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To the Moon! And Beyond: When Horror Franchises go to Space

Sci-Fi Horror has a long and rich history. From the Alien films of the 1970s
to more modern offerings such as Sunshine and Life, the final frontier of space
offers an escape into an unknown, terrifying universe. But what happens when
long-established franchises make the leap outside of Earth’s gravity? To answer
this, I watched four of the most established franchises that made it to space.
This is what I discovered regarding each film as they braved the final frontier.

FranchiseMovie NameIMDB RatingYear 
Friday the 13thJason X4.4/102001
HellraiserHellraiser IV: Bloodline5.1/101996
CrittersCritters 44/101997
LeprechaunLeprechaun 4: In Space3.5/101996
The Movies, By the Numbers

Jason X

A Crop of the Poster for the Movie

Acting as the 10th film in the Friday the 13th Saga, Jason X feels very much
like an oddity to the series more than anything else. With a combined Nightmare
on Elm Street/Friday the 13th franchise teased in the previous film, Jason Goes to
Hell, Jason X was a stopgap film conceived by Sean Cunningham. Set as the lattest in the series chronologically, Jason X tells the story of a cryogenically frozen
Jason (Kane Hodder, in his final appearance as the character) and scientist
Rowan LaFontaine (Lexa Doig), who awake in the year 2455. With bad CGI and
a stale human cast, Jason X feels like what it was initially supposed to be: a filler
to reintroduce people to the character after a nine year gap between movies.

Hellraiser IV: Bloodline

The Poster from the Film

Based originally around a group of supernatural beings called Cenobites
that are summoned via a puzzle box, Hellraiser feels like a significantly better
fit for going to space. The execution is haphazard, however, with the main
thrust of the story being a multigenerational telling of the origin of the puzzle
box. The end of the film hilariously mirrors that of A New Hope, with Pinhead
and the Cenobites being blown up in a gigantic puzzle box space station.

Despite Bloodline acting as the last Hellraiser movie chronologically and
original director Clive Barker stepping away from the series as it transitioned to
video, the later Hellraiser films didn’t completely suffer. With the following film
acting as a Jacob’s Ladder-esque psychological thriller and the most recent film’s
exploration of different elements of hell, the series proved to still have surprises
up its sleeve after leaving Earth’s atmosphere. In fact, a new Hellraiser film is
slated to come out this year.

Critters 4

The Original Poster

The best fit out of the four series’ for going to space, the previous Critters
films were known primarily for a strong first film that Roger Ebert praised, a
second film that the director has all but disavowed, and a poorly received third
film that marks actor Leonardo Dicaprio’s film debut. The fourth film acts as
the end of the original series, with the fifth being a 2019 reboot. Unlike its more
goofy predecessor, Critters 4 at parts seems more like an Alien movie than a
continuation of the series, with the same feel of claustrophobia. However, it
still hits some of the comedic notes of its predecessors, with the crew having to
deal with an onboard AI that does the opposite of what it is commanded to do.

Leprechaun 4: In Space

The Theatrical Poster

As part of a series completely familiar with gimmicks, Leprechaun 4 continues the trend. With the previous film set in Vegas, the franchise ups the ante
for the fourth installment, opening with the title character marrying an alien
princess with the intent of killing her to gain power over the kingdom. In a lot
of ways, Leprechaun 4 has some parallels to Moon 44, sharing a primary plot point
of mercenaries attempting to secure mining operations. Goofiness ensues
throughout the movie, from the Leprechaun using lightsabers to his becoming
enlarged to subdue his prey.

Unlike the other franchises, Leprechaun 4 didn’t mark a significant shift in
the tone or direction of the series. Four additional films have been released
since then: the Leprechaun goes to the Hood in two of them, there’s an origin
story, and 2018 saw a well-received direct sequel to the original movie.

Concluding Thoughts on the Final Frontier of Horror
When I went into writing this article, I expected that going to space would
be the death knell of at least one of the series that I looked into. However,
space seems to act as something entirely different. Hellraiser and Leprechaun
were the only standalone franchises that didn’t have a nearly 10-year gap before
their space-going films, but Friday the 13th’s Jason X was shortly followed by a
fan and critical favorite in the franchise crossover Freddy Vs. Jason. Even the
Critters series, with the longest gap between its space film and the soft reboot
in 2019, still had a successful side project between the films—a series that
premiered on the streaming service Shudder called Critters: A New Binge. To
clarify, more than a small step for horror happens when entering space, but
change isn’t necessarily crippling. It can be a giant leap for horrorkind and
inspire the genre to push boundaries and try some unique ideas.

