Labor Day

The Labor Day weekend was just the kick off to my "Late Summer Staycation." For me this is a quiet time to enjoy the ending of the crazy summer and welcome the fall season. This breather seemed to be the only time I could crank up the tunes and strip down to running shorts to give a well-deserved hand wax to the car in the local gay park. Truly a great way to meet people.

Labor Day found me relaxing with friends having a barbecue; it was just a  cat dangling afternoon....

After the symbolism of Labor Day betokening the end of summer, my mind too thought of fall. Well, new athletic shoes for fall. Mostly because everything makes be think of new athletic shoes. This prompted me to finally organize my obsession. So I went to the Homo Depot and bought a cart of this...

I then, turned it into this..

It's been a pretty great week off. As my home projects are done; today I'm off to the mall. The reorganizing of my running shoes gave me room to buy a couple more pair.

Lazy Days of Summer

This is my favorite time of year. Pride is over, and Independence Day has been celebrated. Now I can just relax and enjoy the summer without any plans. With the Homo-sex-companion-partner distracted with his new love, I’m free to do whatever I desire this lazy time of year. 

I guess it’s true, in what they say about the seven year itch. We celebrated our seven year anniversary with my partner falling in love with someone else. Being reassured that It is a completely different type of love, I now I find myself in a triad relationship. Not that I’m totally happy with the endless chain of boxes arriving from Amazon with presents intended for his new infatuation. 

It all started on Patrick’s visit to Denver, as Pac and I wandered down Denver’s 16th Street pedorite mall, I received an urgent call from the other half. He understood the importance of my time spent with Patrick, yet urged me to leave the fun and come meet someone very special to him. That was the day that changed our lives forever. 

As I was first introduced, I realized that I wasn’t really jealous of the way my partner of seven years gazed across the deep pearlescent of her ebony glow. I wasn’t jealous because it was a different kind of love entirely. No partner can satisfy all the needs and desires, to think one can, is foolish. So, this was the day I met Sue Ellen. Yes, like from the television show, Dallas. All of his cars are named after characters from this TV show. I believe I have blogged about Mark Grayson, in the past.  

Sue Ellen is an ebony goddess, 1968 Plymouth Fury. She now spends its days sitting in the Forney Museum of Transportation in Denver, yet she is never truly out of mind. The lazy days of summer, for me, are spent taking slow and sunny runs around Cheesman Park, and hours upon hours spent needlessly at my favorite coffee shop. No real commitments until the end of August. Whatever I’m doing to waste my time, I always know that he’s out there somewhere, on an deserted highway; with her. Yet completely safe in the knowledge that she get stored-away and he’ll come home to me. 

Biking

I really want to ride my bicycle.


I have this thought every time I pass my well neglected bike, as it sits lonely on the front porch. Don’t get me wrong, I do ride my bike quite a bit. It really is more about going for a ride with someone else.

At one time Denver, CO. had a full page in its gay newspaper dedicated to GLBT social clubs. If you were a transgendered lesbian that enjoyed crock-pot cookery, there was a social club for you. During this heyday of social networking, I believe there were no less than three gay men’s bicycle clubs. One for the guys who thought Kevin Bacon was hot and yearned to race, one for the lovely ladies of transgenderedness, and one for… my style of biking.

My "style" is that I just want to put on some Lycra, my helmet adorned in the same graphics as a 1970’s shag-wagon, and my fingerless gloves to peddle around Cherry Creek. Is that too much to ask?

I guess I need to start networking.

My Furry Happy Weekend

We had three great days of sunny, warm weather over the weekend. Maybe our first truly warm days since fall, fell. You can tell that everyone was jumping on the chance to enjoy the great weekend by the hordes of people spilling into the park and jumping at the chance to go out on the town for dancing and mischief-making. Visitors to Cheesman Park were trying their best at soaking up the sunny weekend, not knowing when they’ll get the chance to feel it again. The running path in Cheesman was crowded as runners gave up the treadmill and ventured out into nature.


