Narratives about motorcycling on Northern California's back roads; Reflections on the history and geography of the North State; Memoirs and early recollections of youthful visits to towns and forests and mountaintops.
Also middle-of-the-road takes on current issues in politics and education. Middle of the road? Isn't that dangerous?
Saturday, July 7, 2012
IN HOT PURSUIT: BUENA VISTA, COLORADO
…from the great Colorado auto tour of 2012…
Buena Vista, CO Town Hall
The daily 2:00 PM thunderstorm had
just swept into town. I’d stood
with our party and predicted as follows: “In about a minute in a half, we’ll be
soaked.” I missed it by forty-five
Each with a fish taco on a Chinet paper plate balanced on
our laps, sitting in the plush, leather accommodations of the rented Lincoln
MKX (not my choice) we watched the shower cleanse the streets of Buena Vista,
Colorado and the drama unfold.
Back step to Town Hall
No matter how small the berg,
constabularies in most towns seem to employ Ford Crown Victorias as their
patrol cars of choice. The smaller
and more remote the village, the more whiskers on the car. BV’s Crown Vic looked collectable were
it not for the crease in the right rear fender and the salt rust forming
beneath the car on the side I saw.
Its siren whooped, however, as it had been installed only yesterday and
it was the bellow of that siren that got our attention initially. Through the thick veil of rainfall, the
cruiser was in pursuit of the suspect on Main.
Citizens in Buena Vista helped. Two young maidens, who’d been enjoying the cloudburst, clad
in cut-offs and string-bikini tops joined the chase, as did a young
twenty-something on a bicycle.
The suspect was described as a middle-aged golden retriever,
perhaps golden lab, clearly guilty of cavorting about town sans leash.
We pulled away from our parking slot and monitored the fray.
The Picture Show
The girls seemed to be having the best time of things – next
to the dog. They whistled and
hooted and clapped their hands, crouching on one knee cooing and coaxing. Dog waggled to within an arm-and-a-half
length and then bolted. The lad on
the bicycle circled, perhaps more interested in the knit tops the girls were
wearing than the stray dog. No
blame assayed here.
The cop had parked the Crown Vic catty-wompus in an
intersection and was now in foot pursuit armed with one of those long handled
loop things that you lasso over the neck of the offending party – if you get
Tracks thru town
state highway bisects town.
Visibility was, at best, limited.
The dog was headed for the highway. The young ladies sprinted after him, their gleeful hoots now
sounding more desperate. Bike boy
flashed past. The officer hotfooted
back to his vehicle. A Coors Beer
truck – Coors is big in these parts – pulled in front of us, blocking the
view. Blinded, we waited for the
light to change and the traffic to clear.
Two cycles later we were heading south on the state route.
Dog had safely crossed; girls stranded on the other
side. Loping down the street, he
looked over his shoulder and appeared to be laughing as only dogs can do.