Featured image is a still from Jason X

The Melts: Part 2

“Help. Me”

The three knocks were accompanied by the faintest voice. Looking out the peephole, I saw the figure, a lanky, thinly looking man with a ragged pair of jeans on, a long black sweater with gloves, and a black ski mask that obstructed his face. I was about to let him in when when the voice of Grandma shocked me from behind.


I stopped, facing her while I took my hand off the doorknob.

“You think its a melt, don’t you?”

As I said these words the voice repeated its plea, slightly louder now.

“Help. Me”

“Don’t let him trick you” Grandma demanded. “These creatures want you to feel pitiful as they rob you blind.”

I went back to the door, trying to figure out how to prove to Grandma this thing wasn’t a Melt.

Heading back towards the door, I formulated my line of questioning.

“What is your name?”

A quick hesitation, and then a response


Looking back to Grandma yielded the predicted response.

“That means nothing!

Back to the questions

“Why are you outside?”

In fragments, he said “Car. Broke. Down. Need. Warm”

I peered through the window next to the door and saw nothing. Snow was coming down in sheets, and our house was the only one for miles, so it was plausible he walked from his vehicle.

Grandma would believe none of it, staring at me intently with her arms crossed.

The man knocked on the door again, three times, more heavily than the first time.

“HELP. ME” he yelled louder

I looked to my grandmother as she mouthed one word to me. Don’t.

“LET ME IN” the man screamed.

Three more knocks, feeling like they were shaking the foundation of the building.

“LEAVE US ALONE” Grandma yelled at the voice.


Silence for a second. I peered out the keyhole again. The figure stood like a sentinel, with only its breath signifying that it was alive.

I stood at a crossroads. My options before me were both grim: on the one hand, I could keep the door closed, satisfying my grandmother and dooming the person outside. On the other, I could let him in, likely putting my grandmother into hysterics and possibly endangering ourselves to a complete stranger.

Considering what I had to do, I stepped towards the door, looked out the keyhole, and began to turn the doorknob.

To Be Continued.

The Melts: Part 1

In Deepest Winter/When Worst Cold Is Felt/Beware the Three Knocks/Beware Of The Melts

-Folk Rhyme, Origin Unknown

Seven Degrees. A measurement that I had previously associated with being connected to someone. In my new home in Colorado, it served as a reminder that outside was an inhospitable wasteland.

Inside wasn’t much more friendly. The primary thing regulating the temperature in the old home was a fireplace, one I had to manage myself because my aging grandmother could not by herself. The hostility inside extended to her as well.

You see, my grandma was near the end of her life, and a nursing home to her felt like a death sentence. As the youngest sibling with no obligations, no job prospects back home in Florida, and, according to judgmental relatives, no hope, I was the natural caretaker for her. Her growing dementia made it hard: she saw things, could hardly remember who I was, and acted hostile to anyone beyond me that came through the door.

As I entered the home that night, she was sitting in her chair, an ancient piece that wouldn’t be out of place in a Victorian novel. “Who are you!” She shouted, as her eyes turned to daggers shot right at my head. After taking off my layers, she settled down, realizing I was friend. Coming from the store, I started to cook the one meal she consistently ate: Oatmeal with banana, cinnamon, and brown sugar.

I put the bowl in front of her, and she started to eat, watching the door the entire time. The focus on the door was so intense at times that her focus on eating disappeared, as oatmeal missed her mouth and hit the floor. Wondering, I asked “Grandma, Why are you watching the door so intently?

“I’m waiting for a melt to show up.”

“What is a melt?” I inquired, not knowing the Pandora’s Box I had open.

Without relaying the conversation in full due to the ramblings beyond the scope of the question, a melt was the spirit of a person that died in the midst of winter.

“Melts, my boy, will wait until the coldest hour to begin their rituals”.

The ritual, she elaborated on, was simple: they would knock on the door of a house three times, ask to be let in, and proceed to murder everyone in the home.

“What do they look like?” I wondered aloud to her.

“A melt will be covered head to toe when they come to your door. Underneath the clothes, ice.”

Excitedly expanding on the legend, Grandma warned that the only way to kill a melt was to not let it in.

