Tom Reid loses another piece of identity

We leave Santa Fe bright and early, ready for the 8 hour drive up the country. In the words of Jack Kerouac, we cease to travel East to West and instead - Mystic North. The trip up is relatively uneventful until night falls when, like something from a Robert Browning poem, a bloody great deer jumps in the way of the car. The lumbering mass of the Chevvy comes to a halt just inches from the stupid creature before it gasses it off into the brush from whence it came.

We arrive an hour or so later after a hearty evening meal of pizza hut in a little town called Silverthorne, its like Luton but with mountains. And no airport. We go sleepily and happily to bed.

In the morning we go into town to look at the delightful little town of Steamboat Springs. We see all the same tourist tat rebranded with "Steamboat" instead of Memphis/Nashville/Santa Fe. One thing that strikes us as new though is a collection of paintings on sale in a local gallery window. They depict all the Republican presidents of the 20th century standing around laughing and playing pool, there hasn't been such a disturbing image of the true face of evil committed to canvas since William Blake painted scenes from Dante's Inferno. Except maybe this.

After some light touristing we drive up the side of a mountain to look at the truly stunning Fish Creek Falls, where some absolute fresher has broken her leg and ruins picture taking time for the rest of the visitors. After she of little brain is winched unceremoniously onto the back of a quad bike and shuttled up the hill we go back to enjoying our lunch and the beautiful views.

And now the main event. That evening we spend a night at the rodeo. Words can not express the pure unbridled joy, the mesmerising skill, or the dumbfounding oddness of what we saw. So here's a video.



And as The Great Salad Eating of August 2010 still reverberates around the shared consciousness and the crunch of lettuce leaf is still reverberating in the ears of the world, another hammer blow is struck to Tom Reid's carefully sculpted public image. And the facet of Tara's persona that falls away this time? Whatever bit it is that stops you placing hand on heart and singing the Yank national anthem just because a man in a Stetson tells you to, thats which bit.