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After a few trips I begin to notice some of the same cars making the run with me. On any given drive, I might see a car that passed me going up the mountain that I passed going down the other side. Sometimes one would pass me twice, having pulled off in front of me for gas or for one of the kids needing a bathroom break, that caught me again before the summit. Others I might see time and again as I made the weekend runs from Denver to the ski areas in the mountains. After a few trips I came to know the regulars. I had no doubt that some would also recognize my truck.

Lots of the cars made the trip at a higher rate of speed than me. The old Ford Bronco I drove looked like a beater, and like the usual ski bum who would drive such a piece of junk, I labored on the uphills, slower that the Mercedes M-class and Porsche Cayenne types, but then would catch them on the down hills, where I willingly destroyed the speed limit when I could. The Colorado Highway Patrol kept a pretty tight lid on traffic speed on this route, especially when the snow arrived to mess things up. So most of the regulars just set their cruise controls at five over the limit and they avoided signing any autographs for the cops. I had my own get out of jail free card, so I flaunted the law. That callous disregard was part of my cover.

I looked like a ski bum with that ponytail and three day growth of beard. The ratty looking canvas vest I wore during the ski season drives up to Vail fit the image I wished to convey. Most ski bums ...

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