pcflvly
Well-known member
I woke at a state natural area near Loveland, CO. It was an okay camp, a sleeping mat on a concrete pad next to a picnic table. I felt a little more secure than at the last site because there were no restrictions posted. I was discrete and slept well.
I've mentioned before that it takes a lot of courage to sleep free and the night before this site, I'd steeled my resolve and found rest in the feeling that I was somehow supposed to have been there, for Lucas. Having done my job, surely I was granted a peaceful rest too. I drifted off to sleep in the comfort of that promise.
I left on backroads well behind the suburbanization of the Front Range. The countryside was filled with hobby farms and small holdings but had the feel of an almost gone Colorado. The times had changed and west of Longmont I rode past unguarded pot fields.
There was a very nice gravel trail between Longmont and Boulder. I aimed for that to find some peace away from traffic. The hardest part of bicycling isn't the hills, it's the whine of cars so when I got to it, I took the trail slow. It followed a creek then a canal and went past prairie dog towns where the critters weren't afraid of bicycles.
The trail dropped me out near the Boulder Mall and I made my way to the cluster of dirty kids with big dogs and tarot cards who were sitting at the top of it. I'd been going there for decades and not much had changed, a smoking ban, but it was like that last time I was there too. Also the same was that the kids ignored the rule and I rolled on when a cop came up to tell them to quit or get writ.
A little farther up Pearl but past the mall I met Matthew, one of the original Timothy Leary acolytes. He took me to the alley for a smoke. There were two Hispanic men in the alley with a pushcart. Matthew bugged them for a soda and I bought a coco water. This was all in Spanish. I learned the language traveling and Matthew learned it serving a year in a Mexican prison for selling pot in Mazatlan.
Matthew and I were birds of a feather. Much of what I encourage for a daily perspective may be glimpsed with psychedelics. My route is harder than drugs but acts faster and is more effective. I proved this to him with haiku. Master this one for psychedelic consciousness:
Birds in the morning
sing beauty into the day
then fly around it
I rode on then, aiming for Denver. I had to stop for electricity though and found a suitable deli with a shady patio. I aimed for the table right by the outlet just as a young man came out the deli door and aimed for the same spot. Nothing else to do but become friends and we both sat down.
My new friend was a patch man. He pairs vintage patches with vintage shirts and had a superb aesthetic sense such that the result was art. He was very successful on Etsy and was just getting into events. He loved this work and was a perfect example of what we can accomplish with purpose. He was everything I'd been talking about and when I explained my ideas of how and why it worked, he was empowered and in total agreement.
I had another encounter there. It was a boy, a student in a culinary marketing class, I mean, the class was in session in the store. He made a beeline when he saw me though. He was wearing a Dead and Company shirt and I had my brightest tiedye on. We were natural friends and he cut class to join me on the patio for a bit. This was different then with the artist. The boy and I were brothers.
Leaving from there I met two men. One was free, homeless in other words, and disabled. The other was excited because he'd just bought two pizza ovens mounted on trailers and he was going to take them to Arizona. One for Bisbee, one for Tucson. It was interesting because the men were friends, good friends, but of very different socioeconomic backgrounds. Throw all that out. We were brothers and they each gave me hugs, the disabled man struggling to his feet, such that I could go down the road loved.
From there, I finally found the right trail. There were several routes but I wanted the one that was no cars, all the way. It was hard to find but easy to follow once I got on it. It went almost all the way to Denver then there was just two miles of Pecos St. to the South Platte River Trail on the edge of downtown. It was almost dark by then but I planned to ride on.
I met a traveling man who didn't know how to travel, then I met my brother Gregory, aka Lionheart. We'd never met but we knew each other and we witnessed until it was good and dark then I rode on. I didn't get very far though.
Less than a mile up the trail across the river and under a bridge was a man playing guitar. I went across to listen. What he was playing was good and when I asked him what else he could play, he named a bunch of instruments when I'd really wanted to know what other songs he could play. We laughed. He could play anything and showed me. We were friends.
I rode on then. On and on into the night. I was planning to ride about fifteen more miles to some state land where I'd be able to camp. It was a long easy ride past factories mostly. The river stunk like sewage treatment chemicals and I wanted to get past that but never did. Aside from that, it was a good ride.
I of course met some people. There were at least eight people in that distance living from their bikes. There was one couple, each pulling overloaded trailers, who had just been rousted from their sleeping spot. He was hoarse from them yelling at each other and he also kept grabbing at his ribs. She said he'd been hit by a car
I rode on past all the city limits and laid out a stealth camp on state land at midnight.