I watched all this unfold from behind the plate-glass of the coffee shop on 9th and Downing Street. I spent my weekend writing a paper on the topic of homosexuals and how they were portrayed in mid-century media. How movies and literature portrayed homosexuality as a sickness, something to be feared or pitied. As I typed away on the topic of self-loathing in the GLBT community, two twenty-somethings sat at the next table hatching a plan to raise funds to bankroll an awareness campaign for our local meal delivery program for people living with HIV.

I did put down the lap-top long enough to attend Bearracuda: A fun, friendly party for Bears, Cubs, and other wildlife. It’s like a circuit dance party for the happy, furry set. I’ll blame the weather, but I had an amazing time. My good friend Gary Givant was DJing and it's always a great to dance to his tunes. Gary is a Billboard.com DJ and constantly has his feelers out for new tunes; he seems to always have new, upbeat songs before anyone else. My opinion may have been skewed by the hot muscle dudes tromping around, but it seemed like just the perfect prescription to top-off the weekend.

The thesis of my paper was how our GLBT community had their identity originally formed by fear mongering, agenda driven media types. This was an attempt to drive self-hatred down into our very collative soul. It may have worked for a while, yet this weekend proved to me that we have come a long way.

May the Thule be with You

If asked to complete an online dating profile, I’d say I was the “outdoorsy” type. Running, biking, and pretty much any type of activity that involves Lycra. Running is easy, a new pair of Pumas, a trip to the park and Voila, you're running. Cycling on the other hand is getting pricey to enjoy.


When I traded in my SUV for fuel savings, I didn’t think twice about where my mountain bike would ride. I simply thought I’d buy a rack, strap it onto my new sleek sports sedan, and away I’d go to the mountains. As last summer approached, I purchased a trunk mounted bike carrier. I then proceeded to spend the entire summer watching my rear view mirror as my bike bounced around on the back of my car. I’m not sure what frightened me more, the bike scratching the car’s paint, or the carrier letting loose and seeing mountain bikes bounce down the highway behind me.

I hear that spring will come sometime soon; if it does, I’m sure I will have the urge to head out and bike the trails. This year I decided to give up on the trunk mounted bike thing-a-ma-jig with its straps and clamps and buy a roof rack. They look so simple, every Whole Food’s parking lot in the world is just jammed with late model Audis all sporting Yakima or Thule bike racks. How hard could it be?

Quite. Apparently. First I had to get lost on the sleek Thule inc. bike carrier website, trying to decipher styles and pricing. I gave up and headed to our super-sleek downtown sporting goods store. The outdoor aficionado’s supply store with its fake pine trees and rock climbing wall inside of it. Patrons can climb the 50 foot high fiberglass rock wall, in air conditioned comfort. If I’m going to take up rock climbing, living in the Rocky Mountains, forget nature, give me this rock wall. I want to fall four stories onto my head in full air-conditioning and with a string version of Alanis Morissette’s Jagged Little Pill playing softly in the background.

What I was looking for was a bike Jedi Master, what I found was Kip, (yes, that was his name.) I asked about their line of Thule brand car racks. Kip was nice enough to correct me that it’s pronounced too-lee not (and he signed heavily) thoo-lee. It was not, a “bike rack,” but a bicycle management system for automobiles. When I explained to Kip, that I didn’t want to “manage” my bike, just ride it, Kip suggested the website. I suggested he might take a trip off the rock wall.

Finally I did what any guy like me would do; I followed the instructions of a Lesbian Jedi Knight I found YouTube. The force was strong. Leave it to a woman who looks like she just walked out of an On Our Backs spread to simply explain a bicycle management system, It’s funny, she starting out by calling it a bike rack.

January

The first week in the New Year seems to bring a strange time. The holidays are over, and the wasted day of destroying the house in your hung-over attempt to un-decorate, has given you a home clean of glitter and sparkle. I am always happy that the trappings of the holiday have been swept away, giving back valuable floor space and clean counter tops. Life is suddenly is free of Christmas tree cookie jars and dead eyed Beefeater themed nut crackers.

For me, I am excited that the pomp and circumstance of the season is done. Pack away party going sweaters and back to business as usual. This feeling usually lasts just a couple of days. Then I realize that it’s just January, nothing special. If you happen to live in Denver, the weather seems to understand that the bland time of year is upon us and gives the city a week of amazing warm and sunny days. If you live in Denver and you’re gay, this invites you to spend time in Denver’s Cheesman Park.

