Colorado, Part I

We returned home late last night from a near-three-week trip to Colorado.  We spent a week and a half with my husband's parents in two houses in different parts of Colorado.  Then we were off to the YMCA of the Rockies to spend a week there while my husband took a class in the mornings.  We finished off the journey with some friends at their home in Nebraska. I'll try to highlight a few parts over my next several blog posts, the first being:  

THE BIKE RIDE

Sounds benign, yes? 

NO.

We embarked on an 18 mile round trip between Breckenridge and Frisco.  Already, does it sound like a bit much to bite off for a family of seven mostly non-bike riders?  Yes, yes it was.

This was the sitch:  Our three oldest would ride alone, my husband would pull little K in a trailer carrier, and I was to have a tag along bike with our 5 year old.  Our adorable, white-haired, non-pedaling, 45 pound child.

Off we went, on the paved bike path, adjacent to the road.  I quickly realized the tag along bike was loose but a wonderful good Samaritan tightened it for me.  (My son wanted to give him a reward - in the amount of fifty cents).  Once that was fixed, it was smooth sailing.

Until the road got a little, then a lot, hilly.  It veered right away from the road to hide all those beastly hills from unsuspecting folk like us.  It would have been exceedingly difficult in the Midwest, but remember, dear reader, we are at 9,000 feet.  If you haven't been that high, I encourage you to try it.  You might find that walking up a flight of stairs has you panting slightly.

These hills were a tad more than a flight of stairs.

Finally we made it to Frisco.  We regrouped for a bit, then headed back.  We had a couple of hours to return to Breckenridge and turn the bikes back in.  Soon, my non-pedaling son and I were way behind. I began to look at my watch, fearful we would not make it back before the store closed, causing us to rent the bike for another full day, somewhere in the amount of $100.  I pushed on as fast as I could, feeling with each mile that I might soon die, or at least vomit.  After awhile, I didn't care if the bike got back on time, I was just praying, "Let me live, Lord!"  Okay, I was perhaps a bit dramatic, even to myself.  

After what seemed an eternity, I saw a beautiful sight.  My husband, in the van, was doubling back the remainder of the ride to save us.  He traded my son and me the cool of the van for the bike.  He raced off, making it to the outfitter with ten minutes to spare.  

We spent the rest of the vacation gloriously bike-free.