On the return trip from Grand Junction, he took me to a secret place, shhhh…
Just south of Flagstaff, a swift exit from I-17 and the resulting halt of el coche under a pine tree (to keep from getting so warm in the mid-day sun), we found our mildly dissimulated and mostly hung-over selves smack dab in the middle of fern-lined singletrack. Right on.
“How long are we going for?” I asked. “Just bring enough water,” he said.
Down the hill, brown dirt, rocks, swoopy turns and water bars, not even a bushy beard could conceal the smirk. Nose filled with pure, aromatic pine, cruising along under a treetop canopy, not another soul to be seen or heard; the woods was ours for the afternoon, not a worry.
I knew the ride was going to be really enduro, so I wore a t-shirt and baggy shorts with my visor helmet to look the part.
Later on, Dirty replaced his helmet with a geologist hat and pointed to a really cool looking rock, mentioning that “You can tell it is a rock because of the way that it is.” How neat is that?
Then we rode bikes on it.
And that was pretty much it, just two guys dickin’ around in the woods for a couple hours. Then we got lunch.
Sitting there at the bar, I turn to Dirty and say, “You know, sometimes we can have so much fun together,” and ahead of us stood our delightful and attentive bartender, who poured me not a pint of beer, but a pitcher. “Yes,” he said as he slurped Budweiser like a thirsty dog, “Isn’t it pretty to think so?”by