I’ve always said a boy’s finest years are between ages 7 and 11. Or at least they were my finest years. I was no longer a little pisher with knobby knees, a running nose, and a slave to every authority figure in the Lower 48. Instead, I’d wandered into world of wonders and ...

Last week, when Bunk Griffin snugged into his stool in The Great Downhill Grill in the Sky, he took with him a vast number of stories never recorded or even heard. Luckily for us, and me in particular, he left another bunch of them behind. Some necessary background: Bunk was seven years ...

In recent years, my reading preference has been mysteries. One can never know about such things, of course, but I think being a lifelong lover of history may have inclined me toward them. After all, isn’t the study of history just a who (or what) dunnit? Aren’t all historians creatures ...

This column is essentially Part II of last week’s. In case you didn’t read the last column (and shame on you if you didn’t), I was at Mt. Van Hoevenberg for the UCI Mountain Bike World Series, and thanks to the generosity of Kris Cheney-Seymour, I had a VIP pass. So I was living it ...

Last Sunday at 0935 on the dot, and much to my surprise, I drove through the gate at Mt. Van Hoevenberg almost to the minute of my ETA. I was surprised for two reasons. One was, regardless of the event, I’m chronically late. So for me to arrive when I say I will, while not recorded in ...

I was in the post office buying stamps and chatting with the guy who knows more people than anyone else in My Home Town, and in return is liked by more people in MHT — Mark Deshaine. In case you didn’t recognize the name, or you’ve never mailed a letter here, Mark is the guy who ...