Being There

I was in my usual place (in-between)—faster than the slower riders but slower than the faster riders. Though I did manage to hang with them longer than I expected, climbing Metcalf. Steep climbs are not my forte.

That's where I heard the sound of a crash, and a male voice call out “Oh fudge!” (or, some word like that). I couldn't see him, as he was above the embankment next to the road, in the motorcycle park. The cyclists trailing me evidently could see him, as I heard them shout “Are you okay? Don't move!”

Much to the confusion of the fast group waiting at the top of the hill, I turned directly into the park and headed for a building that looked official. I couldn't give them details, but I could share what I'd heard. The rangers were aware of an ATV crash; maybe that was the same one. Or maybe not.

With the rest of the group, I explored a stretch of road (Las Animas) that was unfamiliar to me. Lovely ranch land, but as a (remote) dead end, not a place I would venture alone.

The group split, with a few of us opting for a shorter route through the foothills. As my ride buddy and I took a break, a lone cyclist appeared. He seemed hesitant, but sporting a Paris-Brest-Paris vest, he was certainly the self-sufficient type.

He was, however, not familiar with the area. I confirmed which road was Metcalf, and which was San Felipe; this was where he expected to be. “Are you randonneuring?” I asked. Indeed he was. And he was looking for an electrical box at this intersection. [Hmm.] An odd place for an electrical box ... oh, wait, there's a white box on the far side of that utility pole. “That's it!” He darted over, snapped a photo, and continued his ride.

And so did we. A meager—but eventful—26 miles (with 2,460 feet of climbing) for us. Just being there, though, was what counted today.