We’re not on any particular mission. The guys playing volleyball in Cheesman Park are guaranteed to be gay, those in Wash Park are guaranteed to be hot. We meander across town, soaking up the best of both. We follow the Cherry Creek bike path to Confluence Park and set a spell watching kids and dogs splash around in the falls, then follow it back up to the Country Club and cruise those shady streets. We race a few laps around Washington Park, threading through the rollerbladers and jogging moms with four-wheel-drive strollers, then flop into the grass on the side of the lake furthest from the gaggles of poop-happy geese.
“You do pretty good for an old guy,” he says, patting the hill of my gut with a laugh.
“Especially considering how bad you cheat,” I tease him. “You packed me full of br
