The worrythalamus



Sometime around 3 a.m., my eyelids sprung open like too-tightly-wound window shades. While the rest of my body and brain had been enjoying a peaceful, well-deserved slumber, what I like to call my “worryathalamus” was doing overtime.

“Your car, you dummy!” it screamed so loud I was sure it would wake up the whole neighborhood. “You left your car up at the put-in!

Sure enough, in the disjointed chaos that comes with orchestrating a casual cruise on the Animas, I had neglected to fetch my car from the 32nd Street put-in upon completion of the mission. And as I snoozed in the comfort of my king-sized pillow top, the memory of my car, abandoned on the other end of town, crashed its way into my consciousness. Normally, I would tell the overactive synapse nagger to shut up, roll over and go contentedly back to sleep. But at 3 a.m., the thought process is not always rational. And besides, she had a point.

“All your stuff is in there … your new boat, paddle, paddling gear … your wallet …,” she pestered as I pulled the blankets over my head in the hopes of drowning out the chatter.

I tossed and turned for a few more minutes, hoping to entice the sand man back into my dreams. “C’mon, it’s the weekend,” I pleaded, “my one morning to sleep in.” But instead, the minutes agonizingly ticked by until the clock read 3:17.

I reasoned that there had been plenty of times I had left my house, not to mention my vehicle, wide open and full of valuables (or at least what I deem valuable). There was the weekend my wallet went MIA until I found it Monday morning on the seat of my unlocked car. Then there was the time I had gone out of town for three days with the car keys still in the ignition (which, it turns out, would have been no help to any would-be thief, seeing as how they were in the “on” position, effectively draining the battery.) The list goes on: $100 cash left in the shopping cart, wallet on the counter at the bagel shop, car doors left open with gear inside, skis forgotten overnight in Silverton, bike unlocked at the grocery store, and so on and so forth. And the truth was, in all the mishaps and missteps, Durango had been kind to a space case such as myself. Any other place, I would have been a total liability. But here, for the most part, absentminded folk could forget, and rest, in peace.

Which was precisely what I was trying to do when Neurotic Nelly returned, even louder than before. “You’ve got a $1,000 deductible … all it takes is one vagrant with a nasty meth habit and an ice pick, and you’re screwed,” she scolded. “Next thing you know, that shiny new boat’ll be in a pawn shop in Junction, and the credit card charges for clandestine escort services and plane tickets to Mexico will start rolling in.”

She had me. All those times, I had been lucky … but what if?

I knew any hopes of sleep would not be realized until my set of four wheels and all its precious contents were safely in front of my house, a two-wheeled, 23-block haul.

But first, I tried to play the late-night chivalry card. “I left my car at the put-in,” I whispered to the spouseman, who had the uncanny ability to hold complete, coherent conversations despite being dead asleep. “Do you think it will be all right?” I goaded, already dreading the answer.

“Yes – but if you’re going to lie awake worrying about it, go get it,” he mumbled before slipping back into a deep coma.

So without further adieu, like bracing before that plunge into a deep, cold lake, I left slumberland, slipped on a hoody, grabbed a headlamp and headed out for the inevitable. I rolled up my pj leg so as not to get it stuck in my chain ring and pedaled off on the old Stumpjumper into the dark, quiet night.

The crescent moon cast just enough light on the tree-lined city streets to give everything a dreamlike, silvery glow. The town was eerily quiet for a Friday night (technically Saturday morning), and I wondered if in fact, I really was dreaming. Not so much as a stray drunk in sight. I decided if I was dreaming, to go with it. After all, it’s not often one gets in a little exercise while bagging some Zs.

I passed over the river bridge, the water sounding like a raging torrent in contrast to the stone cold silence. I slipped past the new library – why are all the lights on anyway? – and into what I call “the gauntlet.” The moon disappeared, leaving me only the dim light of my failing headlamp and a faint grey ribbon of pavement. Riding by brail, and fairly freaked out, I struggled to find the happy medium between speed and navigation. As I ambled through the pitch blackness, I gasped to discover I was not alone. A set of two beedy, glowing eyes shone at me from the bushes, the retinas reflected in my small LED beam.

“Just a cat,” I told myself as the eyes disappeared with a quick rustle of leaves. Of course, worryathalmus had a different theory. “What if it’s a mountain lion, down for a midnight sip from the river? Maybe looking for something – or someone – to wash it down with?”

I rode faster, periodically looking over my shoulder into the blackness as my pleasant, lazy dream hedged into boogeyman territory.

One more cross over the river, which had become noticeably quieter in its upper reaches, another stretch through the heart of darkness, and I was spit out once again into the land of street lamps and houses. However, it was little consolation as the streets were as unsettlingly sleepy on this end of town as the other. I pressed on, up a small incline, across 32nd Street – not even a cop in sight – and up to my car, which despite the old worrywart’s chiding, was intact albeit quite dejected looking.

“See, I told you,” I reprimanded the nagging voice, with a sigh of relief as I fumbled for my key. I opened the hatch and hoisted the boat onto the roof to make room for the bike inside.

As I took the scenic way home, worryathalamus finally dozed off, leaving me with nothing but the peaceful solitude of the night – save for the crickets chirping, which I could hear even through rolled windows. Again, I wondered if it was all just a strange, idyllic Durango dream, and if it was, I hoped it wouldn’t end anytime soon.

-Missy Votel

In this week's issue...

January 25, 2024
Bagging it

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January 26, 2024
Paper chase

The Sneer is back – and no we’re not talking about Billy Idol’s comeback tour.

January 11, 2024
High and dry

New state climate report projects continued warming, declining streamflows