It was a beautiful spring afternoon, and we had an itch to get outside.
I was in Colorado Springs at the time, with my friends Brian and Raoul. It was a Saturday afternoon. We were all bored and frustrated, and needed to go. We’d made the decision to drive into the mountains outside of the city, and perhaps go for a hike.
Brian walked to his desk, pulled out a large bag of weed, looked at as if considering, then threw it on the couch. The three of us got in the car and left.
We drove to Upper Gold Camp Road, a dirt pass that runs between Pikes Peak and Cheyenne Mountain. We were in an old Volvo, orange and in sorry shape. Driving slowly on the narrow pass, our car stalled. The three of us got out to investigate. Just as we got out, from around the curve in front of us, a cop car pulled up. They got out to see who we were and what we were doing. They treat us aggressively. They had all three us put our hands on the roof of the car, legs and arms spread, and then frisked each of us down. After padding us down, they told us to leave the mountain.
At once pissed to be called out for no reason, and then thankful that Brian left his weed at home, we got the car started and inched back down the pass. When we got to the bottom of Gold Camp Road, we parked the car back at home and walked to local jazz bar up the street (Brian and Raoul were both jazz musicians, and were good at getting club managers to give them free drinks). Together we all got drunk. Our itch was never scratched, and we returned home feeling even more frustrated than when we left.