We live just a short jaunt from a major urban trail that connects Prescott and Prescott Valley. It’s called the Iron King Trail on the Prescott Valley side and the Peavine Trail on the Prescott side. It’s only a few miles in length and extremely beautiful, constructed along an old railroad burm, a practice that has kind of become a trend of late in cities around the country. It cuts right through the Granite Dells and shoots out near Watson Lake. Besides the beauty, it’s a well maintained urban trail, heavily traveled by hikers, bikers and horsers, and more than anything, it’s the fastest and safest way to get me and my bike to the college where I work. As you can imagine, I take the trail a lot. My first year at Yavapai we only had one car, so by necessity I took the trail an awful lot. Sometimes I’d ride the twelve miles to and from work three times a week. Riding “the trail” as I call it has been a great outlet for me, keeping my mind clear and my knees well oiled. As the only Kleinman still relatively free from a major knee implosion, and with thirty looming just around the corner, I’ve grown meticulous about my meniscus. But besides the scenery and the desire to stave off ACL strain, the best part about the trail is the wildlife. I regularly see herds of deer and antelope, I even hit one once when riding early in the morning. It was too dark to tell whether it was a deer or an antelope, but my chain definitely grazed his hind legs. I hope my chain grease stained his coat because the sudden surprise of rubbing up against a woodland creature of that size in the dark caused some wardrobe soiling on my end. But in addition to deer, I frequently enjoy javelina, coyote, various birds of prey and the occasional reptile and amphibian, but far and away the most common creature I come across is a herd of Holsteins. Well, maybe not Holsteins, but definitely cattle. Cattle are nearly always grazed near the trail and I see them, at least at a distance, nearly every time I ride. Over the months I’ve been traversing the trail I kind of look forward to seeing my four legged friends that have become a source of animate constancy on a trail that can be somewhat bereft of companionship. I usually pass by them with a wave or a smile or some other salutation to let them know that it’s nice to have friends on the trail.
Today though, I went GRANDE. I was feeling good. My legs were working the pedals well. I felt light and I was making good time coming home from work. I even had a little tail wind which helped the going just that much more. Then I saw them, my old friends, and for the first time they were on the move too. They were huddled up tightly in a pack close to the fence near a point where the trail narrows down to about the width of a one lane road. I never saw them in this position before, and I don’t know what it was, but something got into me. I mashed the pedals even harder and came up fast behind the tail end of the herd that was now spread out single file thirty or more yards as it moved slowly along the fence line. I weaved as close as I could to the fence, just passing the first group of stragglers, bringing up the end of herd. I could tell that I had frightened them a little because each slow poke seemed to start a little as I passed. Then, reaching the bulky middle of the group, and swinging my bike wide right, ever closer to the barbed fence that separated us, I let out an enormous, “YAW, YAW, GET ON NOW. GET ON, LITTLE DOGGIES.” The herd reacted immediately, bolting forward to match my speed next to them, and suddenly, I found myself in the dead middle of a Cattle Drive. As the herd and I sped along next to each other, I felt a thrill swell up inside me. “I always wanted to say that” I whispered to myself, with another “YAW” poised on my lips. Visions of me, astride a barely tame black stallion, driving the herd up through the streets of Prescott Valley to the Cattle Auction that, in my mind’s eye, lay somewhere between the new library and Harkin’s Theater, danced through my head. As I pedaled I pretended I was actually spurring on my reluctant steed. Just ten minutes earlier I was in my little stuffy office, sporting a starched shirt and grading papers, now, I was riding a wave of stampeding livestock, yelling things like “YeeHaaaw” and “GET ON, GET ON THERE”. I don’t know exactly what I wanted the cows to get on, but to say that the whole thing was exhilarating would be an understatement. It quickly became clear why so many true cow pokes are gun toting patriots. There’s something about leading on a dusty cloud of livestock across the open prairie that cries out “land of the free and home of the brave”. I couldn’t help myself. I stood up in my stirrups, uh . . . pedals, and yelled at the top of my lungs “God Bless America”. And at that moment I really wanted him to. You gotta love a place where a regular guy like me can leave his office building just long enough to round up the cattle before heading over to the church for boy scouts.
Just then, three young, hip and slightly hefty mothers sporting coordinated arm strapped ipods and trendy black and pink stretchy pants jogged toward me. I was still standing up on my pedals in my “I believe I can fly” posture, looking very cool. I hadn’t noticed them approach so quickly. Of course, I was, just a few seconds earlier, totally enveloped in winning the west, so there might have been a virtual marathon passing me by and I wouldn’t have noticed. As I passed the young group, bent on shedding what appeared to be those last troublesome post pregnancy pounds, I saw that each one of their expressions teetered on the brink of out and out laughter as they took in my John Wayne routine. I sheepishly averted my eyes downward. There they met with my beat up crossbar displaying the word, GIANT, in big white letters. Suddenly, I couldn’t have felt less like a cowboy if I was Alex the Lion. The college Spanish teacher in me came rushing back like a spirit returning from an out of body experience, and along with it came all the stuffiness and serious dispositions. With the metamorphosis cycle complete—Curtis to Marlboro Man and now back to Curtis—I rolled my eyes at my lapse in decorum and whispered to myself with sarcasm and a certain measure of self deprecation, “How the west was won, indeed.”
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