Finistère

Boulder County Fair and conquering fear

2012-08-17T19:45:00.001-06:00

Sequoia surprised us by asking to do the jump bungee thing at the Boulder County Fair. I was happy that she made the developmental jump to try something way beyond her comfort level and I was able to make a good photo as well. Good job Noodle.

Bikes and Brownstone

2012-05-31T11:04:00.000-06:00

Saw these bikes outside my favorite new coffee shop, a place called La Vita Bella on Main Street in Longmont.

State Tennis, sun burns, cold concrete and Balloon Boy

2012-05-14T22:15:00.000-06:00

Jen Weissmann prepares to return a serve during the 5A State Tennis Championships at the Gates Tennis Center on May 10.

Last time I shot State Tennis I had a staff position at the Loveland Reporter-Herald and Balloon Boy flew above the skies of Northern Colorado. I remember preparing to shoot a match featuring Alex Clinkenbeard of Loveland High School when my wife called to tell me that there was a boy floating in a balloon over Weld County. I felt sick thinking of the little guy up there an so helpless. It was with this heavy heart that I shot the match. But as it turned out Balloon Boy was a hoax and I fell for it. That story died away and months later, as I sat in a conference room at the Reporter-Herald learning that I would be laid off, I found out the staff position proved to be ephemeral as Balloon Boy. However, as I shot this week's tournament for my old paper, one thing that has stayed constant - the quality of high school sports at the state level.

Loveland High School senior Jen Weissmann battled her way to the semifinals on May 10 and 11 in the 5A State Tournament at the Gates Tennis Center in Denver. She made the first match I shot on Thursday look easy. It was an unusually hot May day and I forgot that sunscreen was an essential part of a photojournalists kit. I guess I lost a thing or two during the two plus year break between losing my staff job and working as a document monkey for an oil and gas company. Weissmann won the game and I got a nice base tan on my legs that hurt like Hell.

You think I would learn that being prepared for the elements is an essential skill while shooting outside in Colorado. Well, it is, but I didn't remember. The next day the weather turned south and I showed up in nothing more than a T-shirt and hoodie (and before anyone worries too much about my sanity, I did wear pants). I was fine as I stood around waiting for the match to start but as soon as I plopped my ass down on the cold concrete of the Gates Tennis Center's west center court, all heat escaped through the contact patch where it met the court. I prayed for a quick two set match. I lost track of who was ahead and then tried to make sense of the scoring mechanism they have on the side of each net. Bottom line, I didn't care who was ahead (sorry Jen. In my heart I was rooting for you, but the cold got the best of me).

Jen Weissmann did battle but it was obvious early on that Kelli Woodman of Cherry Creek was on her game. Weissmann went on to take 3rd in State just a year after she stood atop the podium as the champion of 5A No. 1 singles. I felt for her but she seemed to take it in stride. After the loss I watched for a reaction. Nothing on the court. I followed her to the parking lot in the off chance she would show a bit more emotion than on the court. No such luck. She turned to someone who might have been her father and asked for her cell phone as if she was coming from practice and needed to talk with a friend to make plans for the evening. I questioned whether I had just shot the right match. I was hoping for a little more reaction but you have to take what you're given. Jen did look disappointed during the match as she lost a hard-faught point here or there but when it came down to the final match point, she showed the poise of a much more mature athlete. She knew she had been beat and she brushed it off with the grace of a champion.

Tied down

2012-03-09T18:01:00.001-07:00

I passed this flag on Highway 392 on the way from Windsor toward Greeley Friday, March 9. I almost kept driving but I heard the voice of my photojournalism professor Kenn Bisio telling me the story of Dorthea Lange and the pea picker sign that lead to the iconic photo Migrant Mother. As the story goes, Dorthea Lange drove through the depression-ravaged backroads of California while she made photos for the Farm Security Administration. She nearly kept driving when she saw a sign for a pea pickers camp but decided to turn around. I'm glad I turned around. My photo will not become iconic but it does represent how many feel about the state of our nation right now. It doesn't matter what side you are on, chances are you're losing faith in the people that are supposed to guide us through one of the toughest economic times since Lange made that iconic photograph. Many feel the spirit of America is tied down by the people that run it. No longer are we a nation proud to hold our head high as a beacon to the rest of the world. The rest of the world sees us in the same boat as they are: cash strapped with no idea of how to get out of it. I have no doubt that we will emerge as a nation that will once again set an example to the world. I'm just not impressed with the folks in power that ignore the trouble we're in as they try to appease their voters. Time will tell if they can get it together or if they will drive past the solution.

Snow Bike

2012-02-23T11:31:00.002-07:00

I found this bike in Boulder near the 29th Street Apple store. It's not the way I would treat a bike but it makes a nice image. Interesting how the ground must have been just a little warmer to melt the snow. I'm sure that chain's going to make some noise the next time it grinds around the chainring.

68 miles for Mom

2012-02-04T14:38:00.000-07:00

"Wanna ride 68 miles for Mom?" was the text I sent to my brother, Ed. I was grasping for a fitting way to pay tribute to the woman who brought me into this world and had recently left it. For some reason at that moment the thought of throwing a leg over the frame of my bike and suffering for 68 miles helped me process the loss.

