In My Chevy Van

Cruising down this untried track, a sawtooth ridge fills my windshield on a carefree autumn day back in 1990. Peaks are clustered all around and decorated with lingering traces of snow, each crest exceeding four thousand meters in elevation.

Bouncing along high in the Colorado Rockies, tumbleweeds careen here and there, some sticking in a wood-slat fence along the roadside. Picturing a plump doobie . . . what should I spy up ahead? A luscious pair of buns swathed in tight, almost-transparent spandex doing a slow steady grind up this mountain grade. Bliss upon a bicycle saddle!

Can’t see her face, but her legs are smooth and tan, so I think: I better slow this rig down to check ‘er out.

I hit the brakes so hard I almost throw myself into my bug-splattered windshield while leaning over to roll down the passenger window. I yearn for this grinding goddess to make eye contact and beam me some clue as to her mindset. When she lifts her fine face from a crouched biker position, I nearly slobber. Blond tresses escape her helmet to sail the breeze. But that face. The face of an angel in aviators. My skin sprouts a film of fervor.

She turns and smiles at me. That mouth definitely seizes my imagination . . . an expanse of ivory framed by darling dimples. I wave like a lunatic to suggest: let’s pull over.

Her bike slows gradually as she puts down her brown muscled leg to snag the pavement. I pull over just ahead, kick the clutch and stall the engine. There I sit waiting for her to walk up to the driver’s window as I savor every curve in my rearview mirror.

Her first words: “Got pot?”

“I wuz just picturing my next fat one!” I gaze down a deserted expanse in either direction and there’s nothing but high prairie against a backdrop of towering peaks. As good a place as any, deep in the Rockies on an unnamed strip of blacktop, “how’d you end up rollin’ down this unlikely road?”

“There’s a little-known hot-springs resort up here. I sniff out hot springs wherever I go!” So vivacious, she exudes sexiness. Sweat droplets trickle through my chest hair as my eyes skim her muscular thighs once more.

Her glance strolls across my chest, arresting my nipples with a sigh and I think: I’m ready to pack it in and check off this syllabus with a toke or two . . . then lo! a sleek biker appears!

I scratch my ratty beard and stroke my bushy mustache, glancing down self-consciously and hoping she don’t catch a gander at this slack gut. In a moment of serendipity, a song starts playing from an oldies cassette previously spinning . . .

“Her young face was like that of an angel,

her long legs were tanned and brown.

Better keep your eyes on the road, son,

better slow this vehicle down . . .”

“Cuz like a picture she was laying there,

moonlight dancing off her hair,

she woke up and took me by the hand,

she’s gonna love me in my Chevy van

and that’s all right with me.”

“Ya think there’d be a place to camp at the hot springs?” And I think: did I just blurt the world’s worst pick-up line?

“There’s a lodge up yonder, made from native timbers, an ancient classic that’s run by two zany gypsies into the healing arts.” Not sure about healing arts but I’m dying to lay some healing hands upon her sculpted skin.

She casually leans her gear against the van and strolls over, unfastening her helmet. As she shakes out blond tresses, I reach across to throw open the passenger door. Then I crack the glovebox and dig out my stash of neatly-rolled doobies. When I punch the dash lighter, a chunk of brittle paneling shoots into orbit, ricocheting off the turn signal.

“Mind if I get in?” She asks as I think: Mind if I dive in?

“Can’t think of a better idea!” I know I’m a slobber-puss, but I’m a goner and being suave just isn’t in my repertoire.

She stretches her arms above her head as she peels her gloves, wiggling every chunk to work out saddle weariness. The sunflower sun is low in the rose-tinted sky, backlighting her curvaceous form. She finishes her feline stretch and heaves a hard convincing thigh up onto the seat. After climbing in, she selects a slender joint from my open wooden box.

I feel the throb of a testosterone spike. I don’t even know her name, at this point. I toss the doobies on the dash so I can stick out my paw, offering to shake her hand like a complete dork: “I’m Mick . . . and you’re?”

Her response is cringe-worthy. Everything unfolds in slow motion. I think: she’s amused by me, but in what kinda way?

On the verge of laughing, she finds everything about me entertaining. Throwing down her gloves and setting the joint on the dash, finally, finally she takes my proffered hand and gives it a strong squeeze which sends a jolt straight to my gonads. I have no idea what’s happening. I’m just sitting here, a spectator to my own demise.

“Meg . . . I’m riding across the US . . . but I think these bad-ass grades might stop me in my tracks . . . especially if I indulge in a few tokes. Can you put my bike in the back before we get too high and drive off without it?”

She must be kidding.

But I’m in slobber-puss mode so I throw open my door so hard it screeches like an alley cat. I might not be able to latch it again. I jump out and manhandle her bike in an overzealous show of machismo. I swear my tongue might’ve been hanging out like a crazed fool. Damn, this contraption weighs over a hundred pounds with panniers!

