Today I rode up to Aspen Ridge, out in the dry Arkansas Hills north of town. I did this because I've been seeing the blazing colors up there on my drive home from Buena Vista each evening.
I'm coming to the close of my 10th year in this little corner of Colorado. Mayberry in the Mountains. It's no surprise that I'm retracing my steps as these years float past. Given my new life, with vacation time more limited than at any time in the last 15 years, I've been playing close to home much more than normal. So I'm seeing the same trails, the same events, the same little seasonal traditions marching past. I did the Gunny Growler in May. Visited Crested Butte in July. 24 Hours in the Sage in August. In another month I will simply have to go to Fruita or Moab. Like the Swallows of San Juan Capistrano, I will feel compelled to put stuff into my truck and go west to the red sand for a few days. I just will.
And I did this because it is something I do this time of year. Aspen Ridge is kind of like the Sea Otter--first big race of the season. The trees; up there they go all golden early.
So I rode up there, just as I did last year. It was a nice ride too, lovely fall weather and beautiful clear late summer light.
Looking at that post from last year I see that it was posted 364 days ago, and it's about doing exactly what I did today. And what's really weird: I write in that year-old post that Kathy and I had gone up to Silver Creek to ride the Rainbow at Silver Creek the day before. Well guess what? Kathy and I did that yesterday, just as we did 365 days ago.
I'm coming to the close of my 10th year in this little corner of Colorado. Mayberry in the Mountains. It's no surprise that I'm retracing my steps as these years float past. Given my new life, with vacation time more limited than at any time in the last 15 years, I've been playing close to home much more than normal. So I'm seeing the same trails, the same events, the same little seasonal traditions marching past. I did the Gunny Growler in May. Visited Crested Butte in July. 24 Hours in the Sage in August. In another month I will simply have to go to Fruita or Moab. Like the Swallows of San Juan Capistrano, I will feel compelled to put stuff into my truck and go west to the red sand for a few days. I just will.
At the conclusion of Groundhog Day, Bill Murray's character has fallen in love with a woman with whom he was trapped in a tape loop, and with the little town where he had been walking in his rabbit trails.
Maybe this is a good thing. Certainly, many things about it are good. Otherwise why would I still be living here, doing these things? But today, after feeling like I had done the same thing yesterday, and that yesterday was exactly a year ago, and both those days' real yesterdays Kathy and I had done the same thing also?
Just a little spooky.
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