Welp, piss on the dogs and call in the fire — it’s definitely fall.
The weather has been so gentle lately that we shut off all the HVAC machinery; I can’t remember the last time the air conditioners clicked on.
And thus the furnace mos def did not click on last night, which — along with the news flash from Acu-Rite pictured above — explains why I felt a tad chilly upon awakening this morning despite being wrapped in sheet and blanket like a geezer burrito.
The uniform of the day immediately shifted from shorts and T-shirt to pants and flannel shirt over long-sleeved henley. Also, wool socks, which should go without saying. I stopped short of a watch cap and gloves.
Miss Mia knows what time it is, and what the temperature is, too.
Having mowed the lawn yesterday with plans to water today, I had to trot outside at stupid-thirty to change the sprinkler system’s start time from 5 a.m. to 10. The sun doesn’t clear the Sandias until well past 8:30 and there’s no point in creating a rink in the back yard when neither of us owns skates.
And ride time just got pushed back until noon, because it’s gonna take me some time to remember where I stashed all the cool-weather Lycra.
Tell you what, though. That first cup of coffee sure smells good when the first freeze is nipping at your nose.
It’s not really fall until instead of taking arm warmers on a ride you actually wear them.
I packed mine on Wednesday’s ride and pulled them on after the first descent. Yesterday I had them on before I rolled out of the garage.
And both days I was wearing knickers.
Only three of us showed for Wednesday’s Geezer Ride — our senior leadership, two 80-somethings who also ski, plus Your Humble Narrator — and the outing turned out to be something of a bust once we turned south into a ridiculous headwind.
The cadre has not been much interested in climbing lately, so the ascent of Simms Road was right out. And grinding along into that brisk headwind was — well, if not exactly Mao’s Long March, neither was it your barrel of monkeys of which it is said that nothing is more fun.
So when my companions suggested cutting the ride short, I agreed. It seemed colder than the alleged temperature indicated, and the wind has been my least favorite weather feature since my very first bicycle race, a 40km out-and-back time trial that I thought I was crushing because guess why? Huge tailwind on the way out. On the way back? Um, not so much.
Had I been alone on Wednesday I would’ve done what I usually do in those conditions: commence random changes in direction like a spook trying to lose a tail. Off the road and onto the trails, this way and that, using the Sandias’ rubble and shrubbery as a windscreen.
I was on the Soma Double Cross, with some mildly knobby Hutchinson Caracals in 700x35mm and a triple crank with a low end of 24x34T (19 gear inches) that lets me spin instead of stomp. Nearly perfect for that sort of getaway. But leaving the lads on their own would’ve been rude, so I shelved the idea and didn’t peel off until home was just a few blocks away.
Yesterday was warmer and less blustery — starting at noon instead of 9 was definitely a factor — but I still wore arm warmers and knicks and opted for a solo, two-hour Vuelta de Variable Surfaces.
Bear Canyon to Elena Gallegos.
It’s a great ride to do on a brisk Thursday in fall. The kids are in school, their parents are nose to grindstone, and a lone geezer can do as he pleases. Generally I ride side streets to the Embudito trailhead, slalom over to the Bear Canyon/Michial Emery trail, take that into the Elena Gallegos Open Space, and pick a loop or two from the non-technical menu.
Then I’ll blast down Simms and turn north into Sandia Heights, climb a series of low-traffic hills I like, and on the way home sample a selection of the unofficial trails that provide off-street options along Blue Gramma, Academy, Spain, and Tramway.
It’s not hard to cobble together a ride of 20 miles or more this way. And like crucifixion, it gets me out in the open air.
If I’m careful I don’t collect any fresh stigmata.
Remember what George Carlin had to say about “service.” Photo: Gage Skidmore/Flickr, used under Creative Commons License 2.0
Well, to absolutely no one’s surprise, Kimberly Gullet got tossed over the side of the USS Grifter, wearing nothing but a few hundredweight of anchor chain extorted from Tiffany & Co.
I guess when they told her she was going to be ambassador to Greece she thought they meant “ambassador to grease,” as in her palm.
That the Kimbo got the heave-ho for doing the same thing that all the males in that leaky tub are doing, some of them trying to grow more hands so they can slip them into even more wallet pockets, should likewise surprise no one. In that crowd it’s always going to be “Pimps up, hoes down.”
So the other day I was motoring around and about, running on fumes as a fella will in these dark days, when the Subaru’s low-fuel light blinked on.
Huh, I thought. You don’t say. Well, I have errands to run, I don’t believe in the Low-Fuel Fairy, and I don’t give my money to Big Oil until I have to. F’chrissakes, Herself just poured $60 of go-juice into her Honda CR-V. That oughta hold the greasy sonsabitches for a while.
A glance at the trip meter told me I’d squeezed 318 miles out of that tank, which is not bad for a 2005 Forester with more than 159K on the odometer. Bound to be a few more miles in there, I thought. So the Subie and I soldiered on.
Errands complete and homeward bound the trip meter was showing 325 miles and I reconsidered my position. No point in pushing my luck and maybe pushing this bucket of bolts back to El Rancho Pendejo, I thought. It’s all uphill from here and this old mechanical burro needs her hay.
So I pulled into the next gas station, fed my credit card to the pump, and got the party started.
Now, I don’t gas up often because I don’t drive that much anymore. The Duck! City drivers have sucked all the happy out of motoring for me. Imagine a bumper-cars circuit looping through a shooting range with a wet bar in an insane asylum. So in the long stretches between fillups I tend to forget that buying a tank of gas has become a multimedia experience.
Oh, bite me.
As the pump sprang to hideous life its TV screen started screaming something about “FATTY MEAT STICKS! Made with GRASS-FED BEEF AND PORK!” and how I have to get one RIGHT NOW!”
Uh … isn’t that what’s happening right now? I thought as my tab ticked steadily upward to $56.98.
Remember the old quip about the price of a lift? “Ass, gas, or grass?” It’s true; nobody rides for free. But I didn’t expect to pay my freight by doing a threesome with Speedway and Fatty.
This morning we cleaned, refilled, and set out the hummingbird feeders for what may be the last time in 2026.
We didn’t see a single, solitary hummer all day yesterday, for the first time this fall, and we fear the beautiful little buzzbombs may have called it a year.
Maybe they stuck around just long enough to see that Combover the Barbarian didn’t win the Nobel Peace Prize for starting pointless wars, threatening to shove this and that up people’s arses, and otherwise jacking his draft-dodging jaw on antisocial media while his Secretary of Snapping Little Guys with Wet Towels in the Gym Showers livestreams the execution by firing squad of the Fort Hood shooter, who is confined to a wheelchair.
It recalls the scene in “Blazing Saddles” where Boris is preparing to hang a man on horseback — and his horse, too.