I roll her bike around as Meg reaches out her tan arm and pushes open the rolling door. Doing this, despite the firm hug of clingy athletic wear, her ample bosom spills out, so my eyeballs unwillingly plow her moist ravine of cleavage.

I think: you gotta play your cards right, buddy. Muttering, I heave her hefty bike into my van and shove it way to the back, just in case we need easy access to my mattress.

It takes six slams to close my door, then I realize I misplaced my keys. “Looking for these, Mick?” Meg grins like she’s watching cartoons. After inserting the key in my ignition, she pops the lighter and sparks the joint with a lengthy puff she holds in her lungs for a mile.

Good thing the lodge is ten minutes up the road because my mouth is tumbleweed dry and my soda can is empty. I try to cough out some conversation, but all I can hear is my tongue smack the roof of my mouth. Meg turns around and half-climbs into the back, trying to reach her water bottle and I veer over onto the opposite shoulder gawking at her luscious buns framed so near my face. She gets back to her seat and squirts a stream of water into her mouth with the most provocative smirk as drips go sluicing down her neck.

She hands me the bottle and I swish a lukewarm mouthful so I can speak.

“You must be hungry from pedaling these mountains.” I pull into the only driveway for miles and my Chevy van is the only vehicle in an expansive parking lot. Clearly this retreat is past its prime. “Ya think there’s anything to eat in this ghost town?”

“I don’t know, Mick. Let’s go inside and find out.” I wait for Meg to get out first so I can walk behind her, enjoying the view.

A tall ornate old-western motif, complete with hitching posts and boot scrapers, frames an imposing entrance featuring half-doors that swing a bunch of times after we walk in. A babbling stream provides the soundtrack for a lodge with sixteen rooms on two levels. This hidden enclave is nestled in a grove of aspen between two towering peaks with shimmering leaves on the autumn cusp of butter yellow.

As the swinging half-doors flap and squeak behind us, I take in the eclectic and cluttered décor of a great room as big as a Broadway stage. It feels like we’ve just walked onto a movie set and I can’t wait to see how the story goes.

Meg is drawn to a massive cherry sofa facing an immense stonework fireplace, plopping down on the soft distressed leather between two friendly poodles. After running her fingers through curly black fur, she grabs a book from a low table: Healing Your Inner Child.

“Anybody here?” I do a quick perimeter check, looking into adjacent rooms and hallways to locate the proprietors. “Yoo-hoo! Anyone home?”

“I didn’t see any other vehicles, so we’re probably alone,” she isn’t a bit concerned. She makes herself at home, petting dogs and flipping pages in the book.

You’d think my imagination might flood with all the mischief I could muster in a place like this, alone with a gorgeous biking goddess. But I’m intrigued and I must explore. I locate a large restaurant-style kitchen and peer into a walk-in fridge.

“I found refreshments, Meg. What d’ya want?”

“What are my choices?” She hollers across the great room without taking her eyes off the pages or her fingers off the dogs.

“Hmmm . . . let’s see. Soda, beer, wine, or sparkling water?”

“If there’s a wine cooler, I’ll go for that.”

So, I twist open two bottles, carry them to the fireplace, and stand in front of Meg. She clearly isn’t making space for me on the sofa, so I sit on the low table and chug most of my wine cooler in one go. “You wanna explore?”

“Naw, you go ahead. Give me a report on what you find. I’m in need of a smooth groove, my friend.” Meg continues sipping, petting and reading, without paying me any mind. Reluctantly I surrender my wild fantasies and continue checking the habitat.

I slide open glass doors and step onto the back deck to find a dozen spas of various sizes. This area is constructed from rich redwood that’s fairly new, compared to the rest of the place. From the looks of the plumbing, there must be a natural hot water source in the nearby vertical wall. Steamy pungent sulfur permeates the veranda.

I think: mmm . . . can’t wait to slide naked into a tub with Meg . . .

Taking the rustic stone stairway down to the stream, I peer into a deep pool filled with lively trout. There’s a fishing pole on a nearby boulder, so I try my luck. Amazingly, I’ve got a full stringer by the time the sun sags behind the western ridge. I became so entranced by my unlikely outdoor adventure, I forgot about Meg and her new poodle friends.

Car doors slam, jarring me from my stoned reverie. After kneeling down for a long cool sip of crystal-clear water, I head inside with twenty trout, most of them small. Probably not big enough to be legal, but I don’t have a fishing license either.

As I slip in the sliding door, two old gypsy relics bang their way through flapping half-doors. I hang back a moment, wondering if the proprietors might be pissed that we intruded on their space. Silly me. As hugs and greetings and introductions unfold, it’s apparent all are welcome here, any time.