“Surviving a melt simply requires you to not gives into their lies. Keep the door closed, and you will see a puddle on your doorstep in the morning, a sign that the melt has not succeeded”.

Playing along with Grandma’s delusion, I started to ask how a melt becomes a melt, still curious as to what they got out of their home invasions. As her eyelids starting to droop, I realized that my questions would go unanswered. Finding a heavy blanket in the armoire next to the grandfather clock, I tucked her into her seat, adding one more log to the fireplace before heading to my room.

The inside of this house, much like the living room, felt like an exhibition more so than a living space. At night when grandma was asleep, it felt intimidating, with the walnut table and the mahogany chairs of the adjacent dining room whispering their secrets in the creaks that they made when used. The only hint at modernity in the home was the kitchen attached to the dining room, with a fridge and a cupboard replete with the staples of a poor household: Beans, Rice, Bulk Oatmeal, and spices.

I was cleaning the bowl of oatmeal out, putting it on the dry rack. Making myself a cup of tea, I sat at the dining room table, scrolling through my phone to check the news, check my email, and apply for the odd job or two. All of a sudden, I heard a knock at the door.

And then another one

And then a third.

To Be Continued

2021 In Review: The Year I joined the Great Resignation and gained a life out of it.

It was May of 2021. I had just gotten my second dose of the COVID-19 vaccine, the pandemic was on the downswing in Colorado, and we were just coming out of an incredibly snow filled winter. I had only moved to the day shift of my previous job after a medical incident that left me fairly incapacitated about four months ago, and being on the day shift was my one way to look for jobs.

The stress from my job was getting to me. Returning to day shift in a frontline position meant effectively being the “mask police” for hundreds of people a week. The Delta variant had just been identified in the States, and its presence along with the alpha mutation caused me to be nervous and fear for my life. I would often end my shifts by getting unaffordable takeout and browsing YouTube videos.

Beyond the issues in relation to COVID, my previous employer had all the trappings of a bad retail position. Management would foster a “family” environment among the rank and file, only to use it against us when members of our “work family” called out for a particular shift, and offered little in regards to mental health when it came to day to day interactions with customers.

In the background of all of this, I was in the final stage of interviewing for a new job. My luck in the job market prior to this was not great, with the closest job that I got during this period being a call center representative for Comcast (which I turned down).

May 18th was the day I got the job offer. A raise that would allow me to live a fairly modest lifestyle in a one bedroom downtown, consistent hours, and a foot into the field that I wanted to be in sealed the deal. I gave my two weeks notice at my former employer, and left the same way that I arrived in November of 2019, with little fanfare.

Nearly six months later, even as Denver is is in the midst of a new variant of COVID that threatens to overwhelm our hospitals, changing jobs made the rest of my life significantly easier. The nearly yearly stress of having to roll the dice for roommate or ask for financial help from relatives have subsided.

If I had any advice for people frustrated in their current positions that have instability and unpredictability in them its this: start looking for a new job. From the time that I seriously started looking to the point that I accepted my new job was roughly 4-5 months. I’m not going to mince words: job searching is shitty and feels like an exercise in futility. The reward once you leave, however, can often be a life changing experience.

Featured Image is a Graph from Fortune Magazine of Resignations Since 2001

The 10th Hour

This Piece Was Originally Published in Mile High Horrors Bimonthly Publication “What Evil Lurks”

Winter Solstice. The best shift for an overnight guard. Despite this, I’m dreading the 12 hours that I will be on this shift due to swing shift calling out sick. 12 hours means three patrols of the building, twelve hourly logs, and watching a whole lot of nothing due to the winter storm raging outside the old nature museum.

Hour 1: Interior Temperature 68 Degrees, 10% humidity at 1954.

I settled down for a large cup of coffee. It is a solitary job being in a museum at night. As someone who has been a night guard for 3 years, the initial shocks of the noises that the building makes—the creaks of the architecture and the billowing steam of the mechanical systems—have become ambient noise. The displays of the sabre-tooths and predator animals no longer shock me on patrols. Humanity is the ultimate predator in my eyes.

Hour 2: Interior Temperature 69 degrees, 8% humidity at 2057. Contract snow service called.

These logs are nonsense. Created mostly for giving nights busywork and partially due to a night guard falling asleep a couple weeks ago. The contract snow removal service we have will be here around 5 AM, ready to clear the path for visitors that will visit the next day. Icicle removal is also their forte, as many will build up around the entrances.

