And it is pretty. There's a running and biking trail that runs out of town for over a hundred miles here (they can afford to make a trail that long, where nothing exists to get in the way), and I've run three or four times this week, each time a little further out, testing my endurance and exploring the winding path. The trail itself is happy to have me. I see no one else out here, ever, and wonder how many tax dollars were spent so that I can have these moments all to myself.
Where is everyone? I don't know and don't particularly care during these moments, but it seems they must be on another planet or maybe in another dimension, where this path doesn't exist for them.
And even the town itself is a little out of time. It plays up its wild west background, with numerous "saloons" and "gambling emporiums" and even a museum next door to my apartment (pretty much just an old house belonging to some rich guy who made his money poisoning the frontier with alcohol and cigarettes). One of the main attractions in town is a graveyard, containing some notable headstones. You have to pay to get in, or die I guess, and I'm not willing to do either.
This weekend the songbirds compete without hope with the sounds of a classic car show that has overtaken town. Were cars in the 1950s and 60s really that loud? How did anyone get any sleep? Can you imagine trying to sneak up on a farmhouse? You'd have to park 12 miles away. But the people love it, and some of the cars are undeniably cool. Like this one:
Look kids ... Mom and Dad brought home the Batmobile!
The best of show judging takes place in about half-an-hour, and I can hear the cars as they blast their mufflers though downtown, heading to the parade grounds. Prius, anyone? I think I might take a walk down and see which '57 Chevy takes the blue ribbon, as I scan the crowd for the ghost of Calamity Jane.
