Steamboat Springs, CO - A scene right from the Dukes of Hazzard

So, this trip is about hills. And lots of them. We struggle up mountain passes, and then get sweet rides down into the next valley...and then repeat, well, pretty much.

But even with tens of thousands of feet of climbing under our belts, these climbs can still require a couple of Snickers bars to see us through to victory, and sometimes a little extra something-something (to distract the mind from the burning sensation in the legs and the sweat on the brow) in the form of sweet, sweet music.

And so, a couple days ago, as we were climbing up a steep gravel road nearing the crest of a veritable hill, Ben is in the lead, and Bro'ing down on is Pod, game face on, and spinning hard. A hundred or so meters behind, the rest of us were were climbing pretty close together when Simon yells: "Trucks, RELAX". Now, at this point I should let you in on one of the most commonly used word of this trip, and 'relax' can be applied to pretty much anything, cars, hair-doos, stop signs, ducks....and every time it is used, it is pretty much a guaranteed belly-bursting laugh from all. Anyways, I digress, so as Simon commands these trucks barreling towards us to slow down, Grant and I look up to see what he's on about...and it's not a pretty sight.

And if you've seen the cinematographic masterpiece, the Dukes of Hazzard, you'd know exactly what I'm of about. But if not, picture two beat up pickup trucks in back state Wyoming, one being towed by the other....seemingly racing toward us... As the trucks showed no sign of slowing, Ben snaps out of his musical trance, and looks up and jumps off his bike and bolts to the side of the road. The rear truck slams into the front truck, and knocks it into the ditch and keeps barreling right for us farther down the hill, narrowly missing Ben.

We all follow Ben's lead, and run to the side of the hill as this fine piece of degraded rusty steel flies past us and comes to a halt only after the bottom of the hill. We stare, jaws dropped, as the truck door opens and this kid jumps out, swears, and majestically kicks the driver's door and then the ground...before marching his way back up the hill...in what looked to be a venerable temperament.

With adrenaline pumping through our veins faster than nitro in a boy-racer's car, we jump back up on the bikes to ride to the crashed truck...fists clenched around the handlebars with "you almost killed us!" speeches bubbling just below the surface. But to our disbelief, these...errr, hicks (sorry, no adequate synonym) were completely disinterested in us, and were inspecting the damage to the broken tail light and talking in their eloquent drawl about 'them brakes failin...'. Ben, with the look of rage in his eyes, was ready to explode. But, they just weren't interested, and didn't really say anything to us....thus avoiding striking a match on the inevitable powder keg that was Ben.

We just decide to leave it behind, ride to the top of the hill in disbelief, and sink our teeth into our bagels lathered in cream cheese and grape jam, asking each other, "did that actually happen?".