Fred continued to be mum about the trial. Dean considered sitting in on the proceedings when they resumed on Monday, just out of curiosity. Although Fred's mood was jolly, he didn't join the others for breakfast on this Saturday morning. Instead, he grabbed a plate of Cynthia's scrambled eggs and bacon and hauled the heaping plate up to his room. He closed the door to Brandon Westlake and told the old photographer-antique collector to come back after nine o'clock, claiming a need to do his own Internet work.
Perhaps the weekend respite from the jury box had lessened Fred's apprehension. That or Dean's announcement about running his fingerprints. However, it begged the question of what had caused the old guy so much concern in the first place. Fodder for another horse race, Dean thought. Today's program was scheduled for a different track-meeting with the old timers, the curmudgeons, over their morning coffee meeting at Diversions Coffee House.
For a reason that facts, circumstances, and common sense didn't dictate, Dean rose early, in a splendid mood, rushed through dawn's-light chores, and still had hours to kill. While Cynthia might have suggested some fillers, her sympathy from yesterday's debate debacle continued to prevail and she just wished him good riding as he dusted off his bicycle for a morning ride.
The day was perfect for rolling the countryside and Dean was pleased his legs had a good memory of the long-absent tasks required of pedaling at seven thousand feet elevation. As the sun climbed over the mountains, it spread its glow across the snow still nestled in the cracks and crevices above him. There was a chill, but once Dean began warming his muscles he felt comfortable in this familiar posture. He chose a fairly level route as time away from the sport called for a breaking-in period. His now aging Trek performed admirably. The bike was a trophy from a time when Dean's budget contained more expendable income. He pushed up both speed and distance.
The town of Ouray rests at the boxed-in end of the narrowing Uncompahgre Valley, which spreads from the towering San Juan Mountains in roughly a northwest direction, dropping elevation as the valley gradually widens. The river of the same name parallels the two-lane Route 550 and separates the paved highway from the far less traveled gravel roads that meander in the same direction.
It was on these byways that Dean opted to travel, rolling along the river with the down of cottonwoods filling the air like a winter snowstorm, past the occasional farm house, fields, and ever-present vista of mountains wrapping around him. He sprinted, geared down, and just lolled along, experimenting with his body's reaction to the various phases and ultimately pleased with its response to his multiple tests. Finally, he doubled back and spent the return trip simply enjoying the country road. He never saw another human being.