I'm not much of a storyteller, but this one is just too strange to pass up.
Last week, the piece of shit lightly used previously owned Subaru my father sold me prior to running his dealership into the ground retiring broke down. I dropped the car off to be serviced in Glenwood Springs, a town 20 miles west of Aspen, and on Friday afternoon I got the call that it was ready.
My temporary housemate Poochie Brett, shown here posing seductively in front of Pyramid Peak, was kind enough to offer me a ride to the Springs to reclaim my car, and I happily accepted. As we were leaving the house, I felt the separation anxiety that befalls me everytime I leave Maci behind, so I invited her along. The three of us piled into Brett's Nissan Frontier, Maci resting comfortably on my lap in the passenger seat.
So there we were -- Maci, the dog with whom I have an unhealthy attachment, and Brett, the unwelcome guest to whom I'm fairly indifferent -- cruising down Highway 82 at 65 mph when BLAM-O!
The next thing I know, I'm kissing an airbag, with a death grip on man's best friend. As the car slowly cruises to a stop on the shoulder of the highway, I look over at Brett, who says simply "deer."
Now, far be it for me to accuse a 26-year old kid in an obnoxiously large truck of driving irresponsibly, but I feel the following video is a fair reenactment of our drive to Glenwood.
The worst seemingly over, Brett and I took inventory of ourselves (fine), the Canyanero Frontier (busted up), and the dog (losing her shit). As we exited the car, Maci decided she'd had enough of the current situation, and did her best to break loose. Luckily, I had a strong hold of her collar. Until, that is, her collar snapped.
Now free, my insane-with-fear pup sprinted away from the wreckage, running against traffic along the shoulder of the busiest highway the Roaring Fork Valley has to offer during its Friday afternoon rush hour. I gave chase, screaming fruitlessly and waving my arms like a lunatic at the cars buzzing within four feet of my dog.
As I watched Maci pull farther and farther away, I accepted that at some point, she would deviate from the straight line she was holding along the shoulder, giving her a 50% chance of heading into traffic where instant death awaited. Not only would my best friend die, I realized, but I would watch it happen, ensuring me a lifetime of heavy therapy sessions.
One hundred and fifty yards from the accident, Maci hit an intersection. If she went straight, she's get drilled. If she went right, she'd get drilled. Luckily, she turned left, into a parking lot we frequented on many trail runs over the spring and summer. By the time I reached the trailhead, Maci was nowhere to be found, but I eventually stumbled upon her, terrified and shaking beneath a tree.
We were eventually able to coax Maci into Lauren's car, and she curled up on the passenger side floor as Lauren, Brett and I dealt with the cops, filled out the necessary paperwork, and arranged for a tow. Two days later, she was like new, as evidenced by this photo of her standing triumphantly atop Buttermilk ski resort, with Pyramid Peak in the background.
This morning, as I reflected on the half year that's passed since my son joined us, it dawned on me that to the surprise of many, I've developed into one kick-ass dad. I willingly change the nastiest of diapers. I rock my son to sleep at 3 AM if he’s fussy. I happily feed the kid pears and sweet potatos and the occasional Slim Jim when there's football to be watched. Cliff Huxtable ain’t got shit on me.
Sure, sometimes I’m not as “attentive” as I could be or as “nurturing” as I should be, and yeah, from time to time I may "go missing from the house for days on end with no explanation,” but the numbers don’t lie: Six months + minimal concussions + zero toes chewed off by rodents + only one near drowning = STELLAR GODDAMN PARENTING.
The truth is, raising a kid isn’t all that hard. Of course, most of the complaining you hear traditionally comes from the martyrs mother's side, so perhaps it's just easier for us dads.
Either way, if you’re new to this whole parenting gig, you’ll probably need a little help to get you on your way. That’s why I’ve put together this handy little FAQ (“frequently asked questions, for the layperson), compiled from my six months of hands-on experience, to give you the kick start you need.
