Snowmass has always been Aspen’s striving but failing little sibling. Overshadowed in almost every aspect except for the size of its ski area, Snowmass has long tried imitation, usually coming up short in comparison.
Decades ago, long before they became more popular, Aspen built a two-lane roundabout to replace a complicated intersection on the edge of town. Roads leading up towards two adjacent mountain valleys, where lay Aspen Highlands, the school complex, the hospital, the Music School, and all manner of recreational nirvana, crashed into the bottleneck created where the main road in and out of town narrowed to two lanes over the Castle Creek bridge. Traffic would line up for miles in either direction, waiting to navigate the difficult confrontation. Now, traffic slows but doesn’t stop, everyone flowing to their own destination with minimum fuss. Buses have a separate lane, bicyclists a dedicated underpass, and conflict is avoided.
So Snowmass had to have its own roundabout. I would say, But we had a simple two-lane road with no real difficult intersections, and no traffic mess. Nonetheless, at the edge of town, hard by the Rodeo grounds, Owl Creek and Brush Creek Roads merged, and that seemed reason enough to emulate our older and wiser neighbor. So we built a one-lane roundabout, barely big enough for a semi-trailer to negotiate. Much time was spent in public meetings about whether to include a center berm, or just separate paving, so people would not rush through by cutting the tangent. The paving stones did nothing, so narrow road humps were installed, then removed, and replaced by a raised platform, which allowed trucks to ride up, but deterred most cars. In all, millions of dollars were spent for no good purpose. But we could afford it, and now we had our own roundabout.
Aspen built a Recreation Center (ARC), back in the ‘90s. It was a marvelous two-story structure near the high school, just below Aspen Highlands, commanding an awesome view across to Buttermilk and down and across the Roaring Fork valley. Inside were exercise rooms, an ice rink for hockey, a basketball court, and a swimming complex including water slide plus an indoor 6-lane pool with suction gutters.
Well, then, Snowmass had to have its own RC. This despite the fact that the Snowmass Club offered cut rate fees to local residents at its plush facilities. This was in the early ‘00s, times were flush, and the Real Estate Transfer Tax was pumping millions into Town coffers with nothing to spend it on. So we built the Snowmass Recreation Center. Its crown jewel was a weight room with multiple treadmills and exercise machines, free weights, flat screen TVs, stunning sound system, and windows looking out on the Rodeo Grounds. Hah! The ARC kept its six or seven machines in an airless basement closet, requiring a trek upstairs to get the key from the front desk. We showed them!
But we had no money left over for anything else, it turned out. Oh, we built a swimming pool, kids’ pool, hot tub, water slide, the whole nine yards. But: it was all outside. Now, this makes for drop-dead views of the ski mountain, with Daly and Capitol peaks in the distance. So the water must be heated at extraordinary expense year round, and the lap lane swimming pool is a concrete tank with no side gutters and – get this – a total of TWO lanes. Luckily, not that many people come to swim, so by picking your times right, you can usually count on being by yourself in one of the narrow slits.
Still, the intimate setting enforces a level of camaraderie not found in the ARC. During my second swim this trip, I had my favorite morning lane to myself. The other one became occupied by a man and a woman. It’s hard to tell when swimming just how old someone is. It appeared, from the size of them, to be a mother and son. She was swimming faster than he, but they both chugged along, for over half an hour.
After my set, I popped into the adjacent hot tub, to warm up a bit. The two swimmers were there, talking with a robust lady my age who was demonstrating floating techniques in the hot tub waters, trying to encourage flat posture as a means to achieve easier swimming.
After she left, I noted the value of staying horizontal while swimming, to reduce water resistance. This led to a long conversation with the couple. Turns out they’re married, and HE’S the older one. Fifty-six, but with the lean legs of a track runner, he had strawberry blond hair, a freckled face, and an engaging smile.
Our conversation actually started out with the wife sliding over to me and saying, “We were admiring your swimming!” I never know what to say to something like that, knowing that, in my eyes, I’m a mediocre swimmer at best. But saying that means the person commenting must be AWFUL, so I just nodded and said, “Thank you.”
From there we rambled over running and triathlon. Turns out that he was a star runner, still going sub 5 minutes for the mile, with a resting heart rate in the 30s, and max at 205. He’d done a few triathlons, including New York City.
“I wanted to do it on one of those City Bikes, the kind you rent by the hour. But the price escalates with time, so keeping it for 24 hours overnight means essentially I would have bought the thing.”
“Too bad, that would have been an ironic statement.” That led me into some triathlon apocrypha, like Cowman, who allegedly did the second Ironman in Hawaii on a beach cruiser, “single speed, with those tassels coming out of the handlebars and all. He wore baggy shorts, and a helmet/hat with cow horns attached. That’s why they called him Cow Man.”
These two lived up in Horse Ranch, so I pointed out my parents’ original lot, with the new mega mansion on it now. This gave me an opportunity to tell Harry’s Story, about how he bought the place in ’67 on the spur of the moment, and went on to found the local housing authority to save the community from being an exclusive One Per-center enclave.
We probably could have talked all morning, but we’d been in the tub for maybe 30 minutes already, and were getting hot and hungry. SO we shook hands, introduced ourselves, and went on our way. The Christals, or some such spelling.
In the shower, I noticed the gentleman who spent about 15 minutes in the neighboring lane. Older than me, he wears baggy trunks and a swim cap. But he doggedly pursues his laps, mostly side- and backstroke. Being a small town and all, the first time we met at the pool, we smiled, and in the shower, he said, “Well, the hard part’s done for the day.” I nodded, and smiled, not quite knowing how to respond. I usually see swimming as the easy part, a warm-up if you will.
Today, in the shower again, he said the same thing, so I allowed as how, “Well, I’ve still got some biking and running to do.”
I went on, “Tomorrow, I’ll be going up Independence Pass; last days before it opens to traffic. I always look forward to that ride.”
“I can’t ride anymore; that’s why I swim. My back, you know. But my wife, she’s 70 now” – he looked a bit north of that himself – “she takes her bike out of the closet this time every year, and that’s the first ride she does.”
This struck me as pretty remarkable. It’s 4,000 vertical feet and twenty miles up, and that’s a long way to go without any preparation. I said so.
“Well, she’s pretty hardy. She hiked the Appalachian Trail alone in 1965,” – I wondered how this would help her fifty years later on the Pass – “and she still teaches skiing all winter.”
“So, she’s a lifelong athlete, that must really help. But still, it must be hard on the rear end, that first time.”
“She never complains, it’s such a beautiful trip.”
We both agreed on that.