The B&B

I just took off my wet socks and put on some dry clothes. This morning, after a great run up Boulder Creek Path with Ramiro, Precious, Bryce and Dan and blueberry pancake breakfast at the apartment, I rode up to Terry’s place in Estes Park. Not three or four moths ago, he moved from England to Boulder – after having too many coincidences not to come – and began looking for properties with his wife to start an athletics focused bed and breakfast. Now called Active at Altitude, it resides in a beautiful home in mountains in Estes Park (http://www.activeataltitude.com/)

While still recovering from my surgery to help mend my broken clavicle, the ride promised to be a winding climb northward with simple yet inspiring mountain vistas as the rode clung for some time to the creek working its way down the slant as I followed the water toward its source. It was like any other first ride through the mountains on an old cruiser that had never seen mountain streams and snow capped peaks. The winds seemed like gentle curves. If a car came up behind, it was enough just to let him pass so as to prolong the view for even just a moment more, not rushed by the impatience of motorists enclosed in their boxes rushing to get to the views of the mountains, their destination with views ahead, rather than those they passed so anxiously. As I climbed higher with the road, the temperature slowly dropped, never to an uncomfortable chill, but cold enough to remind me that I neared the high peaks in the Rocky Mountain National Park. I arrived to the pull-off, CR 122, with the view of the peaks resting in the “V” on the horizon, created by the walls of the valley that closed in to point towards them, and slowly inched up the dirt road and down the driveway to complete the short trip from Boulder to Estes park.

After a brief tour of the B&B – a wooden retreat the presents itself as humble and has all the all the qualities that would allow boasting – we stepped outside on the top of two balconies. It allowed us to observe the surroundings, to talk a bit about the various animals that frequented his backyard haven, and to slide into a conversation about encounters in life that enabled us to be where we were.

During the mini-tour, I noticed a guitar sitting in the corner of his room, and mentioned something to the effect that it needed to be taken out for a moment while sipping tea. It happened that the silver needles white tea came before lunch and the guitar after, but I managed some attempt at Spanish Guitar on a steel string just before Sandcastles, a song that fits more the mountain B&B atmosphere. Terry then wound his fingers around the neck and wore the tips of his fingers for a moment on the metal strings, easing out some old notes that hadn’t been brought out for some time.

After a short while on the guitar, I remembered that Terry hadn’t ridden a motorcycle for ages. He borrowed my helmet, gloves, and jacket and rode for about ten minutes on the minimally crowded Highway 36 of Estes Park. After he came back down the hill of his dirt driveway and took off his helmet I asked him, “You enjoy it?”

To which he replied that he experienced two sensations while riding; one was the same feeling had the first time he rode a bike, a feeling of terror and fear, explaining the feeling of being exposed and unprotected. The second feeling he described was the feeling of being re-acquainted to an old friend and the images that may accompany.

We walked into the house and debated whether it was a good idea to leave at that moment with the rain coming. I handed him the burnt cd of Viva Flamenco cd, packed up the computer and tea bits, and hurried my way to get on the road. There was definitely going to be a bit of rain on the trip back to Boulder, and I didn’t want to make it more by waiting for the skies to really open up near the B&B before I left. Realizing a ride in the rain, while without a proper license, and with a broken clavicle that was suffered on my last ride around dry, winding roads, was a bit risky, I eased myself down the rain soaked bends and exited the watery roads after about ten or so miles. With enough clothing on to stay warm and convince my body that I was completely dry, I could release the tension carried in my hands and cruise back to Boulder where a good drink and a few friends awaited for dinner and a film.

The drive was worth the stay and the stay was worth the drive.