“It’s Friday! The only day we cook around here!” The older woman croaks her gravelly declaration through vocal cords torched by every type of smoke imaginable. Her dark leathery skin clashes with the crispness of a colorful sun dress cut in a youthful style. I don’t want to see so much wrinkled carcass, but her spry sexy movements beg for audience.

“Well, lookee what we got here! A stringer of trout for din-din!” After these two mystic characters set down grocery bags on spacious counters, the younger one practically assaults me as she snatches the main course from my hands. She holds up the stringer, darting around bragging up my outdoor prowess. Her slinking slithering way of invading everyone’s space spells NEEDY to my wary mojo.

“My friend Meg is looking to stay here for a few days. I’m just gonna go out to fetch her things. What room should I put them in?” My mind screams: ESCAPE!

“Oh, just anywhere on the second level. The room at the end has the best view.” Grandma Gypsy bounces around the kitchen, putting away groceries with such vigor, I get unwanted glimpses of nether regions I have no desire to see.

“No, no, no, no, no! You take your time and settle in, honey bunch.” Needy Nellie guides me to the front door, hovering and rubbing her tits all over my back and shoulder. I like freckles, don’t get me wrong. But this lady’s face, arms and legs are daubed with dark dots as thick as ants. Creeps me out. “We’ll let you know when dinner is served. It’ll take a while. We don’t fix fresh trout in a hurry around here.”

I’m clueless as to what that means, but I don’t prolong the conversation because I’m dying to shake this clingy old broad. Outside at my van, I open the rear doors to unload the bike. By the time I manhandle this beast to the ground, Meg is standing there ready to take it from me. I protest feebly, “I’ll carry it upstairs.”

“Please . . . I appreciate your help Mick, but I’m looking to zone out for a bit.” Meg wrestles the fully-loaded bike from me and parks the beam upon her shoulder like it’s a toy. I can barely stand to watch her carry it up the stairs with ease. I’m a worthless wimp. Meg is the pied piper with poodles following her every move. A baby goat and six cats congregate to complete her entourage.

With Meg settling in upstairs and the gypsies banging the hell out of that expansive kitchen, it’s a good time for another joint, wine cooler, and a dip in the hot tub . . . in that order.

Dusk is evaporating and Needy Nellie is hot on my tail again, following me to the back veranda. As she bustles around lighting candles, I peel my threads within a fenced area to escape unwanted attention. Just as I bend over to swish the water to check the temperature, I feel fabric swishing my bare ass.

I think: oh please strike this woman down!

“I’m fine . . . you go ahead in the kitchen and do dinner, okay?” I pry her fingers off my hips, taking a pass on her proffered back rub. “Thanks for lighting candles . . . but really, I’m fine now.” I leap into the water despite scalding my jewels and position myself as far as possible from the point of entry. She takes the hint and turns to leave. I swear I would bolt, but I refuse to miss a homemade meal . . . trout I just caught from this stream!

I drift off for ten minutes or so.

When I awaken, I’m a wrinkled prune and my mouth is parched. I’d kill for another wine cooler, but I refuse to deal with those sleazy gypsies any more than necessary. So, I ease out of the hot tub and down the stone stairway to the deep pool. Plunging into the brisk water, my skin nearly sizzles. I gulp crystal clear water to soothe my burning throat. I alternate between cold and hot water as my stomach growls louder and fiercer.

Surely an hour’s gone by as I catch lip-smacking aromas wafting from the kitchen. Finally, I hear the distinct clang of a dinner bell from the great room. By the time I dry off, pull on my pants, and go inside, I could scarf down a loin of grizzly.

“What can I get you to drink?” Grandma buzzes around like a skank on crack. I was hoping for a cozy dinner with Meg, but alas, the gyrating gypsies are a non-stop slapstick show around here, evidently. They don’t exactly dine with us, but they continually leave their plates at the kitchen table to come check on us every three minutes. Definitely no chance to mesmerize Meg with my charms.

“Wine cooler for me . . .” I look at Meg. She’s nodding and winking. “Wine coolers all around, then.”

This turns out to be the most generous and tasty meal I’ve ever been served. Five perfectly seared trout are arranged on each plate, atop rice with sautéed onions and peppers dressed in a southwestern flair that evokes a slow burn in my belly. I’d be sucking down wine coolers, one after the other, but I need to ditch this carnival ride as soon as feasible. So, I keep my wits about me.

Later, I stumble toward the swinging doors, “pardon my bad manners, but I need to hit the road now, so how much do I owe you for this scrumptious meal?”

“Oh, honey chile, since you’re the one who graced us with fresh trout, there’s no charge!” Before Needy Nellie starts rubbing her tits on me, I back out the swinging doors and jog to my van. I sorely regret ditching any possibility with a frisky biker woman, but I swear I won’t let this turn into a ménage à trois with two battleaxes while sexy Meg scampers back to her chamber with a menagerie of new fur friends.