Ed said he was in but we needed a plan. When and where? It was late summer and Mom's September 20th birthday wasn't far off. That seemed like the best date. The weather could be unpredictable but not to the point that I couldn't plan it. I sketched out a tentative plan to ride from Morrison to Pine Junction as a way of hitting several family markers along the way.

In retrospect, the date I picked wasn't ideal: my 68-mile tribute fell just two days after I scheduled to complete my first century road bike trip. My body would surely revolt with 100 miles in my legs and just one day of recovery in between. Whatever. Mom had faced some tough times - more in her life than I would face in the span of a couple days - so I put the thought out of my mind and committed. On September 20, 2012, I threw my bike into the car and headed toward Morrison where my ride would begin. Ed had since bailed, citing a busy workload. No problem. It would be my personal tribute to her.

The sky was overcast as I drove past the rock wall in the Hogback that serves as a gateway to the town of Morrison. The same rock wall that years before Ed and I had escaped to climb in the wake of our Grandfather's passing. Hmm. Seems to be a theme here I thought as I parked the car at the end of town.

Morrison conjures up memories of day trips to Red Rocks and ice cream with my family. My Grandfather - we called him "Pap" - liked to point out that the first letters of the names of the four towns from Morrison to Evergreen spelled out his first name: M-I-K-E.

I looked up at the sky as I changed into my riding kit inside the car. I wished away the clouds as best I could as I checked and double-checked my gear for the ride. I thought I was more prepared for this than the century two days ago. Truth is, I had been dreading this ride more than the 100 miler. I realized I was preparing for the two rides in a different way. Training for any distance bike ride requires lots of time in the saddle but adding the emotional weight of a recent death changes the approach drastically. I wasn't worried about the length of the ride but I had a vision that I would suddenly collapse on the side of the road under the sheer emotional load. How do you train for that? So with that vision framed my mind, I clipped into my pedals and headed west on Highway 74 out of Morrison.

The grade up the canyon isn't very steep so slipping into a groove is easy. The road takes many left and right turns as it mimics the path of Bear Creek. I looked down toward it and thought how the water was a victim of gravity. Then I laughed as the steepening grade of the road forced a shift. We're all victims of gravity. I shifted again and regained my fluid groove.

A passing car broke this revery. I saw it pass out of the corner of my eye. A white pickup with a topper on it. I laughed again recognizing a bumper sticker that said "Gently On, Gently Off." The pickup belonged to Bob Smith, a man who served not only as a common landlord for me and Mom at different times in our lives but as a dear member of our family through the marriage. My brother Ed married Bob's daughter Sara. He's also a master of the ceramic arts. Bob, no doubt, was on his way back home to the hamlet of Idledale, the first town up the canyon from Morrison.

Idledale plays a larger part in our family history than being the home of Bob Smith and the providing the letter I in Mike. We lived there for a while when I was a kid. I remember moving into the apartment under a storefront on Highway 74. The doorway to the old store was flanked with red geraniums that Mom planted. My brothers and I thought we hated living there and Mom wasn't a big fan of it either. It was far away from the city and to get there you had to wind your way up that road in sometimes snowy weather. I can still hear Mom saying "Whooh" as she grabbed onto the door handle of Dad's brown step van that we called the "Caca Box." My Dad hugged the turns as he jammed it into one of the three gears it had. I was glad to have 20 gears as I wound my way toward the little town.

Mom's house on Shady Lane.

Idledale serves as muse for many of the family stories that have become family legend. Like the time Mom and Dad decided to celebrate Hannukah rather than Christmas. Or the time a self-proclaimed descendent of Sitting Bull played songs on his guitar after he stopped at one of Mom and Dad's garage sales. Now, I'm not sure why Mom agreed to this one, but they also took in a couple that pretended to be married as they traveled the country. We only know they pretended because the "husband" came back a year later to tell us he was sorry for lying to us. He also nearly burned the house down with a cigarette left on the edge of a TV. At least he had the presence of mind to quickly return from his walk to Evergreen to make sure it didn't catch fire. I still remember the mark it left.

The reasons we thought we hated the little town turned out to draw us all back. As we aged we remembered the quiet respite the town offered. Ed and Sara moved into a home on Shady Lane in Idledale owned by Sara's father, Bob (it was the same home where Eddie pinched weed from a plant as a kid). Jane and I moved into the home after Ed and Sara moved up the road to Kittredge.

Mom moved into a neighbor named Maureen's old place when Mom had to leave her condo in Aurora. Another family story arises from this time on Shady Lane. During a surprise birthday dinner for Mom, my brother, Rob encountered a bear at the dumpster. Ed and I were used to the frequent visits from local wildlife and we made sure we could get a good look at the beast. Our enthusiasm wasn't shared by Mom. I can still hear her the protests of our actions from the safety of her doorway.

Our time on Shady Lane holds many memories for us, but none more vivid than the time Jane and I received a call from our friend Gary. He let us know that his mother had unexpectedly passed away. Jane and I lit a candle for her as we cried in disbelief at the cruel suddenness of life.

