by Marc Peruzzi photo: Tyler Stableford

I'm another displaced New Englander in Colorado. One of those Red Sox Nation Massholes wearing his faded cap to Rockies playoff games like some blue blood Boston Brahman. But I'm not that guy. I'm of two-toilet Irish and stonecutter Italian descent. A Massachusetts McWop to the core. As a teen I once drove my poor, petite Irish mother to such a rage with my wise-assin' that she launched a plate of my dad's spaghetti at my head. I friggin' had it comin.' My kids—both born in the Mountain West—associate the Yankees with the Dark Side. Darth A-Roid. I make a point of skiing when the Broncos (excuse me, Stinkin' Donkeys) are on TV. But I'm always sure to work my schedule around the blessed Pats. I even like the coach. I can associate with dour Bill Belichick. He doesn't walk around grinning and jumping up and down like that newly minted Colorado village idiot Josh McDaniels, and neither do I.

So I don't really fit in, even though I've lived in Colorado for eight years now, plus a ski season in college. Unlike the happy natives, the sons and daughters of John Denver, I can drive in snow. I find shoveling fluffy powder a joy. I get sarcasm. I recognize the donut as a heat source. And I've never complained that the skiing is icy or the trails are muddy. Ice and mud involve rain. It only rains in Colorado at night—and never in winter. Then there's the lack of distinction between the seasons. Back home, winter is cold and gray, and spring is cold, gray, and muddy. Out here, with temperatures in the 60s under blue skies on the eastern and western slopes of the Rockies, March is as nice as a New Hampshire May—but no black flies. (My kids have been bitten by about five mosquitoes apiece in their lives. And we camp.)

This sounds idyllic, I know, but it doesn't work well with my psyche. When I was a kid I didn't like my foods touching. I'd move through one quarantined portion at a time: garlic bread, roast beef, potatoes, green beans—out. As an adult, I don't like my seasons touching. In the natural world I would ride road bikes in the spring, mountain bikes in the summer and fall, and I would exclusively ski all winter—Nordic, alpine, and backcountry, but skiing. A hint of Indian summer screws with my program. And rapid weather fluctuations in winter alienate me in an existential way. The angst of Camus and Sartre blown in on a Chinook wind. In Latin the word fluctuatus means varying, agitated or restless. Flip-flop weather in February agitates me. Our mudroom (never muddy) is a confusion of Sorels and sandals, puffy coats and windbreakers, ski helmets and sun hats. Every time I try to grow a beard during an extended (three weak) cold snap, the snow melts and we're riding bikes in shorts again. A beard just looks stupid on a roadie. Not that I really want to be riding my bike in February. That isn't riding, it's training. The idea of training makes me restless. Or in my native Massholian: It friggin' weirds me out. Fluctuo, fluctuare, fluctuavi, fluctuatus! Give me the four seasons. Just one at a fluctuo time.

Oh well. Slowly Colorado is having its way with me. I'm becoming less rigid with every passing amorphous season thing. A late November mountain biking trip to Fruita (Spanish for Fruit-ahhh) last fall has me anxious to return before so-called winter gives out. Maybe I'll ski three days at Aspen Highlands then tour the backcountry outside of Carbondale before popping over to the high desert singletrack. Or I could stick around the Front Range and get my endurance in order skate skiing hills on cold snow at Eldora and riding buffed and dry asphalt 20 minutes away in Boulder—home to some of the best road riding in the country and my bike. And one of these days I'm going to get my shoulder patched up so I can ski Monarch, ride the Rainbow Trail, and paddle the Arkansas in a weekend. The state is riddled with these little multi-sport migrations and spring(ish) is the time to take advantage.

Listen to me fluctuating. I'm finally embracing what Colorado has to offer. The seasons are determined by elevation and sunlight. In the past 10 days I've mountain biked, road biked, ice skated, ran trail, skate skied, skied groomers with the kids, and cat skied (actually skied on cats) shin-deep powder with buddies. That's a pretty fun mix. It's a multi-sport mindset that I never thought I'd buy into. It takes you out of your routine. Makes you want to mix up the food on your plate and dance around on the sidelines like Josh McDaniels. Well, not really.

Spring Flyfishing in Steamboat, Colorado, Read Fish the Boat

Spring Mountain Biking in Fruuita, Colorado, Read Ride the Fruit

GENERAL INFORMATION

From the Spring 2010 issue