I never understood how anything involving a motorized vehicle could be considered a sport – until I bought my Jeep.
I always felt like using a motor is cheating. My concept of sport involves a high heart rate and the use of at least one major muscle, and I’m not talking about the one that pulls the trigger, shifts the gears or presses the accelerator.
This is particularly true when it comes to spending time in the wilderness. There’s nothing worse than the high- pitched sound of a motocross bike or snowmobile engine to spoil the peace of a nice backcountry experience. It’s irritating and distracting, like a mosquito buzzing in your ear at 10-second intervals. Most of us get out there to escape that kind of noise, not be confronted with it. That’s when my athletic prowess (the Colorado version of snobbery) kicks in. Whenever I’m choking on the dust of a motocross bike that just blasted past me on a trail, the first word that always pops into my head is “lazy.”
The whole Jeep thing was totally random. For the past six months, I’ve been driving around in the silver Honda CRV I inherited from my lunatic brother who sold everything and moved to Costa Rica. His car made all kinds of sense: It had full-time all-wheel drive, ran great, had tons of room, got decent gas mileage and had one of those obnoxiously elaborate Yakima rack systems. (Which, by the by, is not the best thing for a short girl who can’t see very well. First I almost broke my neck trying to lift my bike over my head to put it on the roof while standing on the back seat. Then I misjudged the height of that garage door and the rocket box got crunched like a broken potato chip.)
I decided it was high time I get an impractical car. Other than Psycho Paws, my bipolar 90-pound chow/Lab mix, I have no one to think about but myself. That can only mean one thing: fun. Besides, I didn’t look good in the CRV.
I woke up in the middle of the night screaming, “I KNOW WHAT I WANT! I WANT A JEEP!” I’d get a white one (feminine) with a black hard top (badass mountain chick) and a bikini top for summer (hair-blowin’-in-the-wind sexy). So I drove down to Denver a couple of weeks ago and bought one, just like that (proof positive they will give a car loan to just about anyone these days).
I practically jumped into the sales guy’s arms when he handed me the keys. He gave me a free Jeep baseball hat and a hug before I left. “You are such a Jeep girl,” he said with fatherly pride. I thought we were both going to cry.
I waited a whole 12 hours before breaking it in with a little off-road action. My boyfriend, Tim, and I took the three-hour tour up Taylor Pass, across Richmond Ridge and down Little Annie’s, and I’ve got to say it was the most fun I’ve had since I dyed my hair blond again. We drove up through deep forests strewn with hearty Aspen groves, held our breath across steep, exposed ridges, and maneuvered through tight slots between huge boulders and gut-wrenching dropoffs. We cruised through open meadows exploding with color, wildflowers in full bloom like a never-ending fireworks display. The still snow-strewn peaks of the Elk Mountain Range seemed to march along beside us, always standing tall in full view for us to admire and revere.
It was instant gratification at its finest. We drove more than 30 miles in three hours, covering more ground than we would have in three days of hiking, and I didn’t even have to change out of my flip-flops. The driving was fun, too. It was sort of like snowboarding, but with a stick shift. What more could a girl ask for?
At one point we came across a couple on mountain bikes loaded with gear, faces covered in dust and sweat. They definitely appeared to be on a multi-day tour, most likely coming to Aspen from Crested Butte via Pearl Pass. They pulled off to the side of the road so we could pass. I felt a pang of guilt as we drove by kicking up dust in our wake, my white shorts still pretty much clean, so I waved. They sort of waved back, and looked more grateful to have an excuse to stop and rest more than anything.
It was impossible to tell what they were thinking in our short passing, but I’m pretty sure I could guess.
Freelance columnist Alison Berkley can be reached at alison@berkleymedia.com.