I passed the intersection of Shady Lane and Highway 74. Mom and Sequoia would have walked hand in hand as they traveled this way toward the Post Office to get mail. The image of their time spent together chokes me up as I ride toward the Post Office and past the old store that served as our home the first time we lived there. The faint smell of geranium fills my nostrils.

The old store on Highway 74. The apartment is around back.

I look ahead to the former home of Virginia Powers. Town lore said that Mrs. Powers was a witch. She even had a Phrenology head in her attic that we could see from the road. We didn't know it was a Phrenology head at the time (I'm sure we all thought it was the stuffed head of her last victim). I believed she was a witch like I believed in the Tooth Fairy. Then one day Mrs. Powers asked me to do some chores for her and what followed removed all doubt. I was a bit scared but the thought of earning a little money for a few chores might be worth the risk. I could also put to rest the mystery of whether or not she was a witch. I arrived and did a few chores like taking out the trash or moving a piece of furniture but then she asked me to do one last thing. She said she liked to do a periodic check of her attic just to be sure there was no one in there (this is where the Phrenology head was, remember).

Sprite and Donuts.

I went up the stairs to what was more of a loft than an attic. I did a cursory check - no one but our Phrenology friend - but I started thinking of Hansel and Gretel and how the witch tricked them. Could this be a trick? I hurried down, reported that their was no one living in her attic, accepted the payment of a box of donuts for my services and quickly left her home. Upon receiving donuts and not money, I was instantly suspicious that this was the real trick. Ed and I figured the donuts were poisoned. In our minds she was a witch. We chucked the donuts into Bear Creek near the spot we often got free Sprite from a vending machine.

Upon telling my mother of the visit to Mrs. Powers' house, she shook her head and told us that Mrs. Powers was just a lonely elderly lady that wanted some company. I wasn't persuaded but saw Mrs. Powers differently the next time I encountered her. We convinced Mom to let us go to the "Harvest" celebration at the Idledale Community Church on Halloween. She was reluctant, saying it was just a replacement for a holiday we shouldn't be celebrating as Christians anyway. In the end she realized the lack of social opportunities for kids in Idledale and caved to our pleadings. I was shocked to see Mrs. Powers at a church event. Witches didn't believe in God. And she usually kept to herself in her A-frame house with her imaginary people. But now I saw her away from her environment, smiling as kids bobbed for apples. She didn't participate but it seemed she enjoyed the youthful company of the town's kids. I'm sure she remembered back to her youth when she would have eagerly bobbed for apples and gorged herself on candy. It was one of the first times that I remember thinking Mom had a good idea. Maybe she was right about Mrs. Powers and I had it all wrong. Mrs. Powers wasn't a witch but an aging woman who needed a youthful charge from time to time. Maybe she asked me to look in her attic because she was scared or even a little confused as old age set in. From then on I wasn't afraid of Mrs. Powers. It still doesn't explain that Phrenology head, though.

I continued up the canyon, past Little Park and Lear o' the Bear Open Space Park where Jane and I first walked with Sequoia. I rode past Kittredge where Ed and Sara and their kids lived for so long and held such fantastic parties that I didn't want to leave. Kittredge meant more to me than the K in Mike. It was the location for the "double-wide tough shed" that initially housed the business known as Stark and Gregor. This is where I worked simultaneously with my brothers, sister and mother as an assistant to Ed in his appraisal business. It's where Dad surprised Mom by arriving in full clown (She was not amused). It's where I made a decision to quit Stark and Gregor to follow a career path that gave me purpose. All the while Mom's omnipresent support buoyed my decisions.

Evergreen was a blur. The E in Mike holds no personal family stories that I remember. It's a place I've always loved. A place I've always felt held a constant for me in my life. I cannot explain it more than that. It also served as the place I transitioned from Highway 74 to Highway 73.

My next stop was on North Turkey Creek Road, just off of Highway 73. Evergreen Memorial Park is the final resting place for my grand parents and my niece Amanda's first child. It had to be one of the stops since it tied my mother's past with her parents to the future legacy of her own children and grand children. I thought this would be one of the places I would crumble but it was more of a serene experience. Mom always had strong ties to her parents. She lived with them as an adult from time to time. We even moved in with her parents when they were building a home in Pine Junction. And, of course, her children, grand children and great grand children were always the focus of her life. She had a lot of them - 4 children and 10 grand children and 2 great grand children - and she never hesitated to love them and listen when anyone had a problem. I sat near the graves and reflected on Mom's legacy. Without her none of us could have existed. Amazing that one person can have such a profound impact and remain as humble about it. I was cold from the rain but I felt a sense of calm - nothing like the day we buried Pap and I cried through my aviator shades (Top Gun still had a strong hold on me then). I remounted my bike and rode toward Conifer.

My brother Rob comes to mind every time I take this section from Evergreen to Conifer. I think about the time we drove back from Grandma's funeral. The road was slick from fresh snowfall. Rob drove his VW bug down the windy road toward Evergreen. Suddenly, we were sliding into the other lane. The brakes didn't work so Rob put his size 12 out the door and did a reverse-Flintstone and stopped the car. I was pretty young but this is how I remember it.