Hours 3/4: Interior Temperature 67-68 degrees, 8-10% humidity at 2154 and 2258. First Patrol Complete.

At least patrols make my job easier by breaking up the night a little bit and getting me out of the dispatch center. The patrols usually last about an hour and a half, coming down to a science of 18 minutes per floor in this five-floor building.

Hour 5: Interior Temperature 65 degrees, 12% humidity at 2301. 

This is when I would usually start my shift. My supervisor called me in regards to the higher humidity, said to monitor it and alert if it goes above 15%.

Hour 6: Interior Temperature 67 Degrees, 10% humidity at 0011.

Solstice is over, officially. Halfway through the shift as the coffee is replaced by water. My microwave burrito and frito chips are my solace. Time for another patrol.

Hour 7/8: Interior Temperature 64/66 Degrees, 7% humidity at 0104

and 0210. Second Patrol Complete.

Time to babysit. The museum is bordered by bars, breweries, and concert halls, and drunks often use our campus as a place to catch a rideshare, particularly on a blizzard night like tonight. 

Hour 9: Interior Temperature 65 Degrees, 11% humidity at 0312. Person has fallen in a snowbank and shows no sign of movement. Called police to perform a check on them.

This is perhaps the only action I will see tonight. It was sudden: one minute, they were standing, as if waiting for something to happen.

Hour 10: Int…

As I started to write this entry, I saw something on cameras that made me jump. The person in the snow bank got up, headed for our front entrance, and slammed their entire body against the door. I’m rising from my seat, frantically heading to the entrance with my flashlight and a small speaker, hoping to scare the person away. Upon getting to the front entrance, the sight in front of me caused me shock: A figure dressed in a dark black puff jacket, with a face as pale as the snow itself, and dichromatic eyes, one blue, one green. I began shining my light on it, hoping it would repel this beast. Instead, it was drawn to it like a moth and began pounding harder on the door. When I realized that the glass was beginning to crack, I called the police for backup.

I was not able to make any logs for hours 11-12, as I was anxiously waiting for the police and snow service to arrive. When the police cruiser arrived around 6:00 AM, the creature had given up, probably afraid of the repercussions it would face. The incident served as a reminder to me of the oddities and monsters that exist in the world, especially on the longest night of the year.

The Day I Bought the Gas Masks

It was a cool early November in West Denver. My roommate at the time and I were worried about the results of the November 2020 election, as Donald Trump, regardless of whether he was going to win or lose, was sowing doubt as to whether the election was legitimate. Already having secondhand experienced the George Floyd protests that made me fear riding my bike into a sea of teargas everynight, I made the purchase and bought Soviet-era gas masks out of fear that civil unrest post November 3rd would make the events of the protests seem like small potatoes.

My acting theory on the night of the elections was simple: Trump acolytes, using alternative networks such a Parler and Telegram, would use the slow counting that typified election week last year to disrupt things, usurping election divisions throughout the country and throwing everywhere into chaos. I remember distinctly telling my roommate that a Latin American style coup would play out before our eyes. Along with ordering the masks, I got every item in FEMA’s disaster preparedness checklist, and rigged an old phone to act as a closed circuit camera in front of my apartment door.

Election night 2020 in Denver came and went. Early on in the night, the state was called for Joe Biden, and outside of myself and a small group of people, things seemed relatively calm and peaceful outside. I leaned a little bit into election news, but it played out in the background of my everyday life, with my roommate moving out and my future living plans eclipsing it at most points. The one bright spot about the election week for me personally was the flipping of Georgia. At the point, I made the decision to return the masks, as any coup attempt that Trump would try at that point would be more focused on the swing states, not necessarily focused towards dark blue Colorado.

Thought I ultimately decided to return the gas masks I was proven right.

Multiple lawsuits in every state from Nevada to Georgia. I watched the news, fearing for my Nevadan and Georgian friends that would see the blunt end of a successful lawsuit by the Trump Campaign. They all failed, with Trump’s attempted coup culminating for that election season in the January 6th attacks on the Capitol.

That being said, the coup attempt, and the attempt to rewrite its history, isn’t over. Right wing pundit Tucker Carlson’s latest special is a revisionist history of this attack, stating that it was a “false flag” and a “honeypot” in much of the programming. The Governor-elect of Virginia, Glenn Youngkin, spoke at an event prior to election night 2021 where a pledge of allegiance was held with a flag that was at the January 6th insurrection. To this day, former President Trump has not conceded the 2020 race, choosing instead to use most of his post-presidency to attack the Biden administration and build a social media network for his far right followers.

