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"Durango doesn't have a mud season," I proudly boasted to my friends in more northerly latitudes and altitudes.
I used to take perverse pleasure in rubbing it in. In years past, while they were still knee deep in Wellies and wool sweaters, we down here in the banana belt already had the makings of a good Teva tan. While their bikes and other implements of summer recreation sat fallow in the garage, we had made a seamless transition from snow to singletrack. While they bemoaned lack of physical activity and shriveling lungs the size of walnuts, we had long since said good-bye to sore saddles and heart palpitations, and hello to paddling calluses and cold beers on the patio.
It was the strangest phenomenon. While it was raining, snowing, sleeting, grauppling, catting and dogging, what have you, just a few miles to the north, we somehow managed to stay warm and dry in our little donut hole of sunshine to the south.
But lately, the only donut holes I've been seeing are the deep-fried variety. Those, along with most other baked goods, are about the only things offering solace, comfort and a reason to live on these most dreary of days.
Don't get me wrong. I am in no way complaining about the rain. Like every other local who endured the summer of '02, I have taken a solemn vow never to so much as utter a disparaging word about precipitation, in any form, as long as I shall inhabit the Earth. Plus, my garden has never looked better, and my house has never been cleaner. Of course, this is due to lack of anything better to do
OK, so maybe I'm complaining just a little bit. But this time, there are extenuating circumstances. See, I've been undergoing a bit of a growth spurt lately, which, if it keeps up, will render me pretty much useless for anything but rigorous walks to the mailbox, or icebox, once summer hits. So, as you can see, time is of the essence. Which is why it pains me so to sit idly inside while the next monsoon blows through. Sure, the snowpack may be steadily growing, but so is my waistline.
I know it's selfish to think this way, after all, there's a parched desert out there, not to mention all those starving swimming pools in Las Vegas. Plus, I understand this is the way springs in Durango were prior to my arrival, back in the "good, old days" (I'm told the timing is merely coincidental). I also know that into each life, some rain must fall. But why does it have to be during my precious few remaining days of mobility?
Of course, I could always just suck it up and pretend like cold, wind and rain don't bother me. People in Seattle do it all the time. But then again, they also have the Space Needle, Jimi Hendrix' grave and fresh seafood as consolation. One option offered up by a friend was to pretend as if we were all on vacation in England. "In England, today would be a beautiful day," she pointed out, adding that compared to the fish 'n' chips complexion of most Brits, we sun-starved Coloradans would be considered downright bronzed.
In my defense, I have made an attempt or two at braving the elements in the name of exercise and sanity. After all, a little mud never hurt anyone, unless it sucks the shoes off your feet, stranding you in a cold bog miles from your warm couch and remote. I even went so far as to make an attempt at exercising indoors. But finding a parking spot at the Rec. Center after work was harder than scoring Willie tickets. I decided no stationary bicycle was worth being trampled by hundreds of angst-ridden bike cleats, so I retreated.
Of course, there's always boating, where rain is not an acceptable excuse for opting out. And some of the more gonzo boaters insist that the water really isn't that cold. Easy for them to say, they don't spend a most of their time upside down trying to roll while wearing waterproof oven mitts. Besides, I'm a big wuss, despite the fact that I sport more fleece than Barney (and the purplish hue to match).
Running on the bike path? During daylight hours when people can see? Strictly prohibited.
Which leaves me with the options of climbing the walls, which I have become quite proficient at, or couch surfing, which reaches new levels of competition when other housemates are vying for the same coveted seat. All it takes is one quick trip to the bathroom to end what would otherwise have been an epic ride. About the only saving grace is that my house has stairs. The arduous act of climbing them often makes me forget what business I was conducting on the other end, thus effectively doubling my workout.
Of course, I know a little of my predicament is self-perpetuated. For example, the more I look at the 10-day weather outlook online, the more it stays the same. And if I were a true trooper, I would take up a hobby, like crocheting or saving the whales, to better myself and/or humanity.
But then again, maybe I'll just stick to donut holes
- Missy Votel
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