I always thought that quirky and eccentric people must live in Evergreen and Conifer. I probably get this from a trip we once took to Evergreen. Mom heard that the occultist and Church of Satan founder Anton Lavey had a home in Evergreen. She wanted to look for it. This always seemed weird to me. Satanists belonged in cities like New York or LA, not in the small town of Evergreen. My idea that quirky people lived there might also come from my experience with some of the people I've met in Evergreen, specifically Graham from the Wildflower Cafe. From what I know of Graham, he was a British expat that managed the cafe. He was a charismatic character known for his outbursts of laughter and genial manner, if at times a little crude. One time upon arriving at the cafe for lunch, Graham greeted me in this way: "How's it going you Mexican Son-of-a-bitch!" It took me a second to make the connection from what would be considered by most to be an extremely politically incorrect moment. Graham was simply putting into perspective yesterday's news that coach Dan Issel of the Denver Nuggets had used the same racial slur to slam a fan. Graham wasn't racist from what I knew of him but he fit nicely into the word eccentric. Mom probably wouldn't have found it humorous but she would have liked Graham. My suspicions about the town's inhabitants were additionally confirmed when I saw this woodcarving of Smokey the Bear among other woodcarvings at a building along the highway. Then came the gnome on a mailbox.

Rain continued as my ride wound past the Yellow Barn in Conifer toward the most worrisome part of my trip: the ride along Highway 285. I thought it would take me longer to make the stretch from Conifer to Pine Junction. It was bad. Parts of it had no shoulder so I took to lane number one in my effort to remain visible. Mom wouldn't be happy about this. She didn't like her kids to take unnecessary risks. I felt this was necessary so she would have to deal with this one.

Dig Dug and Donkey Kong.

I rolled into the safety of Pine Junction, the spot that served as an escape from many days of boredom as kids. My family moved there with my grand parents. Us city boys weren't accustomed to the rigors of country life. We made the one-mile trek to and from the Pine Junction Country Store to play video games. Again, Mom was agreeable to this, probably since there wasn't much else to do. Thanks Mom.

I pointed my wheel down Mount Evans Boulevard toward the home my parents and grand parents hoped would serve as a combined family home. It seemed so far the last time I rode this stretch. Then again it would have been on a single-speed BMX not a road bike with 20 gears. When I rolled up to the old home, the rain still threatened but seemed to be moving off. I looked down the driveway toward the home that I in my small way helped build. It looked a bit sad. I remember nailing shingles to the roof. I'm sure Mom wasn't 100% behind this one. I had the brief thought that my brothers and sister should try to buy this house since it was for sale. But, I didn't feel an attachment to it. Our time in Pine Junction didn't last long. I always questioned the decision to move there with our grand parents. It didn't take long for the situation to dissolve into a family feud.

I remembered the cold nights under electric blankets as the home was built around us. Eventually we had a wood stove. Pap nearly burned down the home when he put too big a log into the stove. He couldn't close the door so air fed the fire and made it so hot that the stove pipe turned red. I remember carving play areas into the hard dirt for the GI Joe figures that would eventually meet the business end of Jason Marino's BB gun.

In many ways I grew up fast here - I remained a child playing with my toys but I endured the arguments that separated my parents from my grand parents. Even though I was there about a year, the memories from that time seem to be more than could fit into that short period. My parents decided that they should move out. Moving from home to home was just part of our lives. We moved every two or so years. It continued to the day Mom died. She had lived in dozens of homes in her life. I'm not sure why but it remained a pattern.

1392 Mount Evans Boulevard could be your's for low price of $279,900.

Since I felt no need to linger and dwell on the ugly past, I got back on the bike and headed home. I retraced my route to Morrison. This time infused with the memories of my mother's life intertwined with my own, I also had the benefit of gravity to ease the route. I used it well as I carved turn after turn toward down Highways 73 and 74 toward Kittredge. I stopped briefly for a photo of a rainbow.

What does it mean?

Earlier I asked for a sign. I'm sure this was not it but the rainbow was beautiful. I continued on toward Morrison. I misjudged my route. I still had miles to make up to complete the 68 miles. I headed up to Red Rocks Amphitheater. It seemed fitting that I had to make this detour. Mom and I went to see Chris Isaak play the Rocks. We were amazed at how he effortlessly ran up the steps with his guitar and still had breath to sing. I paused to catch my breath. I set my bike down on the steps and looked down at the number

Dumb luck?

on the step. I had stopped on seat 68. This might have been the sign but I was still not convinced. Jane told me of the time she climbed 400 steps for her mother in Nepal without stopping so that she could clear any bad Karma between she and her mother. This isn't a concept that would fly with Mom but I picked up my bike and walked the steps at Red Rocks. At the top I remounted and began the descent down toward the Hogback. At this point I was looking for more miles to reach 68. I went over the Hogback and down the other side. I came into Morrison via Rooney Road. Still needed miles. I headed toward the Fort restaurant. I figured there and back would give me just about what I needed. I was spinning my wheels but that seemed appropriate. I thought of my ride as a metaphor for my mother's life. While it didn't exactly mimic the ups and downs she felt through life, it definitely seemed appropriate to spin the wheels toward the end. Near the end of Mom's life she had lost her job. She searched fruitlessly for months. She found a job for a few weeks as a medical assistant of some sort. The driving and heavy lifting were too much. For her the end was hard.

