A diary of a weekend in Fort Collins:
I look down the asphalt hill and wonder if it's big enough to give me an adrenaline rush on my long board.
Four minutes ago my sister Brenda told me not to eat shi*t; "the hills over there are steep," she said.
From the top of the road, however, it looks like a fun ride. I figure it's a blue, a double-blue tops.
The only thing worrying me is the three stop signs I'm going to ride through with only a glimpse and a hope.
At that time, I didn't see the ends of the real problem: the 90-degree turn I need to make at the bottom of the hill.
Only two of the hill's five pitches are steep, so I don't think the ride will be too insane.
Ready for some turns, I let my board start rolling and hop on it at the hill's peak.
I ride through the first stop sign and think, "this is sick bra, I'm making some gnar turns in town."
That thought, however, is soon left behind me.
I absorb jagged bumps with my knees and my board starts shaking violently under my chacos, which combine with the rough asphalt to make it nearly impossible to hold a solid edge.
A second of awkward acceleration later and a vision of hitting a parked-white-Toyota-Camry at 30 miles per hour flashes in my head.
shi*t. I realize the slopes by themselves aren't very gnarly, but together they equal three blocks of pure acceleration. I'm committed to an intense line and I don't have a chance of even-money-in-Vegas of making the back-edge turn at 30 miles per hour.
I'm going to eat shi*t, but where?
On the asphalt?
No, then I wouldn't be pretty anymore.
I hold on and look for the best place to run out my speed. I choose my only option; the yard at the bottom of the hill directly in front of me.
"Get ready to start running," I tell myself.
My plan explodes; there's pointy speed bump at the base of the driveway - the entrance to the grass - which is now RIGHT HERE.
f*ck.
I jump off the board just before the collision and I land on my feet in the driveway.
"I'm a bad ass," I -almost- finish thinking.
Then my speed flips me on my head and the momemtum bounces me feet first into a pine tree.
It's too bad nobody saw me crash. Maybe then the ambulance would have arrived quicker.
Haha, just joking. I'm not a pussy.
I smile and breath a sigh of relief as I crawl out from under the tree.
Surprisingly, I don't need a single band-aid and I only get one grass stain on my shirt: under my collar.
After eating pine, however, what I need is a beer.
I keep riding until my sister gets home, then we pick up some of her friends and go to the Fort Collins Brewery.
The four of us walk onto the sun-soaked patio and an old acquaintance yells my name; he's sitting alone drinking a hef.
I ditch my sister and her friends, sit down with Will and order a Major Tom's pomegranate wheat.
The last time I hung out with the guitar player was when he was leaving for college. Now, he has his degree and it trips me out how to think about how fast time has flown by.
The waitress hands me an orangey-tan pint and I sniff it, take a sip, swish it around and then ponder the first swallow.
I decide it's better than I remember it being, so I relax my guards and enjoy it.
Soon, a guy the guitar player calls the "palate man," Jefe, shows up with his beer mentor.
Jefe, like a true man of the palate, doesn't claim to like hefeweizens just because the type of beer has a name similar to his.
No, it quickly becomes obvious he's high up on the beer-appreciation-ladder.
His buds appreciate how malts can make a beer smooth, but understands they make beer generically bland - malts are like the instant potatoes of beer ingrediants.
We agree the hop-heads in Oregon make the best ales and our discussion flows into the ingredients different breweries use.
He says New Belgium, and many other breweries, use the same hops as a base in all of their beers.
This can be a good thing. If you like one beer from one of these breweries, there's a good chance you'll enjoy their other beers.
I assume, however, they do it purely for economic reasons.
The guys talk about the beer they have brewing at their home and say it should be ready to bottle in a few weeks. Then, the beer mentor, compliments the Fort Collins Brewery, saying all of their beers are not only unique from other Fort Collins beer, but they're individually crafted and each one is uniquely true only to its own suds.
I'd say craft-brewery's brew-master's love of beer is evident in every fresh pint they serve.
We talk and laugh until the 6 o'clock last call.
Then my sister and I go to a different bar.
When we get there, the upstairs patio is full, but she sees some of her friends so we sit at their table and order a bucket of Pacifico.
I pour salt in the beer, which confuses my sister. Later, she takes the salt shaker away from me "because it has a lot of cholesterol."
After a few buckets, my sister and I start arguing about the merits of soccer and wrestling. It's a stupid conversation, so I let her win and decide to make a lap around the bar. By this time, even the fashionably late people are out.
I say hi to some girls and the pretty one eventually buys me a drink.
I carry on an artificial conversation with them and drink my plastic-cupped-rum-and-coke.
Then I see Brenda, concentrating on every step she takes towards me.
"A cab's on the way to get us," she says.
"Don't worry about me," I say. "I'll find my own way home."
