Where gas prices don't matter

SUN VALLEY, Idaho—The feel of the road changed from blue collar to blue nosed as we made our way closer to Sun Valley, the nation's first destination ski resort. This land is not populated by potato farmers or nuclear scientists and technicians, but by movie stars and jet setters and America's richest one percent.

Raw real estate costs a half million dollars an acre, while fishing cabins can be had for a cool $1 million. Modest homes range $2.5 million, and luxury lots on multiple acres with river access capture $10 million. Unlike the rest of the nation, the real estate market seemed unaffected by the current housing bust. This is a place where shop items have no price tags; if you have to ask how much it costs, you probably can't afford it.

Understandably, the price of gas rose proportionately the closer we got to Sun Valley. To the affluent visitors here, petrol is simply another necessity, like milk or bread. And like everything else here, the Sun Valley Sinclair station did not advertise its prices from the road.

Like most people in town, we were here for leisure. But instead of spending our days in the $250-a-night comfort of the Sun Valley Lodge, we holed up in more modest accommodations down the road in Ketchum. From our base camp we had access to the excellent mountain biking trails that are as ubiquitous in Sun Valley as American Express gold cards.

We enjoyed two good days of riding on swooping singletrack. The terrible illness that had kept me bed ridden for nearly two weeks had taken its toll, and I found myself anemic and weak, foundering on every climb. Of course, Caroline skipped lightly up the trails like a two-wheeled pixie, cheerfully goading me ahead.

I kept reminding myself with each painful revolution of the cranks that I would be rewarded with some sweet fast downhill later on. On this day everything I needed to know I really had learned in kindergarten: "I think I can, I think I can" was my mental mantra.

These climbs would have been trivial undertakings for me under normal circumstances. But now, with the toxins of a million malevolent microorganisms coursing through my veins, my heart rate had reached the red line and my legs were quivering like a puppy in the throes of distemper. A black haze circled my vision as I reached the summit and for a moment I felt like I had fallen from the saddle.

Seconds later we found ourselves zipping through an ocean of flowers on sticky singletrack that had been tuned up by afternoon rains the previous day. I had died and my toil had been rewarded by the Gods, and now I was maneuvering through the Elysian Fields on pure quicksilver.

Back at the trailhead I realized that my journey was not as heroic as it had seemed. The dust on my shins and sweat on my brow confirmed that I was a mere mortal. There are worse things than that, I realized, and I drank in one last view of where we had been. I can't wait to see where we'll go.

We enjoyed a swell shake with a shot of espresso at Tully's coffee house in the heart of Sun Valley. I felt as rich as the others in the street, larger than life, so I indulged myself by sitting in the biggest chair I could find—a gigantic wooden affair festooned with red cowboy boots. I rode that bull like a Western pro despite the wrinkled noses and askance looks I received from the well-bred passersby.

See you on down the road.