Spinning wheels.

I headed toward the Fort. Road crews were in the process of resurfacing Highway 8. It was rough. It was hard to make the few miles toward the restaurant. I made it to the restaurant and turned around toward Morrison. The road was no less rough on this side but I knew the destination was just ahead. I powered into my hardest gear. I was feeling pretty good but I knew it was coming to an end and I needed to be done with it. No emotion. No pain. Just a job to be done. I turned the cranks for what seemed like hours over the rough road. The faster I went, the smoother it seemed. And then, it really did get smooth. The pavement was new. I felt like I was floating and I picked up speed without more effort. Suddenly the effort made sense. I was no longer losing effort by going over the bumps in the road as I propelled myself forward. I was simply propelling myself forward. Perhaps this was the sign I was meant to see - or feel. One thing I always admired about Mom was her perseverance. She was knocked about by life but faced it head on. She maintained her sense of humor and wit and didn't fall apart. The end of her life was rough like the road but she seemed to rise above it and float gracefully - a way of existing in the chaos of her life. The way she transitioned to death was as sudden for her and the family as the transition from rough to smooth road was for me.

Complete.

I made the right-hand turn back onto Highway 74 that would take me to my car. I circled around the town of Morrison a few times to make my 68 miles - still spinning my wheels to achieve a goal. I thought about how Rob was there when Mom needed him. This gave Mom some extra time to hang on until most of us could be at the hospital to say our final goodbyes. I looked down at my cycling computer as I pulled up next to the car. It clicked over to 68 miles. I stopped unclipped my pedals, loaded my bike into the car. I sat in the drivers seat fumbling with my keys as I paused for a moment to think about what I had just done. I looked into the rear view mirror in the direction of the canyon to see if the way was clear. There was nothing from that direction obstructing my progress so I turned the key in the ignition, pulled the car out of my parking spot and headed home.

Happy

2012-01-31T23:19:00.003-07:00

If all goes according to plan, I will own this soon.

Desolation

2012-01-28T11:22:00.000-07:00

I have this photo as my desktop background right now. It was taken last summer as I was getting the Hell out of Dodge - literally. It reminds me that the landscape I travel through on my way to gather documents is harsh and unwelcoming. I don't like to think that we have tamed the land but we have developed ways to exist within it. Monday I leave for North Dakota. The land is as desolate as what you see here but much more remote in some ways. Somehow I'll find a way to exist there.

House Hunt Sunset

2012-01-28T10:30:00.001-07:00

The silver lining to a frustrating day of house hunting.

What long hours on the bike makes you photograph

2011-09-17T09:02:00.001-06:00

Pinto brochure

2011-09-17T08:20:00.001-06:00

Talk about a weird design but then again so was the car.

USA Pro Cycling Challenge - Stage 6

2011-09-17T00:50:00.000-06:00

This guy rode his bike from Eldorado Springs to Golden to watch Stage 6 of the USA Pro Cycling Challenge. I did the same but I did it on a road bike and didn't smoke like this guy. At least he had the right beer for the occasion. Wouldn't seem right to drink anything but Coors on Lookout Mountain.

Summer of (Bicycle) Love

2011-09-16T15:53:00.000-06:00

It's been the Summer of (Bicycle) Love. It's the only part of my summer that was planned. I knew going into the season that I wanted to log hundreds of miles and wear out some tires - especially that omnipresent spare one that has haunted my midsection since elementary school.

It started out simply enough - ride every available day I could - then it turned into a more serious and focused effort with intervals and thoughts of getting a heart rate monitor. By the end of June, I had lost enough weight to notice my climbing improve. I was on the right track until the train of life derailed mid summer (more on that later). I was forced to garage the bike for much of the month of July.

Come August 1, however, I was back on the bike spending serious chunks of time in the saddle. Soon my 22-mile training ride to Lyons seemed inadequate to give me the workout I craved. I started passing my usual turnaround and ventured up the canyon on Highway 7 toward Allenspark. I recruited anyone who would follow - or lead in the case of my friend Patrice who smokes me every time we ride.

Every spare moment was spent riding and every spare braincell was spent thinking of the next ride. I'm sure my wife tired of hearing about it and wished I was home more often, as I spent a guilty amount of time building a butt callous like never before.

The USA Pro Cycling Challenge came to town and all I could do was watch it. This captured my attention more than the Tour de France because the cyclists raced across roads I had taken and I recognized the names of the passes. I got goosebumps when I heard Phil Liggett say the names of mountains I had known all my life. It wasn't a far off Mont Ventoux or Col du Galibier that I heard of but never saw, let alone climbed on a bike - it was Cottonwood Pass and Lookout Mountain - names as familiar to me as Alcott Street and Mount Evans Boulevard, the streets I had spent my youth. When my friend Mark Stookesberry called me to ask if I would ride to the top of Cottonwood Pass to watch the race, I couldn't resist.

We camped out of Buena Vista and rode up the pass the next morning to watch the race. Like many of the racers, I had never ridden to excess of 12,000 feet, but that's where the similarities ended. Our two and one half hour slog up the pass was tough and the view at the top was worth the effort. We arrived well before the peloton did. Enough time for the clouds to collect and release rain, lightening and hail that scared those off the adjacent mountaintops. The rain didn't dampen the crowd's spirits and it stopped just before the breakaway and peloton powered through. They were fast.

