Bye, Cycling

The joyous goat excursion was only the beginning of Saturday’s activities. Katie, a pixie-haired adventure fiend who once took me on a 12-mile run from Louisville to Boulder just for kicks and shin splints, invited me on a short notice trip to Denver’s Highlands Fair. I had been to the Highland Games in Alaska where I watched bearded men toss cabers and kilted Scots juggle fire on stage while a band played (is that a thing?), so I was quite stoked to revisit my fake heritage. I skimmed the Fair’s website for anything Scotland-related. After failing to see anything relevant, I assumed I was too excited to comprehend words and agreed.

The Highlands Fair, however, referred to the district of Denver where the event was located. But, redheaded men not included, there were still plenty of weird things to see.

If I have my baby here, do I get 20% off
my next floor-length maxi dress purchase?

For when you want to hit someone as hard as you can without getting arrested

This reminds me of the days when I used to pour table salt into my hand and eat it until I felt like I was going to have a heart attack

Why is it so dark in there?
Why are all the dogs wearing low-slung jeans and calling me "Bro"?

After seeing all this goodness, as well as people nomming on three pound rice krispie treats the size of how they should always be, we embarked on a journey to dinner. We settled on WaterCourse Foods, enticed by the solitary “$” on Yelp and this description: A cute cafe space with Watership Down-inspired murals sets the scene for vegetarian dishes.

The restaurant was nestled five miles away in downtown Denver, so we unloaded our bikes and began peddling contentedly, dreaming of the lettucey things we were about to eat in only twenty minutes time.

But, as Christopher Columbus once said: “Where the heck are we?”

Through side streets, detours, highway lanes, and closed bike paths, our bumbling bike jaunt soon became a dreaded trek. 

Such hunger. 

Much anger. 

Scarce completely formed thoughts. 

We peddled, and peddled, and peddled, and pretended to have a merry time, and peddled, and peddled.

90 minutes later, at an unbelievable 18:00 min/mile pace, we arrived at the Watercourse, where we were met not with a table, but with this:

Why am I waiting? Last time I checked, I am an American and I am entitled to my rights:
Life, liberty, and the pursuit of instant gratification

Our wait gave us ample time to view the fine decor that had caught our attention all those year-like minutes ago.

 I don’t know what I expected. More blood probably.

For our appetizer, we ordered a strawberry milkshake made as quickly as possible.

Though it was a vegetarian restaurant, our dinner was surprisingly tasty. The “chicken” tenders were actually just heavily breaded cauliflower. If you take out the cauliflower and just dip the breading in ranch dressing, it tastes just like KFC.

Our ride back to the car was only three miles, and we were certain we had figured out how to beat Denver at its cruel bike game. But like most twenty-somethings with big ideas, we were wrong.

Since we were so off schedule at this point, we had the great fortune of seeing Denver by bike at night. Did you know that there are a lot of sketchy-looking middle-aged men in tank tops that walk around Colfax at night? Or that a bunch of rats live on the path down by the river? Put those on the list of things you won’t see on an official walking tour. 

On your left we have—-OH GOD, VERMIN

And on your right are—JUST CLOSE YOUR EYES FOR THE REMAINDER OF THE TOUR

One hour and another failed attempt at a quick trip across town later, we arrived at Forest Room 5. It was like drinking a beer in Narnia, except with a bunch of hipsters instead of anthropomorphic beavers, like these fine folk:

Forest in a Forest
Sarah in a Sassy Stare

As much as we rued our existence at times that day, it was definitely worth it, for we were filled with inspiration and a spirit of vengeance. One day, we will bike across Denver faster than suburbanites taking a beleagured post-Cheesecake Factory walk of pain. 

Not anytime soon, but one day.

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Llama Tell Ewe an Anecgoat

I didn’t want to write a new post until I had exciting news to share, like switching jobs or signing up for Hulu Plus. Finally, the day has come, because I just pet a baby goat.

Sarah, Eric and I ventured to Mountain Flower Goat Dairy this weekend where they let you pet goats. For free! We were almost there right when it opened for the day, but Eric had to stop and get gas, so naturally we were two hours late.

The goats are, for a lack of a better word, goat-like. 

No. I can do better.

The babies are majestic jumbo-sized marshmallows that you just want to toast over an open fire and guzzle out their innards like a disappointing S’more. But we can’t do that, because in the pens are guard llamas. 

According to legend and one of the volunteer guides, the guard llamas stand watch over the goat herd and protect them from predators, but all of that can change in an instant. People aren’t allowed to interact with the guard llamas because they may imprint and begin to think humans are also llamas, causing them to snap and start neck wrestling and attempting to mate with any llama-person they see fit.

Llamaaaaaa
Just killed a mannnnn
[Photo: Erc]

SAY IT TO MY FACE, COLLEEN

Instead of riding one of the llamas into the sunset like we had planned, we hunkered down in the pen of the goat mothers. The moms were laying down in a line and they all looked so exhausted, like they had fulfilled their sole purpose by spawning temporarily precious fluffernutters and were just waiting for their bloated bodies to succumb to sweet sweet death. It made me really forward to having kids of my own.

But then, in a twist of happiness, the goats rose and started to walk toward us and nudge us like plush bumper cars. The promise of pats was all they needed to make life worth living again.

Rack 'em stack 'em goats

This is the most joyous picture any of us has ever taken
[Photo: Erc]

The goat on the left is an American Lamacha
The goat on the right is I don't know what kind of goat that is

Back in the kiddie pen, I noticed a real-life human child trying to enter into the mamas’ pen. I decided to pretend to like children and help him. The gate was being blocked by a stubborn goat, so I gently yet definitely shoved her out of the way with my adult strength. Beaming, I held the gate open for the child. But he just stood there.
During that time, one of the hags escaped into the kiddie pen. 
I stared at the boy, waiting for an explanation. 

“I don’t want to go in. I’m a volunteer.” 

Say what now, child? Because look at the mess you just made. Penelope is running amok. If you were being paid, I’d have your wages garnished and served on top of the goats’ hay.

We stopped to say one last goodbye to the 10-day old twins, who were being guarded by this hardened Samuel L. Jackson look-alike.

The "L" is for llama
Now get off my property

Sweet dreams, baby clouds

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