Take the appropriate notes, and perhaps your kid will end up half as cool as mine.
Q: Ryan seems like a rather low maintenance baby. Why is that?
A: Because we named him Ryan.
You’ve all heard the joke that if you name your daughter Candy or Bambi she'll inevitably wind up a stripper, right? Well, the underlying concept holds equally true for a boy. As a parent, your son’s name is more than just the collection of letters you’ll sign as you liquidate his college savings to pay off your gambling debts; it sets the tone for his entire life.
We chose Ryan because it’s simply solid; a name that will beget a steady, drama-free life filled with moderate levels of hard-earned achievement. As parents, that’s really all you can hope for.
To give you an example of our thought process, Lauren and I briefly flirted with the idea of naming the boy A.J., until we realized that this would destine him to play high school tennis, pledge a fraternity, and develop a raging coke habit in his early twenties. And nobody wants that.
So if you’re having a son, choose the name wisely. Try to avoid today's sissified “flavor of the month” choices, unless of course, you'd like your son to grow up and front a mildly popular boy band. Instead, go with something that will stand the test of time and set your kid up for a lifetime of success. While I recommend Ryan, the following would also be suitable:
Michael Kevin Eric Hunk Golden Sir Hotbod Handsomeface Dr. Lawyer InvestmentBanker
Q: I’m a single woman who wants a baby, but I’ve grown sour on men. Can I raise a child on my own?
A: Sure you can. Of course, to quote Chris Rock, you can also drive a car with your feet, but that don’t make it a good f--king idea. Next question.
Q: I’ve heard having a baby will destroy your social life. Is this accurate?
A: Depends. If poker night, happy hour, and Sunday morning tailgates are still staples of your weekly routine, then yes, prepare for a rude awakening.
This is precisely why I encourage people in their twenties to hold off on having kids for a while. At that age, you’re supposed to be doing this type of silly shit. Bring a baby into this world, and if you’ve got even a minimal sense of responsibility, you’ll be shutting that stuff down prematurely. Inevitably, you’ll wind up resenting the kid, your spouse, or both when you’re stuck reading Curious George while your buddies are six bars deep into the St. Paddy’s Day pub crawl. That can’t end well.
Q: If you knew before Ryan was born what you know now, what would you have done differently?
A: This one’s easy. I wouldn’t have waited so long to start watching Nick Jr. Childrens' programming freaking rocks. The lessons these shows espouse are not solely for the benefit of the young.
Thanks to Dora the Explorer, I can now understand seven words on Telemundo’s soccer highlights. After meeting Diego, I’ve stopped torturing small animals for pleasure. And the Fresh Beat Band has taught me the appropriate way to deal with the adversity of getting my tap shoes stuck in a tree hours before my big performance. These are real life solutions to real life problems.
Q: What will be the most surprising benefit of fatherhood?
A: Hmmm....the easy answer would be the realization that your child is a living, breathing amalgamation of you and your soul mate and a physical manifestation of your love for one another. The correct answer, however, will be your wife's breasts.
Q: Have you set any life goals for your son?
A: You mean aside from these? Yes, I have, and they start and end with this: Don’t be an asshole. I think my brother Dave put it best when he told me, “I could care less if some day my son tells me he’s gay. I just really, really hope he doesn’t grow up to be an asshole.” Brilliant.
It's tempting to guage our success as parents by whether our child meets any number of predetermined -- and in the grand scheme of things, meaningless -- standards we establish, most of which are reflections of our own shortcomings. We get so wrapped up in whether little Johnny becomes a baseball star, or a high-priced attorney, or a city-wide karate champion, we tend to forget that none of these things matter much if in the process, he also becomes a world-class asshole.
As Lauren puts it, we just really hope our son is a good kid. Nice, generous, and above all, respectful.