It was all over in a matter of seconds and I wondered if it was worth all the effort. There I was surrounded by hundreds of cyclists, all of whom rode up a difficult climb just to watch some of the worlds greatest cyclists ride by for a few seconds. I pondered this as I mounted my now-muddy bike for the descent. I couldn't even clip in for all the mud that clogged my cleats. I was cold - perhaps not too far from hypothermia - but I had a great time. What other sport allows you such close access to the playing field. Not only do you get to be so close that you can run alongside your favorite athlete in a thong or gorilla suit but you get to feel the same agony of the climb and the ecstasy of the descent that they feel.

As the Summer of (Bicycle) Love winds down and the rain I experienced on the mountain becomes commonplace here in town, I find myself riding a bit less. There are still several miles ahead of me this season, however. I have at least three long rides planned before the weather turns for good. I'll spend an upcoming Sunday afternoon completing my first century. Two days later, on my mother's birthday, I'll dedicate 68 miles to her - one mile for each year she lived. The following week I hope to make the trek to Estes Park with my friend Patrice. This ride will carry less weight than the previous one but will be no less difficult - at least physically. And it's been a ride we have wanted to do for over two years but our schedules didn't mesh. One thing I have learned this summer: take advantage of every opportunity possible - you never know when it will be your last chance to do it.

Through the lens...

2011-01-25T17:13:00.000-07:00

Here's a couple of photo nerds geekin' out on a lens.

Sorry Bellamy

2010-10-21T17:33:00.000-06:00

Greeley is a great photojournalism town. I spent many months there as an intern, often looking for good feature photos to fill the holes left by poor planning in the newsroom. "We need a feature for A1" was all the direction I ever got. So I roamed the numbered streets of Greeley looking for anyone doing anything interesting. My internship covered most of the winter and Greeley isn't Boulder - people ride their bikes in the snow in Boulder - in shorts and T-shirts. In Greeley people stay inside and do who knows what so I had a rough time finding people outside doing stuff. What I wanted was a found feature: I considered it cheating to go to the library or rec center to "shoot fish in a barrel." I liked the challenge of getting someone doing something unexpected or even expected but seen in a new way. It made for some cold afternoons and evenings as I wandered the neighborhoods from 3rd Street and 8th Avenue to 8th Street and 3rd Avenue.

Never during my internship did I come across anything as interesting as this. I was meeting another photographer friend of mine for lunch when, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted this guy and his granddaughter cruising down the street. I did not see the dog at first. They were window shopping so I followed them for a bit. It felt good to be on the feature hunt again. I thought about my lunch meeting and quickly shot the trio and got their information in case the Greeley Tribune was looking for a feature.

I met up with my friend. He said he saw me shooting the feature and cursed me for my luck. He was on the hunt too.

Torrington Turtle

2010-09-27T14:20:00.000-06:00

This turtle caught my eye while I was heading south from Torrington, Wyo. the other day. I thought I had passed a rock in the road until I saw a little head poking out of it. I stopped to get a better look and decided to move it to the side of the road that seemed to be its destination. I noticed its beautiful underside and figured it wouldn't mind a quick photo shoot after I just saved its life. I liked the juxtaposition of the turtle and barbed wire so I set it atop the fence. Don't worry, I put him on the ground afterward where he safely made his way to a nearby marsh.

Finding freedom on Liberty Road

2010-08-30T21:51:00.003-06:00

Call me Sisyphus. The road to Torrington, Wyo. is a diagonal bit of two-lane asphalt that extends toward the Wyoming-Nebraska border. Not much lines the road but the occasional wild sunflowers and rows upon rows of domestic ones. I contemplate how many sunflower seeds will be spit in the direction of photojournalists covering prep baseball games - It's happened to me. I have been driving this stretch daily from my home in Longmont in a seemingly futile task of gathering documents. It only occasionally feels like I'm getting to the bottom of the list of docs but they keep sending me more lists.

I alluded to the monotony in a previous post and how I attempt to stem the feeling of making the donuts by hitting the asphalt on my bike. Today I brought the donut killer with me and planned to ride after work. Apart from the occasional surprised local, the ride wasn't much different than riding the farm roads around Longmont. I headed east from my hotel and spotted Liberty road. The name spoke to me and I took it north. The road climbed gradually and leveled out just before Forest Lawn Cemetery. I thought of those who fought for Liberty and maybe lost their own in the process.

In a quest to gain my own Liberty, I followed the road as it curved west for a bit and then resumed it's northerly uphill quest. I paused when the road turned to dirt. The ride had been quiet, but now that I had stopped and the sizzle of rubber on wet pavement ceased, I heard water burst free from irrigation pipes on its way to nourish crops.

I clipped back into the pedals and headed south toward the hotel. I knew that my nightly ritual to keep the monotony at bay had worked. I checked the time on my phone and noticed the map of the area was on the screen. I saw the name of the road but it looked different from what I saw on the first road sign. I zoomed into the area that contained the road on my map and saw the three letters between "Liberty" and "Road" come into focus. The road I was on was called Liberty Oil Road. The spectre of oil is never far off. I shoved my phone back into my jersey pocket and stomped on the pedals. Tomorrow I'll make the donuts but not right now.

