Lo-Fidelity: Ride me out in the cold rain and mud

Wait … is this the illusive monsoon season? You’re late. Where the hell have you been? Regardless, I’m mega thankful. The rains couldn’t have come soon enough. 

The other morning, the skies were so dank and laden with moisture, my house was dark inside at 9:30 in the a.m. — the kind of storm you see, hear, feel, and smell coming. Something instinctually told me to bring the outdoor furniture cushions in and make sure all the hatches were battened down. Even my old beater of a heater took notice and kicked-on by itself, belching out a puff of dusty smoke like Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.

I’d picked a bad night to make gazpacho. 

The first lightning bolt struck atop Sky Mountain, followed almost instantly by peals of angry thunder. Within seconds, the gutters were overwhelmed, like the bar at an Irish wedding that’d just been bum-rushed by ruddy-faced attendees. Sheets of luxuriously high “drop-count” rain draped the valley floor, putting to rest the soot and angst of a long, hot month of August. 

When the clouds parted, a new color palate emerged. For a second, I thought someone had adjusted the brightness on our town’s television set. The drought-blistered foliage had a slightly deeper hue, the dirt looked a little richer, and the grass on our side of town was just a wee bit greener. 

I don’t know about you, but I obsess over NOAA precipitation percentages and radar loops. I call the approaching storm the “Green blob.” I fancy myself an office-chair “Stormy Rottman,” the legendary old weatherman I grew up watching on 9News. 

My prayers to the heavens are such: Right as the emerald splotch passes over Aspen, there will be an orange/red flare-up in the center, like a marshmallow that suddenly bursts into flame over a campfire. If you’re lucky, a penalty box will appear around the microburst, indicating the skies are about to come unglued. I’ve observed that flooding events are almost always accompanied by hailstorms. 

I’m a diligent student of the radar because a lot of times their readings determine me going on a bike ride or not. The coldest I’ve ever been in my life was not in the winter, rather in July coming down on a road bike from the Maroon Bells through a torrential rainstorm. 

You can’t say you’ve fully experienced summer in Aspen until you get caught-out in the rain on a mountain bike ride. By “caught out” I mean hosed-down, hail-stung, covered in-mud, shoes filled with water, absolutely annihilated, soaked to the bone, shivering like a lost, wet dog. Don’t forget the part where your tires are caked with mud, the brakes barely work, and the single-track is basically a bobsled course filled with rocks that’s slicker that snot. 

In retrospect, there’s always a decision point, a four-way stop sign in your mind you blew right through, where common sense meets looking up at the sky, the science of radar and forecast, riders going the other way in a panic like they’d just seen a ghost — a gut feeling that would’ve steered you to a dryer outcome. But alas, who are we as humans and sensitive new-age mountain men (sometimes women, but generally the absence of a Y chromosome lends itself to self-preservation and better decision making skills) if not constantly learning from our own stupid mistakes? 

There’s something symbolic, inherently cleansing, borderline baptismal about a summer rain, almost as if the cloudbursts beg a new beginning, but in this case, the barrages signal an ending and a change of season. You could feel the switch this Monday, especially after the hottest day of summer last Thursday. The fever finally broke. I was lying in bed listening to the soothing sound of thunder, thinking to myself, “I love a rainy night,” … just like Eddie Rabbit. 

The incremental bounties of summer come with their heavy emotional toll. First, it’s the cutting of the hay fields. Then comes Mountain Fair, the harvest of peaches and corn, followed by the aroma of roasting chilies letting your nose know summers coming to a close. Soon enough, we’ll be buying ski passes and watching the Broncos. Summers in Aspen are short. Fall is long. I’ve already heard someone say, “September is my favorite month.” 

I’m curious to see what affect the drought’s going to have on the leaf-peeping this year. From the saddle of my aluminium (British spelling) horse (mountain bike), I’m noticing the colors are good from far — but far from good. When you get into the hills, you can see point-blank how parched everything is. Even the cacti are thirsty. Look at the same foliage from a mile or more away, and the colors appear more vivid. 

I hope everyone has a rockin’ Labor Day weekend up at the concerts, and I’ll see you out on the trails and travails of Aspen.

Contact Lorenzo via suiotyourself@sopris.net.