It's a tough job ....
But someone's gotta live the life of a Durango athlete

Like most Durango athletes, my day starts off with a cup of fair-trade coffee, some light yoga to get the blood flowing, then a heli drop into a backcountry bowl with a name like Rambo’s Buttpucker or Corpse-Maker or Permanent Brain Damage. I carve every single turn with the grace and control of a Formula 1 driver, pausing to admire the sunrise cresting over the snow-capped mountains as I do a backflip off a cliff. 

While upside down, I fit in a quick meditation practice, then land with the agility of a cat before skiing flawlessly to the base. Thankfully, a photographer is waiting at the bottom, ready to capture the majestic snow spray that surrounds me in a godlike halo as I come to a textbook hockey stop. The photo will win them the Sports Photographer of the Year Award and I will say something humble like, “They’re the real artist; I was just having fun!” 

Now that my body’s slowly waking up, I rip off my ski shell like a pair of tearaway pants to reveal a sleek, aerodynamic skinsuit underneath, clip into my pedals, and set off on the Iron Horse route (which is really just a cool-down from my morning shred sesh since it’s all downhill). I zip past every car on the highway – because my bike is made from an ultralight carbon fiber frame with a phoenix feather core – listening to the wind as it billows through my perfectly healthy hair and lays butterfly-light kisses on my unblemished, glowing skin. 

Before I know it, I’m already in town, but that’s the beauty of being connected to nature instead of zoning out with music or podcasts or audiobooks. Since it’s 6 a.m., I treat myself to a late breakfast of six handfuls of uncooked kale and an office water cooler-sized jug of H2O. Then I get to work. 

Oh, you thought I meant work at a real job? No, no, no. How do you expect me to maintain this peak physical condition and my Red Bull sponsorship if I have to sit at a desk, pulling nine-to-five like some kind of schlub? My finely crafted muscles would wither away – slower than the average human, of course, and probably at a rate comparable to a champion American thoroughbred racehorse due to my resting heart rate of seven and perfect BMI, but eventually it would happen.

I meant mental work. When I’m not exercising my body, I like to exercise my mind, reading no fewer than three works of classic literature per day. And I’m not talking about short books like “The Great Gatsby” or “Animal Farm.” I’m talking “War and Peace.” Anything under 500 pages would be a cheat day. 

With my mind satiated, I take a break for lunch. A few almonds, a wild-caught Pacific salmon fillet, and a mason jar full of homegrown bean sprouts are all I need to fuel up for my afternoon ultrarun. I decide to take it easy today by jogging barefoot to New Mexico and back, only stopping once to rescue a baby from a burning building since my reflexes are lightning-fast, and I have the lung capacity of a whale. The firefighters want to thank me for my bravery, but I tell them I have to stay on track if I want to keep my Strava personal record intact. They totally understand. I make it back to Durango with just enough time to do 500 burpees. 

Back at home, I go online for precisely 4½ minutes to share my thoughts on how e-bikes should be banned because they promote laziness, then I turn off my phone and put it in a drawer. I won’t feel compelled to look at it again for the rest of the day; social media holds no interest for me.

You could be forgiven for assuming that my next step would be to take a shower, but I neither believe in nor need showers. My body has acclimated to a near-constant level of sweat production, meaning I’ve developed a permanently hydrated layer that never loses its elasticity and never stinks. Scientists believe I’ve discovered the Holy Grail of anti-aging. 

After gorging on an overindulgent dinner of air, I base jump from a 14er and sail my way to a local microbrewery where I drink my weight in IPAs because gluten has no effect on my temple of a body. I get into bed at 9 p.m. sharp and fall asleep by 9:01 without the help of melatonin because my circadian rhythm has never been disrupted by a screen in my entire life. 

What can I say? Just another average day.