Denver's Trails Stretch From Urban Chic To Rockies Peaks

No tour of Denver can ignore the giant shards of titanium that shoot up and over the Golden Triangle, the cultural 'hood and home of the Denver Art Museum. To see the museum's new addition, I simply exited off the easy, paved Cherry Creek Trail, which I'd been riding in fits and starts for a couple of hours (and twice as many miles), and gazed up at the $90.5 million expansion by architect Daniel Libeskind. The 40-foot-tall blue bear peering into the convention center seemed quaint by comparison.

The Golden Triangle, though, is more than just arty megaliths. The expanding area also has Native American galleries, coffee shops serving gooey cupcakes, and ethnic restaurants and bars, including the Church, a club housed inside a former cathedral. If only my bike had had a headlight. (For more galleries, many with a Latin American streak, go west of the Golden Triangle to the Santa Fe Arts District, officially La Alma/Lincoln Park, a blossoming creative arts area.)

"When I was 10, my family would go into Denver, but as big groups, because it wasn't safe," said Colorado native Brian Saxon, 27, an assistant dive coordinator at the Downtown Aquarium. "But the safe areas have gone from being this big [he mimed a small coin with his fingers] to this [two hands, as wide as his shoulders]."

Saxon was one of the underwater guides I met at the aquarium, an easy turn off the trail. I had just pedaled along the Platte River and into the Riverfront district, which is nicknamed "Playdo" (emphasis on the "play," with the "do" thrown in for downtown). The area is big on biking, running, goofing off with dogs and kayaking, especially on the short whitewater course at Confluence Park.

In addition, the REI flagship store is nearby, and I was tempted to sneak into its cold chamber -- where visitors can test Arctic-style gear in varying temperatures and wind chills -- and stretch out in a sleeping bag. Instead, I went diving with 20 sharks.

Since I had been biking for most of a day, I needed a cool spritz. The aquarium had a bar, but even better, it organizes snorkeling and diving outings in its exhibits -- mask, fins, wet suit and tank included for the half-hour adventure.

Turns out a lot of the attraction is watching the people watch you in the tank. Of course, I was easily distracted by a 250-pound grouper named SuperGrouper, a sea turtle with a bite like an angry parrot and sand tiger sharks desperately in need of an orthodontist.

For the dive (certification required), I was told that if any sharks entered my personal zone I should turn my scuba tank toward them. After seeing those rows of crooked, knife-sharp teeth, I wasn't sure metal would stop them, and my dive master's stick looked as harmless as a noodle. But the sharks seemed docile as they floated over my head, or played chicken by swimming directly toward my mask, then quickly swinging left or up.

As we left the underwater world, an older man with a bald spot snapped a picture of me, as if I were on display.

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For my first day of biking, I had covered a large slice of the city and its interlocking bike paths, but for Day 2, I needed a Rockies fix. Plus, I was curious to see if I could truly bike all the way from the capital to such mountain towns as Morrison, Colorado Springs and Golden, which most people reach by interstate. In 25 miles, I'd know.

On the first section of the South Platte River Trail, the roadlike path snaked through a number of yin-and-yang settings: on my left, the sparkling-clear river, unruly with vegetation; on my right, a strip of mattress warehouses and a homeless man with a cardboard sign. The scenery followed the shift from city to suburbia (golf courses, playgrounds) before becoming more rugged and craggy -- more Colorado Rockies.

The hours-long bike ride to Morrison is tougher on the quads than cruising around Denver, which is as flat as a prairie. The two-stoplight town is quintessential West, with distressed-wood shop fronts and a dusty main street where you can just imagine a shootout. Instead, there were Audis and Harleys parked on the side, and cafes serving city-slicker fare such as roasted duck and super nachos. The Morrison Inn concocts a killer margarita, but I'm pretty sure the cycle patrol (cops can track you with a radar gun and ticket you for irresponsible cycling) would not think highly of biking and drinking. In addition, I wanted to head up (and up and up) to Red Rocks, the venerable park and concert venue. (Be warned: You must share the road with other cars, and the shoulder is skinny.)

With its towering sandstone formations and thrumming acoustics, Red Rocks is an illustrious place to catch a show, and performers from Nat King Cole to Bob Marley have appeared here. The visitors center, above the amphitheater, is packed with history covering its geology, dinosaur discoveries and Billboard pedigree. But the real thrill is going onstage and performing -- whether for real or in your rock-star fantasy. Skipping down the steps, I jumped on stage and was about to sing a little ditty to my imaginary fans when the sky started crackling and displaying an electric light show. Upstaged by Mother Nature.

With the impending storm, it was time to get back in the saddle and ride back to the city. Fortunately, it was all downhill from there.