I've mentioned before that it takes a lot of courage to sleep free and the night before this site, I'd steeled my resolve and found rest in the feeling that I was somehow supposed to have been there, for Lucas. Having done my job, surely I was granted a peaceful rest too. I drifted off to sleep in the comfort of that promise.
I left on backroads well behind the suburbanization of the Front Range. The countryside was filled with hobby farms and small holdings but had the feel of an almost gone Colorado. The times had changed and west of Longmont I rode past unguarded pot fields.
There was a very nice gravel trail between Longmont and Boulder. I aimed for that to find some peace away from traffic. The hardest part of bicycling isn't the hills, it's the whine of cars so when I got to it, I took the trail slow. It followed a creek then a canal and went past prairie dog towns where the critters weren't afraid of bicycles.
The trail dropped me out near the Boulder Mall and I made my way to the cluster of dirty kids with big dogs and tarot cards who were sitting at the top of it. I'd been going there for decades and not much had changed, a smoking ban, but it was like that last time I was there too. Also the same was that the kids ignored the rule and I rolled on when a cop came up to tell them to quit or get writ.
A little farther up Pearl but past the mall I met Matthew, one of the original Timothy Leary acolytes. He took me to the alley for a smoke. There were two Hispanic men in the alley with a pushcart. Matthew bugged them for a soda and I bought a coco water. This was all in Spanish. I learned the language traveling and Matthew learned it serving a year in a Mexican prison for selling pot in Mazatlan.
Matthew and I were birds of a feather. Much of what I encourage for a daily perspective may be glimpsed with psychedelics. My route is harder than drugs but acts faster and is more effective. I proved this to him with haiku. Master this one for psychedelic consciousness:
Birds in the morning
sing beauty into the day
then fly around it
I rode on then, aiming for Denver. I had to stop for electricity though and found a suitable deli with a shady patio. I aimed for the table right by the outlet just as a young man came out the deli door and aimed for the same spot. Nothing else to do but become friends and we both sat down.
My new friend was a patch man. He pairs vintage patches with vintage shirts and had a superb aesthetic sense such that the result was art. He was very successful on Etsy and was just getting into events. He loved this work and was a perfect example of what we can accomplish with purpose. He was everything I'd been talking about and when I explained my ideas of how and why it worked, he was empowered and in total agreement.
I had another encounter there. It was a boy, a student in a culinary marketing class, I mean, the class was in session in the store. He made a beeline when he saw me though. He was wearing a Dead and Company shirt and I had my brightest tiedye on. We were natural friends and he cut class to join me on the patio for a bit. This was different then with the artist. The boy and I were brothers.
Leaving from there I met two men. One was free, homeless in other words, and disabled. The other was excited because he'd just bought two pizza ovens mounted on trailers and he was going to take them to Arizona. One for Bisbee, one for Tucson. It was interesting because the men were friends, good friends, but of very different socioeconomic backgrounds. Throw all that out. We were brothers and they each gave me hugs, the disabled man struggling to his feet, such that I could go down the road loved.
From there, I finally found the right trail. There were several routes but I wanted the one that was no cars, all the way. It was hard to find but easy to follow once I got on it. It went almost all the way to Denver then there was just two miles of Pecos St. to the South Platte River Trail on the edge of downtown. It was almost dark by then but I planned to ride on.
I met a traveling man who didn't know how to travel, then I met my brother Gregory, aka Lionheart. We'd never met but we knew each other and we witnessed until it was good and dark then I rode on. I didn't get very far though.
Less than a mile up the trail across the river and under a bridge was a man playing guitar. I went across to listen. What he was playing was good and when I asked him what else he could play, he named a bunch of instruments when I'd really wanted to know what other songs he could play. We laughed. He could play anything and showed me. We were friends.
I rode on then. On and on into the night. I was planning to ride about fifteen more miles to some state land where I'd be able to camp. It was a long easy ride past factories mostly. The river stunk like sewage treatment chemicals and I wanted to get past that but never did. Aside from that, it was a good ride.
I of course met some people. There were at least eight people in that distance living from their bikes. There was one couple, each pulling overloaded trailers, who had just been rousted from their sleeping spot. He was hoarse from them yelling at each other and he also kept grabbing at his ribs. She said he'd been hit by a car
I rode on past all the city limits and laid out a stealth camp on state land at midnight.
