One Hundred Laps
Reflections on repetition in the Flatirons
According to my records, I’ve now done Freeway on the Second Flatiron in Boulder one hundred times.
The Second Flatiron, a thousand-foot spike of conglomerate sandstone located on the outskirts of South Boulder, is a part of the greater Flatirons formation. These 300-million-year-old rocks form the most dramatic portion of Boulder’s skyline and the most salient symbol of the city I could imagine (I mean come on, it’s named Boulder).
The Chautauqua Park trailhead parking lot stays full from just before sunrise until after sunset. Even being located next to the town, there’s plenty of wildness to satisfy me when I’m looking for a quick jaunt. Wildflowers bloom and leaves rustle in the gentle (and sometimes not-so-gentle) breeze. I’ve interrupted herds of deer eating breakfast, followed countless magpies squawking along the trail, and politely avoided at least one bear.
Having spent thousands of hours here, the most delightful thing about the Chautauqua and Flatirons Loops remains the sheer variety of people I find alongside me. College students taking graduation photos litter the meadow. Tourists speaking a dozen languages snap photos of the formation from the first clearing in the trees. Next to an old couple sharing a water bottle at the Flatirons Loop intersection, a professional runner blasts up the trail for another lap. Teenagers wearing really wide pants chaperone their parents along the trail, often resting in the shade after the steepness of the initial climb up the meadow (“Dad, I promise the rest of the trail isn’t this steep!”). Climbers clanking with full trad racks ascend next to boulderers with crash pads strapped to their backs, both on their way to their respective projects. The juxtaposition of elite to casual, normie to hardo, is singular here.
More often than not, when I arrive at the base of the Second Flatiron I find an audience. Hikers gawk and point as people climb (or as many in Boulder like to say, scramble) up Freeway, the 5.0 climbing route ascending the slabby face. Over the years of observing the characters on the route (including many shoeless climbers, at least two people carrying dogs in backpacks up the face, and a guy wearing a full suit), I’ve coined what I call Bateman’s Law: at any time on a nice day in Boulder, you will find at least one Hinge date going terribly wrong on the Second Flatiron.1
Doing the climb at this point feels almost like navigating my own house with the lights turned off; I know where the furniture is, just how many stairs there are, where there’s a dip in the floor or a sharp corner to avoid. Much of the route wanders across the textured face in a choose-your-own-adventure style, but at a few constrictions I feel so practiced that I can reproduce each crack, foothold, and movement from memory as I sit here writing. I’ve got complicated feelings about the culture of scrambling in Boulder, but time on the Second does evoke such focus and flow that I overflow with gratitude that it’s in my backyard.
I’ve done the full loop car-to-car in as short as 36 minutes and as long as 3 hours. I’ve biked to the trailhead and run the whole loop from my house. I’ve done it alone, many times, but in just as many cases I’ve shared intimate conversations with one or two close friends on the rock. With Ian I did the Third, Second, and First Flatirons in a day—setting no speed records. At least a few times I’ve mobbed the face with a dozen or more friends or cheered on participants in the Tour de Flatirons. Upon reflection, this symbol of Boulder serves also as a locus of my community.
My favorite view of the Flatirons is when they’re off-limits for scrambling: just after it snows. The clean, albedous snow and dark rock lit up from the east by an amber winter sunrise evoke such sublimity in my heart that I feel content not taking another lap. I know the snow will melt and I’ll be back out there with my friends soon enough. Here’s to one hundred more.
It hardly needs to be said but I, of course, have never had a Hinge date go terribly wrong on the Second Flatiron.