So, while Trump’s party is out of power in Washington now, the ease at which it was able to regain much power in Virginia and New Jersey by slightly pivoting towards the center should be disturbing, and the coup on democracy is just beginning. While the gas masks and protection against street mobs may not be needed now, it may not matter when they are no longer on the streets, but in the halls of power democratically elected.

featured image is a stock photo of a gas mask

The True Horrors of a Cemetery: A journey to Riverside

When I did my RTD infrastructure ride for the N-Line, I took a short diversion into Riverside Cemetery. As I rode into the cemetery from a road scarily close to traffic, it felt as, for a moment, the city disappeared. The graves started out small, increasing in size while I road into the cemetery.

The final resting place of territorial governors, mayors, and civic leaders, Riverside was built in conjunction with the celebrations of the Centennial by the new State of Colorado.

Flash forward 145 years, however, and Riverside feels a bit like an anachronism compared to the surrounding area. To get to the cemetery, I had to take a journey under a dangerous freeway underpass, go by the headquarters of the infamous Suncor Corporation, and ride right by a giant impoundment lot. On the horizon of the cemetery, the smoke stacks of a power plant billowed with the strangling smell of industry that defines much of North Denver.

But, at the cemetery, I felt peace and solitude, save a handful of cars that were around.

I thought about the cemetery a lot on my RTD ride. October is the month where the dead and the cemetery as an area of horror and unnatural monstrosities come to rise is glamorized.

Yet, out of any of the places I rode that day, riding through the cemetery was a welcome distraction from traffic and difficult navigation.

If I find more solace in the resting place of the dead than the surroundings creations of the living, is the setting of long dead monsters worse than the living monsters we have created around us?

*Featured image is a shot from Riverside Cemetery*

Two Cigarettes, Delta Surge, and new Work: A short reflection on the Scorching Summer of 2021

As the early signs of fall start to appear along the Front Range and summer starts to recede, now more than ever seems like a time to reflect on one of the more aggressive summers of my lifetime.

The biggest lowlight for me was the fact air quality was horrid several times throughout the year, including the past week. A mix of bad ozone from increased car commutes and smoke blowing in from the fires to the west of us made it hard to be outside. I reduced many of my outdoor activities, vouching to do them after the sun went down. Today, in fact, it reached the point that some local news outlets likened it to smoking two cigarettes a day.

The surge of the Delta variant has been something that overshadowed much of the drop of restrictions in Denver and Colorado While President Biden wanted to declare a victory on July 4th with a stated goal of getting to 70% vaccination by one dose, that victory would not come until later in the summer, and seemed overshadowed by the fact that Delta readily spread through the state, testing my relationship with the various events and places that I would go to as numbers rose.

The one silver lining of everything was getting a new job. Not only did it give me the freedom to have weekends, but the raise I got from leaving my previous job was something that has allowed me to afford the experiences that I have had this summer.

What a Hamburger is all about: A Symptom of Our Auto Addiction

One of the largest non-COVID stories in Colorado has been the expansion of In N Out to several locations in the Front Range. The story is the same at each of them upon opening: Long car lines that stretch for miles with people waiting hours to try the cheap burgers, milkshakes, and fries that Californians are often nostalgic about, often with police involvement. In fact, Lakewood PD tweeted directions to get into the In N Out line when it opened.

On Monday night, I decided to take a bike ride and see how the pedestrian experience is like at In N’ Out.

The Ride Out

After passing through the core of downtown, I took the Lakewood Gulch Trail until I had reached Knox, a street that had a painted Bike Lane. From Lakewood Gulch until 1st , it was a steady uphill climb with a descent near the end. 1st Avenue had a unprotected bike lane, which I took roughly until S Pierce Street, which acted as a vein to Alameda, a location where a multi use patch was along.

Approaching the Restaurant

As I got closer and closer to In N Out, a sea of orange cones started to appear. After going through them, I realized that I was in the car line to the restaurant. I proceeded slowly, making myself as visible as I could to drivers.

The Entrance to the In N Out

As I got closer, I started to notice the police presence. From when I got to In N Out to when I finally left, at least 4 Lakewood Police Cruisers were monitoring the line along with Orange vested guides.

