If you’ve been reading this blog from its beginning, you should already know that the area around Fruita, Colorado is one of my favorite places on Earth. At least two previous ThrowBack Thursdays (one and two) have been dedicated to the area. Today we go back to an even earlier visit to Fruita. The one where I nearly destroyed myself in what has got to be one of the most spectacular mountain bike crashes to ever happen with no witnesses. And if there’s time, I’ll take you on a hike up Mount Sanitas near Boulder. But we’ll start near Fruita.

If you aren’t already familiar with Fruita and aren’t sure how to pronounce it, don’t get too inventive. No need to invoke whatever you remember from your high school Spanish classes; it’s just “Fruit. Uh.” Today, we begin with the North Fruita Desert – an area that is very popular with Colorado mountain bikers. And that’s why I was there. I had travelled to Fruita with a few friends on our roughly annual western Colorado mountain biking trip. In the morning, we rode my favorite trail, known as The Kessel Run. Yes, really. Have a look at the area, won’t ya?

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My friends, who were all in much better shape and much more skilled in mountain biking than I, planned to try a very long and very technically challenging trail that afternoon. Upon hearing the description of the trail, I decided it would not be safe for me, so I set off alone in search of something easier. I had not yet learned how dangerous a false sense of safety could be. But I was about to.

I left the Kessel Run parking area, heading vaguely southeast. Within a few miles I encountered signs pointing to an area that was open to both mountain biking and ATVs, and I headed in. I found a myriad of dirt roads curving about, with a single straight road cutting through the curvy roads. The straight road featured a succession of tall, steep hills that made it look like a giant motocross course. This appeared to be well within my capabilities, so I accepted its challenge. I started off easy, riding the first few hills rather slowly, stopping and taking pictures along the way. These are those:

By this point, I was just itchin’ to hit these hills at full throttle. Fortunately, I had the sense to go back to the car and drop off my camera before I went nuts. And did I ever go nuts! The first couple downhills were fun as Hell, and I stormed my way over the third hill. After the crest of this hill was a short downhill run, followed by a flat area with two sizable (and dry) potholes, followed by a long drop at an angle of probably 35 to 40 degrees. I pedaled furiously through the initial downhill and the first part of the flat area. Then I reached the first “pothole”. Both ends of this pothole were sloped fairly gently, so I dropped into it and leaped out of it. This was fun. For a brief instant. I flew over most of the second pothole, which was much more vertical at its ends. My front wheel came down first, hitting the far end of the pothole at an inappropriate angle – the front wheel instantly came to a halt. The rear wheel, and the Cedric, kept going. I don’t remember whether I said it aloud or it just floated through my head, but the only thing that came to mind as I was flying bike-less through the air over this 35-40 degree downhill slope was, “Well, this ain’t good.”

I turned my head to avoid landing on my face and could see the bike soaring over me. I hit the road chest-first and bounced a time or two before skidding to a stop. I looked downhill and watched the bike bounce the rest of the way down. As I moved into a sitting position, I was amazed to find I hadn’t broken any ribs. I hadn’t even broken my glasses, though I did suffer a small gouge near my right eye where the hinge was driven into my face by the ground. Had I not been wearing a helmet the hinge probably would have been driven further “inward” and I would have lost my right eye. Yay for helmets! Anyway, a few days later, I got some photographs to illustrate the damage done (WARNING: Contains graphic depictions of a Cedric)…

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Let’s leave that ugliness behind us now, and head to the west side of Boulder, Colorado. Two months before the events described above, I hiked up Boulder’s Mount Sanitas, which was actually named after a sanitarium (leave me be!) that was located in the immediate area. There’s not a whole lot to explain here – just good scenery from the Mount Sanitas trail. Enjoy…

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We’ve made it through another ThrowBack Thursday with only minor injuries. Come on back next week when I travel to a historic neighborhood in Chatty Nougat. Goooooood night.