Spirit of Breckenridge
“Oh my God! These guys aren’t going to fist-fight; they’re going to shoot at each other.”
The year was 1974. My best friend, Keith, and I had arrived in Breckenridge that very afternoon. The town looked like something out of the Wild West. There were wooden sidewalks, dirt streets and many of its residents lived off the grid in barely renovated, old mining cabins.
There were two Breckenridge’s back then. One a recently opened ski hill with a few lodges catering to what many hoped would become a popular ski resort. The other was a wild place filled with miners and mountain-man hippies long on resilience, short on hygiene.
Though my friend and I related more to the “wild” Breckenridge, we did not look the part.
We looked like two kids from the Boston suburbs, just out of high school, who wandered into a foreign land.
It wasn’t until that night — when I ordered “a cup-a-la beeeas” that we learned we had Boston accents.
However, we were no strangers to bar fights. Both of us grew up working in taverns and restaurants on Boston’s South Shore.
We had watched the altercation brewing at this bar for an hour or more. There were two scraggily looking guys both vying for the attention of one scraggily looking gal. The gentlemen in question wore bushy beards, long unkempt hair, and dirty jeans tucked into heavy rubber boots.
The gal looked much the same.
All was orderly until they lost track of who turn it was to buy the lady her drink. Both slapped money on the bar and a pushing match ensued.
Keith and I tried to blend in. Other than the bartender asking, “Where the hell are you from? England?” when I ordered “beeeas,” we were able to keep a low profile.
When we heard the words, “Let’s settle this outside,” we knew the excitement was about to begin.
Virtually everyone, including the bartender filed out the door.
The two combatants were joined on the street by an older guy, with a long beard and similarly dressed. He seemed to be giving rules or instructions. The gal they were fighting over (who upon closer examination also had a beard) said, “Whoever wins buys me a drink.”
Keith and I moved a little closer for a better vantage point.
But rather then throwing punches, the fighters backed off from each other and opened their coats. That’s when Keith said, “They’re going to shoot at each other!”
The referee looked at the crowd and said, “Give em room.” He turned to the battlers and added, “Don’t neither one of you move until I say GO!”
The two stood about ten feet from each other with their arms held out from their hips.
“GO.”
Both fighters’ hands flew to their belts. But rather then draw guns they fumbled with their buckles. In a flash one was standing with his pants down to his knees, his red long underwear visible to all. The other was a few seconds behind and was declared the loser.
The fighters shook hands and a cheer went up from the crowd, and with much celebration and back slapping all retuned inside.
The next day I wrote my mother telling her that I had found the place I was meant to be. And 30 years later, my town is a world-class resort with paved roads, luxury accommodations and you seldom see anyone standing in the street in their longjohns. But I’m none the less certain that this is the place I was meant to be………
Jeffrey Bergeron, under the alias of Biff America, can be seen on RSN TV, heard on KOA radio, and read in several newspapers and magazines. He can be reached at biffbreck@yahoo.com. Biff’s book Steep, Deep and Dyslexic is available from local bookstores or at Backcountrymagazine.com.