There was no real wayfinding for cyclists, so I cut through a nearby bank’s parking lot to get to the corner of Wadsworth and Alameda and approached from that side. I found one bike rack near the front of In N Out, using it to lock up.

Ordering and General Impressions

From the time I ordered to the time my food was ready, it took about 20 minutes. I entered the restaurant, got my ordered in, and went outside due to how hectic and large the crowd was. The one upshot of the non-food experience was the fact that the outdoor patio was really spacious, with walls facing Alameda that acted as a buffer for the noise of the street.

The main In N Out Patio, with a large parking lot adjacent to it

Behind the one bike rack, there was a roughly 20-30 spot parking lot filled to the brim with cars. As I waited for my order, I struck up a conversation about motorcycle helmet laws with an employee on his break, connecting over the fact that we both had family in my birthplace of Oxnard.

I won’t talk too much about the food suffice to say that it was what I remembered it being quality wise when I was a boy growing up in Southern California. For $8, I was able to get a full meal out, unheard of in many parts of the Metro at similar peer restaurants.

Leaving and Concluding Thoughts

As I left the restaurant to head back towards Denver, a weird feeling came upon me.

COLORADO SHIRT - In-N-Out Company Store
The Artwork for the Colorado In N Out Tshirt, designed by Carl Bork

For me, the T-shirt that I had bought with the image above encapsulated the problem that I have had with In N Out since I have moved towards cycling as my primary form of commute. In the impressionist image above, the highway is seen as a natural extension of the beautiful mountain landscape. The In N Out I went to, save the extended patio and single bike rack, seemed to conform itself to the car culture that the chain itself had grown up in since it’s founding in 1948.

For In N Out and many of the fast food restaurants established in the late 40’s/50’s postwar boom, they had to conform to the car culture at the time, coming up with jingles, advertisements, and ways to get peoples attention during the early days of car radio. One ad that I remember on the long trips I would take to Los Angeles with my parents as a kid captured the infectiousness of jingles of the early automobile era.

As I reflect on the fact that air quality has significantly declined, pedestrians are getting killed by careless drivers throughout the Front Range and United States at large, and obesity’s co-morbidities kill thousands of people a year, I get the uncomfortable feeling that fast food writ large is a symptom of our decline. And, to steal from the In N Out Jingle, maybe that is what a hamburger is all about.

Ghost Ride Chronicles Part 1: Anything But Little

April 27th, 2020. 9:58 PM

The world, including the State of Colorado, is in the midst of strict lockdowns. The world has largely moved online. I am working a night shift in security, and I have a radical idea.

What if I rode during off hours to avoid exposure to COVID-19?

I had been pondering the idea as a way to escape from a bad living situation by clearing my head on bike rides. My first target was Downtown Littleton.

First Impressions

As I headed west towards the South Platte River, thoughts raced through my head. What if an overzealous police officer caught what I was going and decided to arrest me for being out during the Stay at Home order? What if I hit a bad snag and was stuck in the middle of the night with no one to grab me? What if I caught COVID and was hospitalized for weeks? I had these feelings as I was headed southbound. Riding with a two light setup, I felt nervous every time I was near a major road along the trail.

Crossing into Arapahoe County

Roughly around the Arapahoe County line, things intensified heavily. My nerves shot up as I passed a major shopping center with a rent-a-cop esque security guard patrolling along the edges. He shined his light on me briefly as I transitioned from the S Platte Trail to the Mary Carter Greenway. As I made it there, I started to assess my general tiredness, realizing that Littleton would be my final destination. Past the shopping centers and the golf course, there was nothing out of the ordinary to report save the fact that there was a significantly smaller amount of cars on the road.

Getting into Littleton

As I reached the arterial trail into Littleton, my nerves got the best of me again. I ended up along an arterial that led to the main street in Downtown Littleton. Hoping to make it the the Littleton Downtown station, I headed towards Arapahoe Community College. Viewing the station from the community college, I saw police patrolling the parking lot. Not wanting to end up with a ticket for breaking whatever sort of curfew they had, I sprinted back towards the artery and towards the main stretch of the Mary Carter trail.


For a lot of reasons, this ride felt like a “training wheels” ride. It was along a fairly established trail, had a lot of moments that I could bail out along, and had no particularly odd features to it. It would serve as a confidence builder for the more interesting rides that I would take in the near future.