycle-bus-shuttle to Jeep-bus-shuttle, to bike-shuttle, to pure bicycle. If my bicycle makes it to work with me, I almost always ride it the 18-20 miles home and sometimes farther, depending on which of the innumerable possible routes I take.

Five or six times a year I drive to work.

My commute is never boring. I’m either reading, or doing a crossword puzzle, enjoying views of the Rocky Mountain foothills and the Flatirons over Boulder, or writing something.

Writing fiction, I’ve concluded, is the quickest way to get to work and back home to Longmont.

I hope those who’ve read my first Red Shaw novel will be pleased to hear that I made fairly significant progress just today on the next one. The working title is North of Grand.

Forget the crossword puzzles.

Recuperated, rejuvenated

I see it’s been awhile. A couple of days before that last post my bicycle and I crashed in the rain with a little help from a nasty railroad crossing and a momentary¬†lapse of judgment. We’re all fine now, except for a sore shoulder, but haven’t felt like or even thought much about writing in the intervening weeks.

Working now to taper off of some pills that have kept yours truly in something of a fog, it’s time to get back to writing stuff. Probably (OK, most certainly), the followup to “Blood Solutions.” Time to get back more seriously on the road bike, too.

Another post soon to elaborate on the “rejuvenated” part of that headline.

Pedal on.