Chapter 2: Joshua Bach

Book of Joshua   Present Day♁

Old Stage Rd, WSW Cheyenne Mountain, CO, USA

The truck shuddered violently along the gravel mountain road, rear tires skating on loose stone as they bounced over washboard. Josh's grin burned wild; he floored it again, savoring the chaos.

Sunlight flashed through tall pines like a strobe, shadows slicing the cab while dust poured from the mud tires and coated the dash inside. Wind howled through open windows as the Ford roared upward, twisting the forest into a living blur. Josh matched Mike D's flow from the Beastie Boys blasting on the stereo, lost in the rhythm.

Higher he climbed, energy rising with every switchback. Far below, Colorado Springs sprawled and faded, while his fingers tap danced on the wheel like a metronome. Rocks clattered beneath, dust forming a comet trail in the rearview—nothing left behind to see. As the ridgeline neared, breaks in the trees revealed vast blue sky, and to the west, snow-white thunderheads swelled on the horizon, a daily ritual growing with the afternoon's hidden burdens.

Along the crest, he eased off the gas, drinking in the final glimpse of civilization before the raw peaks ahead. The summit felt like a sacred gate: cross it, and liberation unfolded—untamed valleys of shimmering aspens, rolling meadows, deep gulches carving the steep flanks of the Rockies. Dipping into the wild backside of the Front Range, Josh grinned, drawn not to a map point but to a feeling. Intuition led him, as it always did; he stopped only when the pull felt true.

In a quiet clearing, he pulled over, killed the engine but flicked the key back for the music to linger. Hopping down from the rock rails, he unloaded his mountain bike, stereo thumping as he mimed MCA's wild gestures, rapping "Here’s a Little Something for Ya" word-perfect.

Bike ready, helmet and gloves snug, he silenced the sound and locked up. Sudden quiet rushed in like darkness to the eyes—then nature filled the void: breeze rustling leaves, distant birdsong, insects humming low. Leaning on the bumper, he gazed over endless treetops swaying below.

"Just another Tuesday afternoon..."

He mounted, cranked once for momentum, then surrendered to gravity's pull. Dirt road soon yielded to a narrow single-track deer trail, plunging steep. Speed built; he challenged himself—no brakes for as long as he dared. The twisting path taunted survival and he relented, squeezing salvation from the front-disc.

Straight sections became launch ramps: bumps and roots hurling him skyward, suspension soaking the preload for greater height. Low branches wove green tunnels; he tucked low, shoulder grazing leaves like threading ocean barrels in Hawaii. Adrenaline flooded; brakes faded from his fingers. Blazing velocity fused with instinct—bunny hops over ruts, rear skid slides around bends. He and the bike merged, extensions of pure will, feeling the trail's every whisper.

Seven miles of descent demanded everything. Total focus or crash—scars on arms and knees bore witness. In this razor presence, life's weighty questions dissolved; he simply responded, unburdened by analysis. These were the moments he lived for: pure escape, a vacation from solitary thoughts.

Beneath towering pines, he coasted to rest, breathless and euphoric. Collapsing into ferns, he sprawled and rolled like claiming a king-sized bed in a lavish hotel. Blue sky pieced through branches overhead; sweat wiped, eyes rubbed, and faint jet contrails marked the only memory of humanity. Sipping cool water from his CamelBak, the rush ebbed. Why doesn't everyone chase this?

Sitting up, his gaze drifted beyond the trees to a small meadow aglow with wildflowers and swaying plumes of golden grass. At the edge, he stood and offered a whisper, "Untouched."

Back on the Jeep trail for the uphill grind, his mind wandered to ease the burn—dreaming of far lands, surprise adventures yet to come. He guarded his freedom fiercely, basking in its hard-won light.

In his late twenties, unmarried, childless, debt-free—Josh scraped by on carpentry gigs. College tried him, but the corporate yoke proved to be a burden he would not bear. He cultivated a refined taste for food and travel, yet modest living: rent paid, gear funded for thrill-chasing—that sufficed.

Friends and family worried he squandered potential, lacking the drive for society's benchmarks. He took only jobs sparking interest or teaching skills, never climbing ladders or building pensions. Learn the craft, gather the stories, move on.

They misunderstood: his freedom demanded relentless dedication. Evading commitments wasn't lazy—it required strategy. Income without chains, expedition without emissary—and above all, resisting the pull of captivating women whose dreams led to settled picket fences.

Legally an adult, yet eternally a Lost Boy, Josh was guided by that quiet inner voice promising more than material gain. His intuition complicated life, but never steered him wrong.

Reaching the truck, he laughed at the power of imagination—the entire climb erased, sweat forgotten. A pounding heart a soft echo of meditation.

Bike secured, he climbed in, killed the deafening Brooklyn trio, and rolled windows down. Sun warmed him as he munched a protein bar, then descended leisurely, savoring the views. Waving at oncoming adventurers, melancholy crept in—cars meant a phone signal returning, and the end of divine wilderness.

Texts flooded in on cue: junk, ads, a tempting photo, and Harrison Wilde. Groan escaping, he tapped Harrison’s message: Hey dude, give me a call when you get this. We got work. The message reminded him that rent loomed and he needed the money, though the tether still chafed.

Though a decade apart in age, the two bonded throughout the years—jams, games, boarding, drinks. Harrison lived settled with a family yet envied Josh's unbound poetry, living vicariously through vague tales of nights wilder than reality.

They met when Josh dated Harrison's younger sister—her escape from failed marriage into his chaos. She craved it briefly, but ultimately pushed him toward a family he couldn't offer. She deserved decorated Christmas mornings with excited children; miraculously his friendship with Harrison endured despite her broken heart.

After college, Josh pulled Harrison into construction; they built side-by-side until Josh skipped town on a tour bus, music festivals distracting him from more years of real life. Sparse contact held them—now back, Harrison’s own construction company hired Josh's skills on generous terms: flawless work when committed, long breaks when needed.

Harrison's message now represented society's pull, yet Josh dialed back.

"Joshy!"

"What's up, dude? Saw your text."

"Biked today?"

"Yeah, heading down now. It was epic!"

"Sweet! Hey, got work if you're around."

Josh smirked at the soft sell—but, he needed rent. "Yeah?"

"Deck fixes, painting—big place up on Pikes Peak."

"Cool."

"Could open more doors. Owner's loaded—I pitched an addition."

"Nice."

"Start tomorrow? Knock it out fast?"

"You got materials?"

"Yep!" Harrison fibbed.

"What time? You know how I like my mornings..."

“Nine? Nine’s good, right? It will give me time to pick up what we need.”

Josh sighed. “I thought you just said–”

“You know I’m never prepared!” Harrison laughed. “I’ll text the address. Meet you there."

"Cool. Later."

"Shoot one for me!"

“Used it all up on your sister."

"Asshole..."

"Tomorrow."

"Later, tater."