C B Athletics
I used to be athletic. Then I moved to Crested Butte, Colorado. Crested Butte is smack in the middle of the Rocky Mountains. At 9,000 feet, just breathing is considered exercise. It’s an event that never stops. Of course, we can’t do just one sport, so in addition to breathing we add biking, hunting, hiking, skiing, golf, rock climbing, kayaking, snow-shoeing, hockey, soccer, horseshoes, even curling.
Don’t get me wrong – I still run and bike and ski. In fact, I probably do those things better that I ever have in my life. But now I’m surrounded by real athletes, the kind who compete around the world and win. Olympians live and train here; there’s even a boarding school for up-and-coming skiers and snow boarders. The guy who works in the Post Office ran across the Sahara during the off season last year. I went to Phoenix.
It’s not the extreme athletes that bother me, though. It’s . . . well, it’s the mothers who get to me. Last fall I was running up a steep trail, wondering why I was seeing stars at three in the afternoon, when two moms cruised by, chatting away. I know they were moms because they were pushing strollers with infants in them. As they passed me with sideways smiles, I tried to summon the energy to hate them.
Speaking of mothers, I know women twice my age who can out-ski, out-bike, and out-hike me. For a guy in his mid-thirties, that’s saying something. Seriously, there's a group in town called the Butte Beauties that doesn't let anyone join who isn’t over fifty and a woman. A leisurely afternoon event for them? Climbing to the top of Mount Crested Butte (Elevation: 12162 feet) and back down for cocktails.
Then there are the kids. Last year I was standing on the top of a black diamond ski run, wondering if it would be more embarrassing to walk down or to die in a crash. A little boy – maybe six or seven – stopped by me and said, “Will you ski with me? I’m a kind of scared.” Then he blasted down. I don’t think he could hear me pray-cussing all the way down.
Should I mention the stoners? I’m talking about the dudes who catch a buzz two or three times a day, sometimes while resting in the middle of a thirty mile bike ride up and down trails so steep and narrow mountain goats get queasy.
Oh, well. Enough of this complaining. Maybe the Butte Beauties will let me join them for drinks on their way down.
Don’t get me wrong – I still run and bike and ski. In fact, I probably do those things better that I ever have in my life. But now I’m surrounded by real athletes, the kind who compete around the world and win. Olympians live and train here; there’s even a boarding school for up-and-coming skiers and snow boarders. The guy who works in the Post Office ran across the Sahara during the off season last year. I went to Phoenix.
It’s not the extreme athletes that bother me, though. It’s . . . well, it’s the mothers who get to me. Last fall I was running up a steep trail, wondering why I was seeing stars at three in the afternoon, when two moms cruised by, chatting away. I know they were moms because they were pushing strollers with infants in them. As they passed me with sideways smiles, I tried to summon the energy to hate them.
Speaking of mothers, I know women twice my age who can out-ski, out-bike, and out-hike me. For a guy in his mid-thirties, that’s saying something. Seriously, there's a group in town called the Butte Beauties that doesn't let anyone join who isn’t over fifty and a woman. A leisurely afternoon event for them? Climbing to the top of Mount Crested Butte (Elevation: 12162 feet) and back down for cocktails.
Then there are the kids. Last year I was standing on the top of a black diamond ski run, wondering if it would be more embarrassing to walk down or to die in a crash. A little boy – maybe six or seven – stopped by me and said, “Will you ski with me? I’m a kind of scared.” Then he blasted down. I don’t think he could hear me pray-cussing all the way down.
Should I mention the stoners? I’m talking about the dudes who catch a buzz two or three times a day, sometimes while resting in the middle of a thirty mile bike ride up and down trails so steep and narrow mountain goats get queasy.
Oh, well. Enough of this complaining. Maybe the Butte Beauties will let me join them for drinks on their way down.
posted by Ian Wrisley | 2:12 PM
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