Don’t get me wrong, everyone is an asshole at some point in their life; whether it manifests itself in how we handle a tough day at work or an incorrect order at McDonalds. We all have it in us. Our hope for Ryan is that he limits his inherent asshole-ness (word of the day calendar!) to those isolated moments of weakness or frustration, and not let it become his defining characteristic.
You might see this goal as rather unquantifiable, but you’d be wrong. Assholes abound in our society and are easily identifiable to the trained eye.
As a guideline, the following people are assholes:
Spencer Pratt Kobe Bryant Dick Chaney Kobra Kai The Balloon Boy’s dad Duke graduates 1892-present
So long as Ryan doesn’t end up wedged between two of these names on some blog thirty years from now, then I’ll consider his life a raging success.
Q: Your son is stunningly handsome. Why haven't you pursued a modeling career for him?
A: Strangely, he doesn’t seem particularly interested in it. For some reason, he seems perfectly content to just lie around the house all day, eating, sleeping and shitting his pants to his heart’s content. I guess he’s just not as driven by the prospect of 15 minutes of fame as other parents babies.
Q: They say any guy can make a baby, but it takes a real man to raise a child. Is this true?
A: Absolutely not. The easy way out is to stick around and help raise the child you’ve made. I know a guy who ran off with a 23-year old co-worker while his wife was pregnant with their second kid. Now that takes balls.
Q: On the extremely rare occassion when you do screw up, how do you make amends to your wife?
A: If you take nothing else away from this FAQ, take this: a long list of egregious parenting mistakes can be remedied with one simple gesture. At least once a week, surprise your wife by hopping out of bed the minute the kid starts to stir in the morning, and take him or her as far from your sleeping wife as humanly possible. Give your wife an extra two hours of sleep she wasn't counting on, and you'll find that you can get away with apathy, ignorance, and even the occasional negligence.
There you have it. Inspired words from a man who knows how to ski. (Bonus points to whoever can name the movie!) If you have any additional questions regarding child rearing, feel free to email me please consult your local library.
Facebook is a rather neat thing. It reunites lost friends and lovers. It provides a window to peoples' uncontainable insanity through awkward status updates regarding religion and relationships. And most importantly, it proves once and for all that America's public school systems have left 98% of our country functionally illiterate.
It also has a kick-ass photo sharing function, so you may well have already seen these pics of my recent Aspen adventures. But now I'm adding narrative, which brings the photos to life! Enjoy.
Ten days ago, resident avalanche expert and all around swell guy Brian McCall got tired of passively waiting for the arrival of winter, and decided to do something about it. He invited me to join him on a climb and ski of Marble Peak, an 11,300 foot summit about two hours southwest of Aspen.
A view of our goal from our parking spot. Marble Peak's summit behind the trees.
Here's Brian doing what he does best: testing the snowpack for stability so we can avoid getting caught in one of these...
...a small pocket avalanche off the east face of Marble Peak's summit. The snowpack was in excess of 120cm at the top, and with the 20 cm of new snow bonding poorly to the existing snow, there were several signs of recent activity.
After 2,300 feet of mostly easy skinning, we arrived at the summit on a typical Colorado bluebird day. Here's a view towards Raspberry Peak, a line I've been eyeing up for quite some time but have yet to ski.
Buttery turns were found off the summit, a huge surprise for this time of year. Brian and I have made our first turns together three years in a row, and we've had good luck on all three occassions in finding unexpectedly good powder.
Brian reaping the rewards.
A final veiw back towards the summit. As you can see, we weren't the only ones with the idea to ski Marble Peak in recent days.
On Sunday morning, I took Poochie Brett out for a quick introduction to any self-respecting Aspenite's favorite form of exercise: going up.
The snow line was creeping ever lower, but I thought we could still get a decent hike in on a local trail, and start to acclimate Brett's legs and lungs to life at 8,000 feet.
Of course, no hike would be complete without Maci, as she led the charge up the 1,500 foot climb. We encountered some snow at the summit, which she used to cool off.
As I mentioned in my previous post, Brett is quite the photographer, and he lugged his equipment up the single track in hopes of finding some quality scenics. He succeeded.
