If I Can Just Make Cheyenne

On Wednesday I will turn 60. To celebrate, over the next few days, I’ll have a series of posts that will give you a rare look into the private life and heart of Reba. I hope you’ll stop by and celebrate with me.

I rounded the corner and ran north, excitement bubbling in my soul. Today I would see downtown Cheyenne. I passed underneath one of the two major interstate highways that intersect here and wasn’t surprised that it looked like most any interstate exit. Restaurants and hotels lined the road, begging for customers to drop some cash.

Within a mile I was taken back in time, although NOT to the days of the old west. Instead, I found myself squarely in the middle of the 1950’s. It looked as though someone discarded an entire town from decades ago and Cheyenne bought it. Old diners with spinning stools and red/white checkered table cloths. Cheap strip motels from a time when people stayed in them just to sleep, not to be pampered. Old “filling” stations that offered fuel and little else.

I continued running, hoping against hope that this was not all there is. I passed a biker bar and gazed in wonder as hundreds of grizzly characters showed off their black leather, drank beer and ate greasy hamburgers. But they did seem like a happy lot.

I climbed a small hill and downtown came into view. I passed homeless people who seemed devoid of any ambition. One of them sat on a bench reaching into a bag of edible goodies, no doubt deposited there by some do-gooder. I ran past dozens smelly young drifters with backpacks. I figured they’d come to Cheyenne for the same reason I had.

I finally reached the center of the town and down one street, I saw the gold dome of the state capitol. What I didn’t see was anything western. There were no gun slinging cowboys. No hitching posts or horses. No wagons or saloons. No old timey hotels. There were old buildings for sure but nothing resembling the wild, wild west. Some buildings had been refurbished into bars and restaurants, some into parking garages. Many stood empty, a memory of a time long ago, although not distant enough into the past to satisfy my craving for cowboys and Indians.

I turned around and began my trek back. Already I’d seen African American young ladies walking to work at the local steakhouse. I’d seen Chinese women making large wok-full’s of fried rice for the busy take-out dinner hours. I’d seen Mexican men riding bicycles, presumably to or from work. But no cowboys.

I gazed toward the intersection and saw a young woman in a very fancy dinner dress being escorted by a man in an expensive monochrome suit. They walked across the street and he opened the passenger door of the $70,000 SUV for her. She entered but not before casting me a wary look, as if this penguin of a grandma runner wanted to steal anything she had.

I ran back past the homeless man sitting on the bench. He’d been eating some of the things in his bag and had thrown the wrappers onto the sidewalk. I bent down, picked them up and ran to the trash can to toss them in.

As I ran back toward the truck stop on the outskirts of town, I marveled that Cheyenne is as diverse as Times Square. Rich, poor, multi-ethnic, those just passing through all came to this place. Some searching. I wondered if they found what they were looking for. I fought a twinge of disappointment that I did not find my western town. I’d painted a much more appealing one onto the canvas of my mind.

The anticipation long since faded, I forced myself through the last mile back to the truck stop. As I rounded the corner and Dillon came into view, I was grateful that I’d named my truck (and all my trucks) a name from the old west. Cheyenne may have not been what I expected, but it was quite an adventure and well worth the three-hour run.

I know that in the days and weeks to come and I remember Cheyenne, I’ll choose to remember the one I built, not the one I saw on my run. In my town, horses and wagons still clop up and down the streets. Long-legged cowboys wear guns on their hips and aren’t afraid of anything.

My journey started with me thinking with great anticipation, “If I can just make Cheyenne”. It ended with gratitude that I created a town in my mind that no one can take away. I thanked God for my wonderful imaginary town created by the amazing imagination He saw fit to give me. I DID make Cheyenne… just the way I wanted to remember it!

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