Windy or not; it was windy! Who are we kidding? April and May are generally the two windiest months respectively. Until this year, I only remembered it kind of windy in May, not hurricane force gusts sweeping up from the south, filling the air with dust, leaves, song and smells. Okay, the last two are far fetched but whatever.So to the craw-fish boil we rode, swaying back and forth, not from alcohol, but from the air rushing around the bike spokes, tubes and handlebars. 'Pissy', was my first emotion as I tried to pick up speed coasting downhill on 12th towards Broadway only to become more pissy when I had to stop for the traffic signal. 'Maybe the wind will be less involved in my lack of progression when I get to Cherry Creek trail', I thought. Nope, still sucking wind in more ways than one.
However, climbing up from REI on 15th and crossing the Platte made me realize my journey to the Highlands and the Craw-fish Boil was worth getting blown around all the way from Cheesman Park.
Arriving at the spot where young crawfish go to die in a boiling pot of water and spices, I threw back a few brewskies, took a smell of the red beans and rice, and enjoyed my new windblown hairstyle; it was fantastic I thought! After four beers in the belly, countless lies about skiing and chatting up the one person, Todd, who had climbed Mount Kilimanjaro, I came to the realization that my belly needed crawfish, not more beer. I checked the flame on the grill, hot. I checked the the 80 quart pot, boiling, I even checked the crawfish, hopeless. Then with a turn of the back and the pop of another beer, the boil was on!
The little suckers didn't have a chance, it was over in three minutes. Then the mayhem began. Girls in cute skirts ripping and sucking the guts from the hapless crustaceans, my bros slurping the yummy under bellies of each craw-dad. It was a Killer Time!