Here's Brett the Jet with the twin summits of Mt. Sopris behind his left shoulder.
Maci making friends with the camera lens.
The day before Thanksgiving, Brian, Brett, two pooches -- Maci and Mickey -- and I headed out to Snowmass in search of soft snow.
I've gotta' say, having a photographer along on these trips is pretty cool. I would never have thought to snap this shot. They call this place Aspen for a reason, you know.
Mt. Daly in the distance.
Brian and I skinning up the western ridge of Snowmass. Brett getting the lighting just right.
A photo of our skintrack, the coolest aesthetic output of any backcountry adventure.
Mickey breaking trail, followed by yours truly, followed by Maci.
Early candidate for blog picture of the year in the "non-Ryan" category. Garrett Peak in the background.
Maci looking regal for the camera.
After two hours of breaking trail through boot-deep snow, I get to enjoy the down.
Maci getting after it, while still listening intently for lurking predators.
Finishing our descent as the snow turns thin.
One last hero shot of the pup.
After the big effort, a well deserved rest for a boy and his dog.
On Saturday, Brian needed to get up above treeline to check out the snowpack for his avalanche forecasting. We opted for the summit of Mt. Baldy, a 13,100 peak accessible from the backcountry gates atop Snowmass ski resort.
The summit of Baldy is the small, triangle shaped peak in the left-center of the photo.
Recent winds had scoured the ridge free of snow. Here's Brian making do with what we had.
Snowmass Peak, one of the Elk range's 14,000 foot summits, in the back center of the photo.
A shot of Capitol Peak, another of Colorado's "14ers."
A view of Garrett Peak from the ridge to Baldy.
Brian skinning the final stretch before we had to switch to booting. As you can gather from the pictures, the skiing was awful. Fortunately, no photographic evidence of my many falls on the windslab and breakable crust exists.
You know boys...they always want to be just like their daddies. Ryan has been rather jealous of my recent winter adventures, so Lauren and I dressed him in his burliest technical gear and stuck him in the fridge for three hours. Good times.
Judging by the ol' counter in the upper left corner of this blog, readership has slowed a bit lately. Perhaps I've alienated the childless demographic with the recent Ryan saturation. Or maybe the increasing fart-jokes-per-post ratio has turned off the cultural elite. Or maybe your you're all realizing I just don't write very good well, and as a result I'm loosing losing readers.
Regardless of the reason, I'd like to see it fixed.
In theory, this bit of bad news should provide the motivation I need to improve my writing. Seek out some formal training. Maybe diversify my topics.
But I'm a lazy, lazy man.
So rather than work harder to improve my craft, I'll just look to my old friend television for inspiration. Teacher. Mother. Secret lover.
Historically, sitcoms have attempted to boost sagging ratings by adding an unnecessary character in hopes of injecting new life into their stale programming. Happy Days brought in the Fonz. Saved By the Bell added that hard-ass chick, Tory. And yes, even the critically acclaimed Itchy and Scratchy needed a shot of Poochie the dog to reinvigorate their dwindling fan base.
Typically, these characters are nothing more than caricatures, cluttering up the scene and spouting contrived catch phrases at every turn. For example, when they were creating Poochie, the following directives were issued to the illustrator:
Creator: He needs attitude, attitude! Uh... sunglasses!
Consultant: Could we put him in more of a "hip-hop" context?
Krusty the Klown: Forget context, he's gotta' be a surfer. Give me a nice shmear of surfer.
Consultant: I feel we should Rasta-fy him by... 10 percent or so.
All Three: Oh, yeah, bingo. Yeah, that's it! There it is, right there! I love it!
The result was the rather "in your face" canine you see above. But let me tell you, Poochie created quite a stir amongst the Itchy and Scratchy faithful. It worked.
