When I moved to Colorado two years ago, people told me to watch out for the outdoor-sports psychos.
This state, new friends kept warning me, is full of them.
They described them as people who head to the mountains every weekend in the winter to ski triple black diamonds.
They described them as the kind of folks who charge over rocks on their mountain bikes, mud spitting back at them. If they break a leg, these bikers curse their cast until it’s off so they can go flying down the mountain again.
It made me observe people differently than I used to. I looked for signs of overexertion.
I started noticing men with rock-hard calves, women with bubbling biceps. I noticed purple- splotch bruises too.
And I wondered why, in a city devoid of beaches, some people walked around with skin as red as a slab of raw steak. Then, I figured it out: Slathering on SPF 40 doesn’t do a thing if you’re sweating a quart of water an hour, clinging to the face of a mountain.
I came to realize that Coloradans bring new meaning to the term “extreme sports.” I told myself I’ll do the sane thing and stay away from them.
In my former city, I swore I’d never root for the Boston Red Sox because I was bred to love their nemesis, the Yankees. It was my birthright. Somehow, unbeknownst to me, a conversion occurred, and I found myself cheering them on as they beat the Yanks in last year’s World Series.
I vowed I wouldn’t let that happen here. I wouldn’t become a ski nut or a Lance Armstrong wannabe. I continued to spend my Saturday mornings brunching with friends, and filling my Sunday afternoons reading at the Tattered Cover.
But the transformation is happening, and I can’t help it. There must be something in this thin air.
Last Wednesday night, I found myself at a bicycle-training clinic at REI. I thought there would be a couple of dozen people. To my surprise it was standing room only; all 120 seats were taken.
Little kids were there with their parents, and men old enough to be my grandpa. One gray-haired man raised his hand to ask a sports physician about trouble he has riding with his two artificial hips.
People took furious notes about lactic acid and how to force your body to create enough so that it learns to increase the amount of oxygen that flows to your cells.
They talked about carb loading, electrolyte balance and bonking – which has nothing to do with sex, I assure you. (It means you’ve run out of energy.)
It was all fascinating. As I looked around the room, I didn’t see a bunch of mad outdoor sportaholics. They were smart, strong, happy- looking people. They were all talking about doing the Elephant Rock road course, and I decided I’d do it too.
I’m on my way to becoming an outdoor-sports nut. I’m logging about 50 miles a week on my bike – and it’s a hybrid. I’m shopping for a road bike, and once I get one, I know I’ll be clocking more miles at faster speeds.
It took me a while, but now I get it. The sport psychos look a little crazed because they’ve got this permanent smiley smirk on their faces. It’s from that adrenaline high. It’s a giddy feeling that stays with you. Prozac has nothing on it.
I’m not one of those outdoor- sports psychos – yet. But I’m getting there.
Cindy Rodríguez’s column appears Tuesdays and Thursdays in Scene. Contact her at 303-820-1211 or crodriguez@denverpost.com.
