Who knows if any of this news will matter to anyone now that Snooki has given birth, but Michael Phelps wants to join his mountain brethren in our sports of choice.
Way I remember it, he was wearing a corduroy jacket, or maybe it was wool flannel â either would have stood out as old-school, since we were already living in the age of miraculously wicking fabrics
This was a time in the M. John autobiographical train wreck when my normal tendency to socially interact with folks at the bar, even bubbas from the aforementioned state I shall not herein name, was mitigated by a ruminative mindset based upon the fact that, after 24 years, I had decided my time in the High Country was fast drawing to an end.
We motored along the Peak-to-Peak Highway a few miles south of Ward, CO, I in my silver Honda S2000 with the convertible top presciently up and my friend in his red Mazda Speed 3.
With summer hitting full stride in the Roaring Fork Valley, the Ideas Festival crowd turned into more of a Mountain Fair crowd, and instead of contemplating the economic value of a human life, I find I am contemplating the value of a poetic life.
We had just spotted the tree â an ancient gnarled limber pine triumphantly reaching for the heavens through golden evening light â when a voice from behind disturbed our wonder.
You were the one who taught him how to ski. You were the one who wanted him to know the freedom of letting go. Of trusting your body to the downhill thrust of gravity and speed.