Taking a page from my favorite show-within-a-show, Lauren, Ryan, Maci and I are adding a little spice to our lives this winter and bringing in some new blood. My good friend Brett "the Jet" Friel -- lifeguard, budding photog, and collector of hilarious bumper stickers -- will be spending the winter in Aspen, and we're hopeful his experiences as a 25-year old single guy in a world class party town will spice up the blog.
What's refreshing about Brett, is unlike Poochie, he's no ridiculous caricature, born from some out-of-touch corporate desire to capitalize on ill-conceived requirements for "cool" like surfing and sunglasses and bad-ass attitude. He's a real-life, grounded, guy who...oh shit....
Perhaps you should ignore that last paragraph. Yes, that is Mr. Friel, apparently doing his best Poochie impression during a recent trip to Mexico.
In all seriousness, I'm extremely jealous of Brett. And not because he's younger, better looking, and judging from that picture, significantly more Rasta-fied than me.
I'm jealous because he's got the balls that I didn't at that stage of my life. To pick up and move to a ski town at his age on a whim, out of nothing more than a desire to experience a life he's always wondered about, is an act of courage I admire.
Look, I'm smart enough to know that I've got it pretty good. At 34, I'm living exactly as I've always dreamed, aside from the fact that Lauren and I don't spend our free time driving around in a van, solving mysteries.
But by no means was this a linear process for me. It has taken many steps -- some forward, many back, a few sideways -- for me to get from a twenty-three year old CPA at Arthur Andersen in Roseland, NJ to where I am today. And I'm pretty certain that if I had only possesed the cayones Brett has, I might have gotten here sooner.
Life is fleeting. This should come as a surprise to absolutely no one. As you're sitting in your cubicle or manning the assembly line down at the cracker factory, daydreaming of a different reality, the hourglass is emptying.
I don't mean to come off as preachy. Nor am I suggesting that people should spend every waking moment of every day pursuing their wildest fantasies. It's that type of uncompromising thinking that made the poor kid from Dead Poets Society shoot himself. We don't want that.
No, real life doesn't work like that. Shit gets in the way. We have obligations and responsibilities and families and pressures that sometimes make it impossible to create seismic changes. I understand and respect that.
With that said, if there is somewhere or someone you'd rather be, and no compelling reason you can't make it happen, I'd implore you to at least have a plan. I may not have had any balls in my mid-twenties, but one thing I did have was a idea. An image burned into my head of exactly what was important to me, and what I thought I needed in order to provide the best life for myself and the family I hoped to have some day. I kept that idea, that image, with me throughout the past decade, anxiously awaiting the one thing that would spur me into action.
For me, it was all about the girl.
Once I met Lauren, everything fell into place. With her, I no longer harbored any fear of the unknown. Suddenly, picking up and moving to the mountains didn't seem impossible. If the town went bad, if my job went bad, I knew I'd still have her. She gave me courage. Unlike Brett, I didn't have the strength to go it alone.
I shamelessly admit my intent to live vicariously through Poochie Brett for the next six months. He's about to experience a winter he'll never forget, and I'm happy to be a part of it. When his life story is penned, the winter he spends as a young, single guy in Aspen won't make the first few paragraphs, but you likely won't have to flip too many pages to find it. This was his daydream, just as it was mine. And he'll soon be living it.
But our daydream likely isn't yours, and that's just fine. That's the coolest thing about daydreams: they're personalized. What's heaven to me -- living in a quiet mountain town two hundred miles from the nearest shopping mall -- would be hell to many. Maybe you dream of attending art school, or running your own business, or purchasing a really kick-ass watch. I've got no argument for that. I think it was Plato who said "The world don't move to the beat of just one drum. What might be right for you, might not be right for some." Smart guy.
Of course, these things don't come without risks. I 've taken them. Brett's certainly taking one. In all likelihood, you'll have to take one or two as well. If happiness were easy to come by, everyone would have it.
But you owe it to yourself to at least try. What's the worst that can happen?
Except for the whole Dead Poets Society thing, of course.
