Radioactive Cookies

Interactions With An Anonymous Stranger Who Will Remain Nameless Pt. V

The Outlaw

It was noon on the 4th of July. The sun hung high in the sky as I ran down the winding mountainside. My formerly spastic running had been replaced by something more steady; my breath was deep and even, my stride was fast and long, and the city pavement and skyline had been replaced by a pothole ridden mountain road canopied by hundred year woods. It was beautiful, and something that helped me clear my mind. Two miles down, two miles up. As I rounded the final bend down the mountain I saw the bottom of the ski slope I’d just run down,

“This is going to be a bitch back up,” I said to myself, out of breath.

In the distance I saw a local riding a 4-wheeler and though I didn’t want to take time out of my workout, I knew I’d have to stop to catch my breath before I embarked on the two mile run up the side of a mountain. And so I stopped and gazed up at the ski slope, overrun by two-foot tall grass, taking in the beauty of the mountain and the bitch I was about to conquer. I heard the 4-wheeler circle me as the rider pulled up to my right and took of his helmet to reveal his sandy brown hair, scruffy beard and bright blue eyes; he was cute, really cute. A bit rough around the edges, grease stained shirt, stonewashed jeans tucked into large work boots, his 4-wheeler had a skull and bones sticker reading “OUTLAW.” I was intrigued, at least enough to offer a smile and say,

“Hey! Happy 4th! You out here for a ride?”
“Yeah, though I wish they’d fill in all these damn potholes.” He said with a southern accent.
“Tell me about it, when I was running down here I thought I might fall in and break a leg.”

He looked up at the mountain with a bit of contempt on his face.

“It’s a shame what they’ve done to the place.”
“Yeah, looks like it could use a good lawn mower. Still, it’s beautiful.”
“Yeah, I’d love to get my hands back on her, we rented her out to a new company and they don’t keep up with any of the maintenance. You worked here?”
“No, not me.”
“Oh come on, everyone up here’s worked here.”
“No, I was born up here but we moved to New York when I was little, we come up here on weekends sometimes. What did you do here?”
“Oh me? My family owns the slope.”

You don’t say? A cute, 4-wheeler riding outlaw who owns a ski slope? Thank you karmic running gods!

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