Thirty minutes goes by and I end up downstairs taking shots with an old high school buddy; the pretty girl's boyfriend sent her a text and then we ditched each other.
I do one last shot, a Poudre Canyon drop off, with Lucas and then I use his phone to call my mom.
She wakes up on the third ring and asks, "Where are you?"
"Tailgates," is all I say.
She shows up a few minutes later and I stomp out a bummed-cigarette and get in the car.
"I'm getting too old for this Cody."
Thanks Mom.
The next day I get a lethargic hangover.
I play frisbee golf my favorite ex-girlfriend and don't do much else.
Eventually, night creeps in and chokes out the light, my sister and mom go to sleep, and I find myself alone, thinking of all the people I'd love to see while I'm home.
I used to see my whole family a lot more often, even when I lived in Gunnison. Then my parents got divorced and the rift has been widening since.
Now, the only time my sister Christy goes to my mom's house is when I'm there and Brenda refers to my dad by a name she got from Harry Potter - "Voldemort" or some shi*t like that. It means "the one we don't speak of."
My family lives in the same town and doesn't see each other very often, but I feel like an a**hole when I roll into town and leave before I see half the people I want to.
"I'll swing by and see them next time I'm home; next time when I'm not so busy," I tell myself. Then I get a little teary-eyed as I grip an unfortunate reality that I'm starting to run of some "next times."Old age and diseases has some of family's minds in a vice.
My poor aunt will repeat the same thing every few minutes.
Me pobresita tia dije el mismo cosa mucho veces porque no podia recordar que dijo.
I have an aunt that will say the same thing over and over again and not realize it.
The family-bullshi*t-stress gets to me so I grab my board and walk outside and into the moonlight.
I make one lap at the elementary school across the street before the green glow on Lemay Avenue's pulls me to the road.
I walk up the hill, past the glow illuminating the street's outline, and step on my board.
I make a few turns and then I realize I need to quit forcing my actions; I just go along for the ride.
I close my eyes, let the cool breeze dry my sweat and hope I don't hit a bump. I get lucky - the pavement is smooooth.
Soon, the novelty of quarter-mile-rides wears off and I decide to try out the streets of Linden Lake.
The pavement is pitch-black and the outline is barely visible where it winds around the corners.
"Just don't eat shi*t again," I think.
I squint my eyes figure out the line. Then I step on my board, peddle once or twice and prepare myself for anything.
I lean into the first toe-edge turn so hard I touch the road with my hand. Then I stand back up on my board, edgy because of invisible-speed-bump paranoia.
The edge makes my body feel alive in the moment; I find the dao and the only thing that matters in my world is the next reaction I'll have to make. Nothing else matters.
I see a sign for a "speed dip," so I bend my knees to absorb it; I just roll over it.
The private road turns out to be the the pow-of-pavement, so I peddle past the million-dollar-houses again and again as I do midnight laps.
I find happiness in a few more moon-lit-moments before my body finally tells its time to walk up a hill and make my last turns on an easy pitch home.
When I get there, I don't have any energy to devote into the psychological battle of what I should be doing to become a better person.
I fall asleep, high on turns and contently ignoring the knowledge that I'm nothing more than an imperfect, self-centered human. I know I do stupid things and I abuse stupid things, but I believe people are happy to see me, whenever it is I'm lucky enough to see them.

PART 2:
On the drive back to Montrose I stop at the Wendy's in Longmont. Cars in line wrap around the building and I get mad about how much time it will cost me.
So, to ease my stress, I duck below my dashboard and flick my lighter. Then I sit up, make eye contact with the cashier, and suck the smoke out of my mouth and into my nose. Her still expression tells me she doesn't give a shi*t.
After that, the ride home is retardedly slow. I miss my exit and do a circle in Denver. Then I drive around Vail looking for a gas station, which is long enough to understand why a Western Slope city would boast "this is not Vail" in their ads.
Later I take a detour through Aspen, where pick up a newspaper that actually confirms my stereotypes of rich bastards without souls buying third homes there and exploiting the place for personal gains.
Then I back track and take another look at Woody Creek, the place where the late Doctor Gonzo, Hunter S. Thompson, played with guns and stayed up late writing stories; like a vampire with an appetitite for tweakers, as he would say.
When I see the sign that says "Gunnison County" I feel home. I drive over the shi*tty-dirt-road that is Kebler Pass, pop out in Crested Butte and stop in Gunnison for a break. Flo hands me a PBR when he sees me, then Becker and I go to his girlfriends for a bowl.
It's past midnight when I finally roll into Montrose and for the first time I'm truly glad to be there; I'm ready to slow my pace of life again.
Life is good though. If you can build relationships strong enough to come back alive with only smile, it's chill. Fill the days with good people, good beer, good music and new experiences and soon the bad will spill out and evaporate. Sometimes and unexpected bump might throw you on your head, but if you can muster a smile, it will only make you feel better.