/As an aside, I think I've outdone myself with the Simpsons references in this post. I'm not sure there is an original thought in here. A shiny nickel to anyone who can count them all.*
My memory may be a bit fuzzy, but I think it was Randy Watson, frontman for the groundbreaking band Sexual Chocolate, who first sang the lyrics, "I believe the children are our future. Teach them well and let them lead the way."
Very true, Randy.
But as parents, while we're busy indoctrinating our offspring into our love for the Yankees or distrust of foreigners or whatever it is that makes us us, we often get so focused on imparting our wisdom that we fail to realize that if we simply pay attention, we can learn nearly as much from our kids as they from us.
Granted, Ryan is the first child I've ever paid any significant amount of attention to, but I've found him to be a pretty interesting dude. Sure he struggles with verbal communication and shits his pants several times a day (more on that later), but he's also seen more bare female breast in the last 24 hours than I have in 34 years, so he's doing something right.
In fact, he's doing a lot of things right, but if we adults could steal just three things from him, I'd recommend these.
Wear Your Emotions on Your Sleeve
Do you see that face? That's the look of pure joy I get treated to every time the boy is happy. It's a beautiful thing because for that moment, you can rest assured that everything is right in his world.
Children don't have the skills -- nor do they see the need -- to temper or hide their emotions. When things are good, they let you know. When things are bad, well...they'll sure as hell let you know that, too.
But it won't last. As Ryan grows into an adult, he'll inevitably learn that sometimes it's in your best interest to appear happy when you're really not, and other times, it's best to appear sad when you're really happy, like when your wealthy grandmother dies. Emotions, with age, become more of a calculated response than a window to our soul.
In no area of life are these bullshit parlor games more prevalent than in love. We're never more reticent to show our emotional hand than when it's our heart at stake. We do it in the name of not "coming on too strong" or appearing overanxious or desperate, but clearly, it's simply a defense mechanism to protect ourselves lest things go bad.
Sadly, Ryan will be no different. At some point, the boy is going to meet a girl he really digs, and while sharing a beer with his buddies, will have the following conversation (warning: one NSFW moment towards the end)
What makes Swingers, and this scene in particular, such a classic is that every guy between the ages of 21 and 45 has endured this exact useless exercise at some point in their single lives.
It's all needlessly complicated. Wouldn't we all be better off if our emotions were an open book, like our kids?
Think about what I had to go through to win my wife's attention. The story has already been told, but long story short, I quit my job, risked my livelihood, and moved 2,000 miles to take a lifeguarding gig on the off chance that I might run into a girl that, in our one previous meeting, gave no indication that she was aware I was alive.
But what if it hadn't gone down that way? What if when I first met Lauren, she made the Ryan face upon our introduction?
Now, that would have sped up the process a bit, wouldn't it? Instead of six months worth of guessing games, I would have known immediately that Lauren was helpless in the face of my animal magnetism, and I could have skipped that return flight to Denver so we could start our lives together.
So if you're single and reading this, cut the bullshit. If there's some guy or girl or one of each that tickles your fancy, let them know. Give them the Ryan face. Send them flowers. Tell them you're meant to be together and threaten to kill yourself if they don't love you the way you love them. Go with your heart.
(Ed note: It is not recommended that you tell them you're meant to be together and threaten to kill yourself if they don't love you the way you love them.)
How to Turn a Humiliating Moment Into a Sympathetic One
The other day, Lauren, Ryan and I were at my client's office, introducing the boy to the people that indirectly pay my salary. When we arrived, Ryan was still asleep, so we sat around making small talk for a few minutes. As we were talking, he suddenly became unsettled, and what began as a wiggle and whimper quickly evolved into a writhe and wail.
Then he farted, and was calm once more.
And this was no ordinary fart. It was loud, lengthy, and its scent stung the nostrils.
