'tis the season.
shoulder season, that is, when the snow is piled impossibly high along the side of the road, the ski resorts are ghost town quiet, and we cyclists are climbing up the canyons.
it's quiet; cars are few, cyclists dot the bike lanes sporadically, parking lots are deserted.
the brighton store sits naked and lonely, its sign gone, no reminder that it is planted 8600 feet above sea level.
a few boarders hike up the beginner's hill at brighton, a handful of cars round the victory lap with us, and the cold breeze is cut by a gift of bright, warm sunshine.
the season's first trip up big cottonwood now safely tucked under my proverbial belt, I am ready to tackle the rest of the year.
bring it on.
gradually, though, please, as my legs are beat.