12/28/2023 0 Comments Bookends instal the new for windowsWe swung pulaskis and moved rocks for hours, pausing only to split a sandwich and consult one another about the proper bank of a turn. We spent a few autumn afternoons in the forest working on his pet trail project, one he was calling “The Freedom Trail” – a windy stretch of singletrack that ran right through a golden aspen grove. A permanent expression of astonishment was plastered to my face, and yet, I laughed harder than I had in years.Ĭuriosity overpowered good sense, and I agreed to a series of additional dates with Rasta. Where on earth was I? I’d taught yoga for a decade in this tiny town that I’d moved to after college, but I’d never seen any of these people, much less spent a Saturday night betting real money on cow dung. “We can outsmart that bull’s intestines!” We drank Jack and Coke, cheered for our bovine companion, and plunked down bingo chips when the angry thousand-pound animal deposited his “chips” in the corresponding dirt spaces. “Fuck, yeah!” Rasta shouted on our behalf, as he pulled two twenties out of his wallet and grabbed a couple of Sharpie markers. “Are you guys in?” one of the homeowners asked. Just like that, I was roped into attending what Rasta had called a “Bullshit Bingo” party – one where the hosts spray-painted numbers inside their backyard corral while the guests drew up bingo cards containing those same numbers. How ‘bout I pick you up at sixish for dinner and we’ll go from there. “Now, that party I was telling you about – it starts around seven. Later, after I’d collected my second-place beer stein, he strutted up to me. I told him I hadn’t thought that far ahead, that I still needed to get back on my bike and win the race. By the time his leathery hands were entangled in my derailleur, he’d already asked me about my plans for the evening. He wasn’t tall, but he was dark and handsome, and he had that sly grin and soul patch combination that was known to cloud my judgment. While I dug around in my pack for the tools I needed, he introduced himself – a formality, really, since his reputation as Eastern Idaho’s Dionysian bad boy was well-established. “Looks like you might could use some help,” he said, once I’d unclipped from my pedals and crawled out from under my bike. I think the only crisis that day was mine. My feet spun aimlessly, I lost my balance, and I fell to the side of the trail – right into a Carhartt-clad, muscle-bound man, the guy everyone in town referred to as “Rasta.” He’d been posted alongside this steep hill with a first aid kit and a radio, assigned to call in the bib numbers of passing riders and to help with crises as they arose. Clenching my teeth, I leaned forward and stomped my foot down, only to hear the grating metallic snap of a broken chain. I stood up on my pedals for the climb’s final push, motivated by visions of finally winning one of these local mountain bike races.
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