Saddle Sore: Doing what’s necessary

It was a few years ago, and the whine of the jet engines is still loud in my ears as we deftly landed at San Francisco International Airport, my destination mostly a mystery, but there was eager anticipation in my breast.

A short ride from the airport, 7 or 8 miles to my maternal aunt’s house in San Mateo, probably cost me ten bucks, and then there it was. It wasn’t the house that grabbed my attention so much as my dead grandmother’s 4-door Chevy sitting in the driveway, the car that was my main Aspen ride until I turned 16 and bought my own. Once shiny emerald green, the Chevrolet with so many high school memories was faded out, from only a few years sitting outside soaking up California sun and salt in the wind. The vehicle didn’t quite coincide with my memory until I got behind the wheel. Still nice inside, clean, and almost as remembered.

It was a Sunday, and once human connections were made, the green jalopy in the driveway and I headed toward San Francisco, trying to figure how to get there and where to get once I got there. At 21 or 22, there was no hill too high to climb and without a map, only cursory verbal instructions, my Monday morning destination was found. With time to spare, a tour of the Golden Gate area and excellent views of the open water. Sausalito reminded me of Aspen; seemingly unemployed young people, lining the tourist main drag, giving off the “local” vibe, so proud.

My mission was at the insistence of my father who, while living in Denver after a lifetime of ranching in Woody Creek, had two businesses; real estate and cosmetics. While in college, he had made me what you might call a marketing director, which was, for the time, sort of amorphous. In one aspect, manning open houses was my responsibility, not too difficult. On the other, the cosmetic business was quite interesting; setting up meetings with 10 or 20 women on a Saturday afternoon, in posh hotels, getting them set up with kits for hitting the streets, door-to-door, selling skin care products. Ah, the women. I could tell you a few tales, but I digress.

Public speaking was becoming part of our Denver gambit, and my role was to be a motivational presenter. Zig Ziglar was not always available, but he “had my back,” he said. A week in San Francisco getting educated on the art by one of the top men in the country of such verbal communication was necessary, according to my dad.

It was a different world for me, back then. Three-piece suit most days, shined shoes, well-clipped hair, and a picked-up patter that belied my days in the saddle, chasing cows. Driving around Denver in a new Pontiac convertible, going to appointments with distributors, other real estate professionals, stopping at women’s condos and houses, and visiting owners of beauty salons (my favorite, Charlene Jackson, an unforgettable black woman in Five Points). To be truthful, in hindsight I was what might have been called an insufferable snot.

Sutter Street. Famous name from the gold rush days; famous street in downtown San Francisco. Can’t remember the address, but the rooms and blackboards we used are memorable. Our instructor, Jim Hearn, was a dynamite trainer, filling our notebooks with never-ending notes and suggestions. Somewhere, I have a credential, certifying that I was much better than I really thought I was. In the back of my subconscious mind, proving something to my dad was undoubtedly integral.

Evenings at my aunt’s house were spent in good conversation over dinner with her and her husband and then it was off to my room, to practice the techniques and suggestions I had heard that day. A tape recorder kept track of every word and I was so tired of hearing my voice by the end of the week that I began to wonder who the weird dude was, making such comments.

Once or twice a week, back in Denver, I practiced the techniques that I’d learned, in front of groups of 20-125 people, not only for my dad but for others. I loved it.

But, in the end, it was all a distraction. It was coming apart for me. My university tenure was coming to an end and the smell of the mountains was infecting my thought processes. When I had graduated from high school, in the midst of many possibilities, my dad and I made a deal. “Get a college degree and you can do whatever you want,” he’d said.

My commencement from CU was at the end of the fall semester and the ink wasn’t dry on my last final before I was back in Aspen, doing what was necessary to get on the Aspen Mountain Ski Patrol.

Tony Vagneur writes here on Saturdays and welcomes your comments at ajv@sopris.net.