In Dakota Territory - The sequel

2010-07-28T23:28:00.001-06:00

I didn't realize it when I checked into the Comfort Inn in Dickinson, North Dakota that I would be spending the next few nights in a county that shared my surname. To my knowledge I am not related to the person for whom the county is named but I intend to find out. In the meantime it served as a good backdrop for me to practice fill flash with my Canon G-11 - a task only slightly harder than advanced algebra. The job was made slightly harder considering my camera's LCD was reversing the words on the sign (as well as the rest of the image). Not a bad image considering the subject who is in bad need of a shave.

I hate the new normal

2010-07-08T15:57:00.001-06:00

As I sit here in a park in Cheyenne, a town I have no attachment to, drinking a frappachino that tastes the same as one I could have gotten 100 ot 1000 miles away, a realization hits me. I need to get out of this freaky homoginous, monotonous dream that my life has turned into. Five months ago I left the offices at the Reporter-Herald having just hat the "it's not you, it's me" conversation with my editors and the General manager of the paper. Fast forward three months: I now find myself face to face with the man who laid me off and I have to photograph an event sponsored by the paper. All the key players are there - at least the ones that were at the layoff meeting. This makes for an awkward hour of shooting but I manage to cobble together a few photos that are not award winning but publishable. I get into the car for the hour-long trip north to the windy state of Wyoming.

You see, I lucked into a job just three days after they laid me off and I've been doing it ever since. I say lucked into because of the timing, not because of the glamour of the job. I drive 2.5 hours a day and sit in a cubicle for the rest of it, where I "make the donuts" for eight hours. The only thing keeping me sane is the knowledge that three to four times a week I get to take to the road or dirt and trade the monotony of the cubicle for the sublime monotony of spinning the cranks for a few hours.

Ok I've vented. I can relax now.

Tuba Trio

2010-01-24T15:27:00.000-07:00

I was assigned to photograph the Loveland High School wind symphony the other day. I love to shoot musicians and I was somewhat excited to shoot this particular high school band because they can really play. After shooting a bunch of photos with the entire group, the band director asked if I minded if they broke up into smaller groups. I'm not sure what compelled him to ask my permission but I said it was fine with me.

I continued to shoot in the band room when I heard the trilling of flutes in the hallway. I thought this would make a good photo since they were a bit out of their element. After getting out there and making a passable photo, I heard the deep tone of tubas through a set of double doors.

They were playing against the backdrop of these bright red lockers and it was too much to hope for. I started shooting. They were practicing and I made some frames while they were blowing into the monstrous brass instruments. Then a great thing happened - at least for me. A hall monitor type person came over to say they were interrupting a test that was happening in a nearby room. At that moment the trio looked to the hall monitor and I made the frame that you see. It was the kind of moment you want as a photojournalist, one that you wait for that is just a bit better than what you would normally expect.

The photo of them playing in the hall is fine - even funny - but this moment transcends that and makes the photo much more compelling. It makes the viewer ask what they are looking at and then why are they playing in the hallway. At least that's what I take from it. What do you think?

2009 Baptism

2010-01-19T09:28:00.000-07:00

This photo was one of my favorites of 2009. It happened on a cold Easter Sunday during a sunrise service. I stayed throughout the service and heard they were going to be doing a baptism. A few brave souls dared to dunk themselves in the ice-cold water. I think they were glad they did and I was glad to have made a nice photo from the situation. I hope it's warmer this Easter.

What's in a name?

2010-01-15T00:48:00.000-07:00

Christmas is over. A new year is here and I felt it was time to ditch my topher. Sorry Mom. I have been professionally known a Christopher Stark since I was first published in the Metropolitan - at least I think I have. In talking with my friend and coworker Steve Stoner, I decided to make 2010 the year I professionally became Chris Stark. I'm not sure it will make a difference but it may clear up some misconceptions.

People think I'm Steve anyway - and I gather it goes the other way too. I think most people just see a name so often and it's the only one they remember when they see us out there with our big cameras. At least they aren't confusing us with the TV guys (I know the cameras are big but not that big) or our boss Jenny, the 5-foot-tall pregnant woman.

So it's official, or at least it was on January 1 when I was first published as Chris Stark. I don't feel any different. I suppose it's much like the year changing over or having your birthday. You feel the same even though there's one thing that is different - even if arbitrarily different. Why should we feel another way just because a second, a minute, an hour or a day ticked off the clock or calendar.

I'll continue to be the same person regardless of the name change. I've been Chris all my life anyway. Why should I have changed it for a newspaper job. Why didn't I make it one of those pretentious names like C. Matthew Stark (sorry V. Richard Haro - your's works and sounds cool but I still don't know what the V stands for) or Christopher M. Stark (Craig F. Walker would have thought I was copying him). So now I will remain Chris Stark as it should have been all along unless I just can't handle the change.

