Marolt: Life in paradise on hold |

Marolt: Life in paradise on hold

Roger Marolt
Cluster Phobic
Roger Marolt

In April it becomes apparent just how refreshing and rejuvenating an hour-long mountain bike ride can be. It changes your perspective. If you accomplish nothing else the rest of the day, it doesn’t matter; you have justified your existence and are satisfied with life for a cost of few pedal strokes, of which you have many more saved up. You don’t feel guilty having a beer at four. Doubling down on dessert is reloading your muscles with glycogen rather than something that will make you fat.

I say this not because I have recently returned from a mountain bike ride. I say it because taking a bike ride now would require a 100-mile drive as a warm-up. It is sleeting here.

I stared at my face in the reflection off a blank Word page on my laptop screen for half an hour before I wrote the preceding paragraphs. Now that I have typed this, at least I can brag it is the fewest lines I have seen on my face in some time. I may well sit here for another half hour before I decide where to go with this.

Such is life in Snowmass Village for the two or so months between lift-served skiing and mountain biking on anything worthwhile. It is now that the most obvious thing I can do to refresh and rejuvenate is get out of my pajamas before 10. I got you there, right? Men don’t wear pajamas. We wear T-shirts and relaxing pants to bed.

There’s nothing to do this time of year. Yet, nobody can actually do nothing ever, can they? I detailed the interiors of both cars this morning. I sewed a belt loop back onto my red pants, a first; both in owning a pair of red pants and having a belt loop that came unstitched. And, I brushed my teeth. Does eating breakfast count for doing something? As you can see, all I really did was broaden the definition of doing nothing. OK, that’s something.

But, it still isn’t anything compared to skiing or biking or hiking or fishing or laying in the hammock listening to the leaves rustle softly in the branches above, accompanied by the ringing in my ears from the lawnmower cooling off in the garage.

Can you imagine what it would be like if we actually went through with building the Discovery Center in our $6 million community real estate investment in Base Village? I shudder at that thought. If I was up there in that hypothetical amenity right now, mostly void of human activity except for those required to be there to open and lock-up, surrounded by phony mammoth bones in a stuffy room lit fluorescently sterile for the easy reading of placards about the theoretical lives and extinction of creatures that turn out to be nowhere near as large or old or mysterious as dinosaurs, I would consider that a new type of pain for which the only escape would be to run outside and try to figure out how to get to Glenwood Springs from our mall via the bus system in the offseason to pick up my car after getting the snow tires taken off just in time for the next blizzard.

I have considered taking a trip up to Base Village and contemplating the new stack of timeshares going up and marveling at how fast and high it has gotten in such a short time. I think it is taller than originally planned, but I also thought that it would never be built, so obviously what I think about anything to do with Base Village is wrong. I think I will grow to like it someday.

I suppose one thing left to do today is head down to the rec center and stretch my normal half-hour routine into an event that can fill the void until about four when the excitement of the pre-dinner ritual of deciding what to have and who is going to cook substitutes for what might be the onset of an adrenaline rush, but only because there has been no real adrenaline rush to compare it with for days.

Maybe, if I am lucky, we will be short a necessary ingredient and I’ll have to run up to the new Village Market, which is nothing like the old Village Market, but I call it that anyway, and maybe get lucky and run into somebody I know. This time of year, the odds of that are about 50 percent. Not coincidently, those are the same odds as running into anyone at all.

Would you look at that? I just hit my word count for this week. Anybody mind if I just go to bed now?

Roger Marolt was living the dream and woke up to another Saturday morning blizzard. Email at