Stories make the man--and Berm was at the center, the instigator and generally the one with the last word of so many great stories. Here's mine:
A Quick Little Ride With Andrew Bermingham
When Fred Taylor’s son Moses got married in Steamboat in 2015, the Berms and the MoBarrs stayed together in a slope-side condo located near the gondola for easy access to the festivities. Andrew and I brought our road bikes and our Lycra (imagine me in Lycra—well, maybe don’t) and ventured out Saturday morning for a pre-wedding pedal. I requested a reasonable ride—nothing too short as I had something to prove, nothing too long because whatever I had to prove would be tempered by the spare tire around my middle.
The Tour de Colorado was in town and as we headed through Steamboat and out into Routt County, a peleton of pros surrounded and then quickly passed us. Naturally, Andrew chased them down and I tagged along and soon we were in their midst. He somehow snapped a photo of me side-by-side with the 2% body fat crowd--the first and last time that'll ever happen. They eventually dusted us and then Berm led me on what he promised would be a quick ride with a few climbs but “nothing that I couldn’t handle.”
I enthusiastically acquiesced and followed him up through farm country and narrow valleys. After the first serious uphill, Andrew waited for me to get within shouting distance, barked a few words of encouragement and took off. After the second, third and fourth mountain passes, his enthusiasm only seem to build.
“Just one more little hill, Momo! C’mon!”
He’d chuckle and then sprint up the blacktop. I, on the other hand, looked up at yet another 7% grade and returned Berm’s goading with a hoarse string of profanity and the occasional middle finger.
As we arrived in Oak Creek—many miles deep into the ride and a few miles outside of Steamboat—Berm led me up to a small café and bought a couple of homemade baked goods and Gatorades. I was completely wiped out but thoroughly invigorated. We toasted, high-fived and ate and he explained that his ‘quick ride’ was actually The 3 Witches Ride (AKA, 3 Bitches), a 50-mile slog with a 3,500-foot elevation gain.
Berm flashed that big toothy grin of his—he was proud of me for sticking with him and genuinely pleased with himself for pulling one over on me and dragging my fat ass up, over, around and through some beautiful Colorado country.
That was Berm. When all cylinders were firing and scheming in unison, his eyes absolutely exploded with this mischievous twinkle. When I saw those eyes light up—skiing, over dinner or on the 3 Witches ride—I had the good sense to buckle up and hold on, because with Andrew Bermingham you didn’t know exactly where you were headed, but man, you knew the ride was going to be a good one.
Love you Brother