Rocky Mountain High
in my Chevy van . . .
Cruising along my mysterious way, I’m heading toward a sawtooth ridge one autumn afternoon back in 1990.
There’s a cluster of peaks up ahead decorated with traces of lingering snow, each exceeding four thousand meters in elevation.
Bouncing along in my retro Chevy van, high in the Colorado Rockies, tumbleweeds careen here and there, a trail of toothpicks scattered across pavement.
Some tumbleweeds get stuck in the wood-slat fence along this high-prairie roadside.
Just as I’m driving along, envisioning my next plump doobie . . . what should I spy up ahead?
Luscious buns swathed in tight, almost-transparent spandex doing a slow steady grind up this mountain grade. Heaven upon a bicycle saddle!
Can’t see her face, but her legs are smooth and tan. I’m thinking . . . I better slow this rig down and check this out.
I hit the brakes so hard I nearly throw myself into the bug-splattered windshield, leaning to one side, rolling down the passenger window. I’m yearning for this grinding goddess to make eye contact and beam me some clue as to her mindset.
