I landed in Denver in the dark and cold, bored from being stuck on a plane with blue-haired ladies and watered down wine. Living on the California coastline has made me a princess when it comes to traveling where the sun doesn't always shine, but visits away stop me from being idle when I am home and always improves my ability to climb harder. Icy roads and extra insurance on the rental car gave me the freedom to burn a bunch of 360s on the empty freeway to shake off the jet lag before heading to Boulder. I arrived at Matt's house where a slobbery kiss and chomp on the arm from the Bulgarian Clydehound, mixed with a hug from the ever-charming Kristin, prompted a round of stories and anticipation for the climbing ahead. 

Unfortunately, some rain with a dab of snow hung out for a couple days and kept us inside twiddling our thumbs while pulling on plastic. Five days later, the sun broke just long enough for a quick solo of the First Flatiron. The Flatirons are these prominent low angle slabs lining the Front Range with fantastically original names like: First Flatiron, Second Flatiron, Third Flatiron, etc. Talking with the local legends, I found out about a group of suicidal sociopaths that do a race each year to see how quickly they can do the First Flatiron car-to-car, basically a three-mile round-trip run with 10 pitches of 5.6-5.9 in the middle. The current record is around 35 minutes, and madman Malcolm Daly has the only no-hands solo of the route. That's not a mistake —10 pitches of no hands soloing!