Dean pushed off with a vengeance at the same time as the other cyclist below him. The lateral of the switchback was longer than it appeared and by the time he reached the spot below where the cyclist had stood, the other biker was long out of sight. Shifting to his highest gear, Dean raced in pursuit down a long incline. Although there was a scattering of other bikers, he was sure the bright yellow windbreaker would be easy to spot, unless the biker became lost in a large pack.
The bicycle built up speed and Dean was aware that only one square inch of brake pad separated him from oblivion. His digital speedometer read 54 miles an hour, faster than he had ever ridden in his life, and his eyes watered from the rush of cold air. The first curve frightened the hell out of him and he knew the brake pressure necessary to slow him from this speed could not be engaged all the way down the mountain without overheating the tiny pads to the point of ineffectiveness.
He rolled into a series of curves but he couldn't take his tear-streaked eyes from the road long enough to see if he were gaining on the other rider. When the road straightened once more, he heard a noise behind him and a dozen daredevils in the tuck position sped on by him with a wave and a rush of air. He fell in behind them, taking advantage of the quieter air in their wake and kept pace with them. At this speed he was sure he was gaining ground on the other biker.
The edge of the highway to Dean's left, absent any guardrails, was a drop of thousands of feet but the roadway suddenly leveled and then climbed sharply over a rise before continuing downward. Dean lost his convoy of younger bikers on the short uphill and he paused momentarily at the crest to wipe his eyes and scan the roadway below him for his prey.
He was still above the timberline, devoid of any trees that would impair visibility so it was clear enough to follow the road with its many switchbacks and curves traversing the mountain below him, a black line clinging to the side of the cliff like a pencil drawing. There were scores of dots of color but Dean had little trouble catching sight of a yellow blur rounding a corner, further below than he would have guessed. He pushed off once again, committed firmly to the pursuit.
In spite of the chase, the pure magnificence of the mountains overwhelmed him. Flying downhill produced an exhilaration that defied explanation. Spectacular scenery was never ending. One moment, he was a speck of nothing in this vastness that defined his insignificance; another, this whole world was his. He'd never seen so much of nature at one glance and it produced an incredible sense of euphoria. Here he was, in total control, independent of outside power-only his arms and legs and gravity. For all the misery of the uphill climb, this downhill dash was fused in his memory forever, and in one brief moment he knew this Colorado country was where he belonged.