30 May 2025

Trafficking in Colorado

My friend Harry called me the other day to see how I was doing and getting used to the mountains and all that. I said “I’m ok now but last week was rough, I tell ya” (thanks to Rodney Dangerfield). He said what’s the problem?

“Don’t know where to begin” I said, “but I’ve had an idea about trafficking in Colorado.”

Alarmed, Harry said, “what!? You could get in major trouble buying legal weed there and driving it down to tight-ass Texas to sell it.”

Took a moment for what he thought I said versus what I meant to sink in.

“No, no no…” I literally meant the traffic, what’s on the roads. For instance, start with people walking—here they have the right of way over vehicles when crossing the road. Here, pedestrians have the right of way over vehicles when crossing the road. There are crosswalks with flashing lights. When someone wants to cross, they wait until traffic’s barreling toward them at fifty miles an hour, then casually push a little button. Suddenly, about 200 yellow strobes go off and cars slam their brakes like they’ve hit a deer. Out strolls a lone teenager, or sometimes an entire flock of elderly folks, taking their sweet time across the street.And don’t get me wrong, I’m in favor of pedestrians having the right of way, but they should press the button as soon as they arrive at the crosswalk, not when traffic is within spitting distance.

Back home, if someone rode a bicycle, they just hopped on it in cutoff jeans and a tank top from that one time they partied with Robert Downey Jr., and off they went—taking their chances in traffic like everyone else.

Here? It’s a different species. Cyclists don’t ride, they suit up. We’re talking double-faced milk silk, Lycra-something-I-can’t-pronounce, and some high-tech eco fabric that probably costs more than my truck payment. Add $90 riding shoes (nope, New Balance doesn’t cut it), leather or fleece “track mitts,” polycarbonate helmets—and before they even pedal, they’ve already invested half their 401k.

And I’m not against safety and practicality, the bicyclers have their own lane to ride in, and they can cross the road, pushing their bikes of course at the disco like flashing crosswalks.

Even over the phone, I could hear Harry shaking his head in disbelief. I kept going. “but the weirdest thing of all? Are you sitting down? U-turns in intersections.”

“You mean out in the country” he asked.

“No! In town!”

In Texas, a U-turn in an intersection would bring cops sprinting out from behind every billboard and roadside bush, ticket books flying. “Say boy, don’tcha know you can get sumbody killed doin’ that?”

But here in Colorado? U-turns—even in intersections with four lanes of converging traffic—are as natural as seeing a red robin in spring.

And just when I thought I was starting to get the hang of this traffic stuff, I came face to face with the next beast: roundabouts.

Now, I know what a roundabout is—I’m not completely unsophisticated. But in Texas, a “roundabout” usually means somebody missed their exit and just whipped a U-turn across the median with two wheels in the air. Here in Colorado, they’ve gone full Euro on me. I’m talking about landscaped islands in the middle of the road, concrete curbs, and signs that say “Yield to traffic already in the circle.”

The problem is, no one agrees on what that actually means. Some drivers charge into the roundabout like it’s a demolition derby. Others approach it like a suspicious raccoon sniffing a trash can—cautious, hesitant, and ready to bolt at any moment. I once sat behind a Prius for so long I thought maybe it had broken down. Turns out the driver was just waiting for every car in the county to exit the circle before daring to merge.

And then there’s mountain driving. That’s a whole separate religion up here. I come from flat land, where “elevation” means the ramp up to the Whataburger drive-thru. So imagine me, gripping the wheel, white-knuckled, as I crawl up a two-lane road that winds like a snake, no guardrails, and nothing between me and a thousand-foot drop but air and regret.

The locals don’t even flinch. They tailgate you at 70 miles per hour, sipping coffee with one hand while hauling two kayaks, a dog, and what I can only assume is a full set of camping gear tied to the roof.

Which brings me to the official state vehicle of Colorado: the Subaru.

You see more Subarus here than you see pickup trucks in Texas. They’re everywhere. Forest green, desert tan, glacier blue—each one with at least two bumper stickers: “Coexist,” “Namaste,” or “I brake for elk.” They’ve all got a yoga mat, a collapsible water bowl, and a rescue dog named River or Luna riding shotgun.

At first, I thought maybe there was a dealership giving them away with a Costco membership. But no, it’s a culture. Subaru owners here don’t drive their cars, they live out of them. If a blizzard hit tomorrow, half the population could just zip up their sleeping bags in the back and ride it out till spring.

And don’t even get me started on drivers from back East. You can spot ’em a mile away. They’re the ones honking at you before the light even turns green. I’m sitting there, foot hovering over the gas, and they’re already laying on the horn like they’ve got a train to catch. Look pal, I saw the light turn green—I’m just waiting the customary half second so I don’t get T-boned by some Subaru trying to beat the yellow from the other direction. But nope, Mr. Boston or New Jersey is behind me, channeling all his unresolved childhood trauma through his car horn. Welcome to the Rockies, buddy—try decaf.

And if the East Coast drivers don’t kill you, the weed-fueled ones might accidentally hug you.

I mean that half-jokingly—but not really. Because here in Colorado, it’s not just legal to buy weed—it’s practically encouraged. Dispensaries are everywhere. Big glowing green crosses, modern storefronts, employees in lab coats like they’re curing cancer when really they’re handing out gummies shaped like cartoon animals.

In most of the state, it’s just marijuana. But in Denver city limits? Mushrooms are now legal too. Not the kind you put on your pizza—unless you like your pizza to tell you about your childhood trauma and the interconnectedness of all things.

So now when I pull up at a red light, I don’t just wonder if the guy next to me is texting, I wonder if he’s tripping. You haven’t lived until you’ve made accidental eye contact with a man driving a Subaru with three dreamcatchers on the mirror and pupils the size of Oreos. He gives you a thumbs up and a peaceful smile, and you’re just sitting there praying he doesn’t forget which pedal is which.

And look—I’m not against any of it. Live and let live, man. But back in Texas, the only thing people got high on was barbacoa and Dr Pepper. Up here, it feels like half the population is on a spiritual journey and the other half is late for yoga.

After all that, I figured maybe I just needed a break from driving—clear my head, reconnect with nature. So I tried hiking. You know, walking. On purpose. Uphill. With intention. What an out-of-body experience that turned out to be. Between the signs warning about bears and mountain lions, the “kind suggestions” from seasoned hikers about trail etiquette (“don’t wear cotton,” “yield to uphill traffic,” “please don’t feed the marmots”), and the guy power-walking past me with trekking poles and a GPS tracker strapped to his calf like a parole monitor, I started to wonder if driving in traffic was actually safer. At least on the road, you can see what’s trying to kill you coming from the rearview mirror.

Yeah, I’m alright now—but last week? Last week was almost a disaster, I tell ya.