Maybe I'll have a one of my moody birthdays. It should just be another day in February but the mind has a way of making you think about it too much and build it into something it isn't. It will be the day after Groundhog Day just like every other year. It will also be the day I turn 36 - holy crap when did that happen! I'll think to myself, "why did I give up the name my mother gave me just 36 short...long years ago and why did I pick this year as the one to do it? 36 is such an off year. It's not like 35, which in itself is a bit off when you think about it - who throws a huge surprise party for someone turning 35? It has to be a year divisible by ten for some reason. Henry Heimlich, Fran Tarkenton and Norman Rockwell were born on February 3 - how could that be so bad. Then I remember that February 3 was the day the music died." Then I'll realize like I always do that it's just a day. Tomorrow will come and it won't be my birthday. It will be just another day. I'll have 365 more days to turn 37. I'll stop worrying about getting older and start thinking about doing something nice for myself: I could always give the topher back.

In Dakota Territory

2009-09-25T10:06:00.003-06:00

Armed with a day off, I attempt to combat the monotony of shooting documents for eight hours a day by heading off to a local fort. It started with a drive from Williston, North Dakota where I was based for the two-week document photographing marathon. I spotted these horses as I traveled southwest from the town on my way to Fort Union. They were bathed in such beautiful light so I stayed there about a half hour photographing them and thinking about my daughter, Sequoia, the horse nut.

After Lewis and Clark explored the Missouri area near the confluence with the Yellowstone on their way West, Fort Union sprang up and became a place where the natives could trade with whites. Native tribes brought buffalo hides and traded for textiles from Europe because, according to the tour guide: "Buffalo only comes in brown." The guide offered me some coffee, brewed fresh on the fireplace inside the fort. Who was I to refuse.

These guys were getting ready for a flag retirement ceremony at Fort Buford. They seemed so out of place in the back of this car. They were a fun group to hang out with. Despite their thinning ranks, they still meet regularly and perform with reenactment groups to keep history alive.

Love the beard.

This car symbolized my time in North Dakota. Much of the building and architecture seemed to be from the late 70s and early 80s. Aside from some new construction (mainly the fast food restaurants) it was as if the town was stuck in time. The oil business busted around this time so it makes sense that most of the building would stop as well. The buildings were kept up better than this car but the feeling that I got when I looked at it was the same as when I thought about the town: It was as if the rest of the country passed the town of Williston by - left it in a field in the middle of nowhere. Now that oil has returned to North Dakota, perhaps the place has a chance of catching up.

Elks, Dandelions and Malva neglecta

2009-05-12T15:21:00.007-06:00

I had never set foot into the Elks lodge in Loveland before covering this assignment. I was struck at how untouched the building seemed to be. Untouched since the early 70s that is. I have noticed over the course of my career how I seem to gravitate to things that are dated.

For some reason a run down building holds more appeal than one recently built. Lead-filled paint chips cling to boards on a building that closer resemble a rotting stump than clapboard siding. As a photographer I appreciate the texture offered by the years of neglect and maintenance. As a member of the community I wonder why the owner let the building slide so much.

I can appreciate why a building like the Elks lodge can remain in stasis. Members are more interested in the upkeep of a community than renovation of their lodge. The lodge is a public place that performs a function. There is no surplus of funds for more than basic maintenance.

As spring approaches and grass, flowers and weeds appear in my yard, I can appreciate the neglect of the dilapidated building. A few days go by and it seems the yard is overrun by dandelion and Malva neglecta. I can imagine the years going by between paint jobs as nature reclaims its own from the order and organization we impose upon it.

For now I will attempt to maintain my gardens and battle with weeds. I will apply order to nature and wonder why. I will continue to curse the dandelions in the back yard and simultaneously embrace the process that offers a never-ending supply of texture and photogenic opportunities.

Amphibious Landing

2009-04-14T20:44:00.004-06:00

I can't take credit for the kicker - a designer or editor much wittier than me thought of it. I think it fits perfectly. It represents the best and worst a newsroom has to offer: Something fell through or wasnt' planned well and we needed an A1 feature.

I went out with an open mind and an idea of where I wanted to shoot. A new park featured a frog slide and, since day one, I knew there was a feature in it. It was a rainy day idea that couldn't happen on a rainy day. Luckily the weather gods cooperated and I found some kids playing on the playground. They were doing some sort of follow the leader game that didn't exactly play into my feature idea. I wanted to shoot a kid sliding down the frog tongue head on.

I accepted the feature in my head wasn't going to happen (it seldom does). The kids kept jumping off the frog so I felt the best angle to capture it was from the side and the light was in my favor there as well. I noticed one of the girls took off her shoes and I thought it would make a better photo so I kept shooting. I kept it tight to keep the moment playful and it worked. When I got to the office to edit, I briefly thought about using the photo of the girl with her shoes on but decided on the one with her shoes off because of the movement of the lines of the photo. I love that her feet are barely off of the frog. It gives me that feeling that I feel when I'm at the apex of the top hill of a roller coaster.

I didn't even see the final published piece until a few days later. I loved the kicker. Amphibious landing seemed so appropriate. I wasn't there when it was chosen but I can almost imaging the banter in the newsroom while it was being chosen. It may have been a collaborative effort or it may have been a stroke of genius that comes just before a round of congratulatory high fives. I'm going to miss that.