Here's the thing...do you know what all the people in that room felt at that undeniably awkward moment? Pity. Not embarrassment, not disgust, but pity. We could see that the poor kid was clearly in a great deal of discomfort, and if he needed to let one rip in order to alleviate that discomfort, well..so be it.
Now, that may work fine and dandy as an adorable infant, but pull that shit as a 34-year old male random adult in a crowded elevator, and suddenly you're worse than Hitler.
It doesn't seem fair, does it? Who's to say an adult can't be in just as much gastrointestinal distress as a child? When you think about it, the boy only eats formula and breast milk, how bad could his gas be? Slip the kid a Wendy's bacon double cheeseburger and a supersized Coke, then let's talk about stomach pains.
But as adults, we don't get that free pass. People look past the underlying pain, and focus solely on the social stigma attached to ridding oneself of said pain. For anyone over the age of 6, every flatulent moment ends like this (warning: NSFW moment at very end courtesy of Seth Rogan):
The lesson here is simple: if you want pity, you've got to earn it. The next time you find yourself in a public setting and last night's enchilada rears its ugly head, ham it up. Kick, scream, do whatever you have to do to draw attention to the fact that if you don't fanny burp and fanny burp soon, you might not make it. Maybe, just maybe, instead of the evil eye that stranger standing nearby will offer you a "poor baby" and a pat on the head.
But I wouldn't count on it.
Learn to Laugh at Yourself
Last night, I was home alone with Ryan when Maci started to take an unusual amount of interest in him. At first, I thought all the sniffing was a sign of affection, until I realized the majority of the attention was focused squarely on the boy's butt.
And that's when I discovered the mother of all poops. Having burst free from the restraints of his diaper in search of sunlight, it was covering his back, shoulders and the inside of his pajamas.
Minutes later, as I diligently scrubbed shit off my son's scapulas, he looked up at me and laughed. And laughed. And laughed some more.
Annoyed as I was, I knew there was something to be gained from this experience. If the kid can laugh through his worst moments, why can't we? Who among us hasn't tripped while running for the bus, or yelled "Hold on...I'm just cutting the cheese!!" in a crowded supermarket, or woke up late on a Sunday morning and forgot to wear pants to church?
And when this stuff happens, we've got two choices: we can either hang our head in shame and half-heartedly protest the church's outdated, oppressive pants requirement, or we can have a good laugh at ourselves and move on with our lives, like children do.
Sure, you may argue that Ryan was laughing because he doesn't know any better, and the timing was merely coincidental. But I think it was more than that. Perhaps, in their simplistic world view, children understand that we're all going to shit our proverbial pants at times, and there's no sense in getting worked up over it.
And that pretty much sums up how kids work. They smile when they're happy, cry when they're not, pass gas with impunity, and laugh off moments that would scar adults for decades. Meanwhile, parents are forced to hold in their emotions as well as their gas, and we take our setbacks far too hard.
With winter playing hard to get in this here mountain town, the unseasonably warm weather has allowed for some fantastic early November bike rides. Today I took a break from my fatherly duties (read: financial support and spankings) and headed out for a quick jaunt up to Ruedi Reservoir.
While Denver and the surrounding foothills were pounded by a late October storm, the Roaring Fork Valley hasn't seen any significant accumulation as of yet. Here's the rather green view from 7,500 feet, a few miles up the Frying Pan Road. Coincidentally named Frying Pan River to the right.
Once out of the shade, here's the Frying Pan River illuminated by the vibrant sunshine that's been the norm around these parts for the past few weeks.
Fifteen miles and 1,200 vertical feet from the start of the ride, here's my goal for the day, the Ruedi Reservoir. Not much to look at here.
Zoom towards Hagerman Pass. While the valley is green, the high country is donning its traditional coating of white.
A beautiful view from the descent. This pretty much sums up why I live here.
Nearing the town of Basalt, Mt. Sopris peeks out from behind the foothills.
A close-up of the twin summits of Mt. Sopris. Thomas Lakes bowl begging to be skied from 12,995 feet.