Last week the temperatures just brushed seventy degrees. This gave a couple of sunny days for the sun to melt the remaining snow and ice from shady sections of Cheesman’s sidewalks. I took the hint along with countless others, to go and enjoy the park. For me it was my first run since before Christmas. My first run since Christmas cookies, Christmas ham, and sausage bread took priority over exercise. On a sunny running path, I started to burn it all off. The food and treats, the parties, the time spent on the couch watching Christmas in Connecticut all needed to burn off.

Sweaty and exhausted I did it, the first trip back to running in the park. With it being Denver and all, within forty-eight hours the temperature plummeted and the snow fell. We are back to snowy and cold winter weather. Somehow though, we were given a warm introduction to the New Year, with its four months of winter appetizer, and I’m ready to get back in the swing of things.

StevieB. On Ice

Yesterday morning I was psyched about getting to go for a run.


The morning temperature was in the teens, and I found the running paths were completely covered with ice and snow. This was like Christmas to me, I love being out in freezing weather. I layered up my gear and switched to the knobby running shoes for off road, inserted my ear buds under two layers of cap and ear protectors. I set out to run through the ice covered trees and the sound of crunching snow under my feet.

Halfway around the park I encountered an intersection that was a solid sheet of ice. I gingerly navigated the mirror-like ice while mumbling my mantra “walk like a penguin, walk like a penguin.” I’m not sure when or why I began chanting this mantra, it was eons ago. I started to laugh out loud as I realized my rant about penguins not having anything to do with Christmas, then there I was evoking their ice walking prowess to stop the inevitable fall.

My concentration broken, I started to slide. Like Bambi on ice really, my legs stretched out in my running spandex. Sliding completely across the intersection I hopped into the snow along the curb. I quickly looked around. Not a soul in sight. No one saw my amazing show of athleticism and dumb luck? Drat.

Feeling amazingly full of myself, I spent the day feeling superior to winter and anything is can throw at me. I then retold my running triumph story to a friend I ran into as I left watching a football game at our local bear bar. Upon showing off how cool I was, I turned and slipped upon the ice and clumped down to the pavement.

That’ll learn ya.

Snow Running

December 4th. 

I discovered a new high last year. It was late in the season, so this year I get all winter to enjoy my new fetish. Running in snow and twenty degree temperatures.  

I finding it a great way to gently ease into December.  Since my running path takes me next to the Denver Botanic Gardens I can enjoy the twinkling lights in the snow... 

The bundling in layers; however,  I'm finding is problematic. Just when I have five layers of Under Armour on I usually discover I have to... go. That and I'm frightening the squirrels.

Running With the Dead

I really need to run more.


One of the best things about running is the ritual. I am a man powered by rituals. If I have the ability to incorporate a ritual, or Habitrail, into my life I’m more than happy to spend days memorizing and ingraining it into my small monkey brain.

My running habitrail is early Sunday morning, lapping around Cheesman Park. I’m amazed how beautiful and quiet the park is, I am always amazed how the trees are perfectly aligned even after their planting one hundred and twenty years ago.

Even after I participated in a Denver Ghost Tour, last Sunday, and was re-reminded of the close to two thousand bodies left over in this runner’s paradise. The perfectly aligned trees are from the city when they turned their largest cemetery into a beautiful park by removing headstones and planting grass seed. Very industrious.

As I strode down the paths of trees, I always find it the best part of my week. My ritual of running, in the park, with the trees and a thousand 1880’s prostitutes and cattle-thieves.

I do, however, love running so much that I want to do it more often, yet running on the streets of my small fictional town doesn’t have the same endorphin rush. The countless suburban streets, the development company so long out of business that even their signs advertising the luxury neighborhoods has long since fallen to the ground. The streets and cul-de-sacs without houses, just empty housing lots returning back to fields.

The clean, black asphalt is perfect to run on for miles. Without the worry of cars or… anything interfering with my runs, this may be the problem. Right out my front door and off to the maze of under-developed neighborhoods doesn’t have the correct ritual.

I do need to run more. I guess that part of the inconvenience of the twenty mile drive to the park with the trees and the one hundred and twenty year old dead prostitutes is the ritual.