Johnny is persuasive. He heard tell of a beer festival in town today and convinced everyone to stay. I guess I do favor drinking beer in a beautiful park when I compare it to riding a hundred miles in the heat.
To begin the day, Harry showed us to the local farmers market. Salida is a charming little city. It seems a place well suited for Harry. He mentions to me, at the market that he likes how low-key it is. "Sure, I could live in Aspen, but I don't want to be neighbors with a bunch of rich assholes". Here, he gets the benefit of a mountain vista without all those uptight jerks. Harry, I'm feelin' you.
In the afternoon, Johnny, Chris and myself make a trip to the local bike shop where my bike is tuned up for free. A resident mechanic notices that Johnny's Bianchi frame is cracked, which is a blessing and a curse. Riding a busted frame on heavy descents is dangerous indeed, but Bianchi also guarantees their frames, which means Johnny is in for a new bike.
After a lunch of apples and cheese in front of the supermarket (no hobo) we headed for the famous Colorado Beer Festival. People wear preztel neclaces and every four minutes or so everyone raises their mug and howls at the top of their lungs. They are a rowdy bunch.
I had about three beers, got sleepy and laid down in the grass. Cycling has turned me into a grandmother. We headed back to our mountain home to freshen up just in time for the Eberle brothers to show up. (!!!)
I haven't seen these two in a very long time. They are two of my favorite people in the entire world. They are the kind of guys who get a crazy idea in their heads and actually execute. I mean, look, they moved to Colorado. Right?
We went out to dinner to a darling little outside cafe. Nice breeze, sunset, and the last of the people to leave the beer fest, screaming nonsense and falling into the street. "Brffpt the beer. I try... I try... I tired the beer."
It was wonderful having time with Danny and Ryan. We sauntered over to an ice cream shop after being stuffed to the gills. Indulged in more ice cream than necessary, talked politics a bit, punctuated the conversation with some of my father's infamous limericks.
Back at Harry's house we drank Fat Tire beer, watched the Tour de France and talked about bikes. Bike, bike, bike, bike. It's a bike. That's enough for me, honestly. When your full time job is to ride a bike, sometimes you just want to talk about puppies and rainbows. You know?
I was exhausted when I went to bed. But, not so tired that I couldn't appreciate a king sized bed and an evening view of the Collegiate Mountains. The stack of cds on Harry's bedstand look like my break-up sniffle mix. Carole King, James Taylor, Van Morrison. I love this guy. Cantelope calves and all.