Toph. Self Portrait.
When I was about 10 my parents took me to Breckenridge for the day. It’s quite a drive. You basically head west on a Colorado interstate that is either in constant descent or is constantly climbing up the sides of mountains. Most people feel that 70mph is still an acceptable rate of speed for this highway. It’s a bit unnerving. The best, no probably the worst, part is when the road heads directly at mountain and from the backseat you see no road going to the left of it, or to the right. The massive slab of granite is looming and you have no alternative but to sit anxiously and just head straight for it. Are we going to die? Do the other cars know the road is gone? We are driving a bit fast, dad. Suddenly, at that last moment you crest the road and the Eisenhower tunnel comes into view. Untimely death avoided. The future starting second baseman for the Chicago Cubs life has been spared. Once you break daylight again you’ve arrived in Summit County. You are surrounded by mountains on all sides. Beautiful. So we park the family truckster in “Brek” and start walking down the main drag. No sooner had we being walking for a minute or two, my dad, who was a little older than I am now, gives me the elbow bump and head nod to look up ahead. Universally, this is the sign that something is aloof. Something is ahead, but you should not speak yet cautiously avert your attention. And there, coming down the sidewalk was a man. He had to be seven feet tall. Five of those feet, was leg wrapped in super tight denim. He had a presence. He had a hot girl, for the late eighties, on his arm. And this girl, she knew who he was. And I knew who he was. And my dad knew he was. And the man we all stared at, well he sure as shit knew who he was. David. Fucking. Hasselhoff. I swear he was dressed as if he had just walked off set. The perm, the black leather jacket. The furrowed brow. We didn’t speak as he passed. He was gone in only a few seconds. He was probably heading for the kitt car. Some bad guy probably had to be dealt with, and the Hoff, he took no prisioners. Especially in Brekenridge. Little did I know at that time his next show would put him in a ridiculous matching red bathing suit and life preserver. Oh well, I will always remember him this way. The Knight Rider.
Now I know what you’re thinking…what does this have to do with mountain biking? What’s the connection? Why is this on the blog? No connection. It’s just a good story. Were you listening to the dude’s story? And to tell you the truth, I probably shouldn’t be writing about last night’s ride. That’s another story all together. And my kids will probably read this someday. And the guys, well their kids will read this someday. And Nolan will probably run some crazy outdoor adventure school. And I might wanna work there too. And we just don’t want to go ruinning people's futures like that around here.
This is league play, Smokey. Mark it zero.
Flip Mode Squad out.