Hm. The old updates aren’t exactly coming fast and furious, are they? Probably because there isn’t anything particularly edifying about a 55-year-old tosspost chained to a desk, doing an actual job of work for the first time in recent memory.
I’m on my seventh consecutive day in the barrel at VeloNews.com and won’t get out until Tuesday, so amusing digressions, quips and observations will be few and far between for a couple more days at least. We have the Vuelta a España, the Tour of Missouri, the Tour of Britain, the Tour de l’Avenir, Univest GP and even the world military cycling championships going on all at the same time, all in different time zones, and it makes for a fairly long shift, what with live updates, stage reports, results, photo galleries, rider diaries and all the other bells and whistles that draw eyeballs and keep kibble in an old dog’s dish.
I don’t remember the last time I rode a bike, to be honest. I have gotten out for a few hikes, walks, lurches and staggers, and today’s came in a light rain, with cloudy skies, temperatures in the 60s and leaves on the deck. It was something of a shock to my system, as we haven’t really had what I would call a summer.
Can it be fall already? Yep. Disregard the calendar. If we had a woodstove, I would be feeding it a smidgen of aspen and cedar instead of tapping away at the keyboard, waiting for the furnace to click on. It’s about 68 in the office, even with two large flat-panel monitors and a G4 Power Mac cranking out the BTUs. I’m actually wearing socks in the house. Oh, God.
You know it’s brisk when Miss Mia Sopaipilla takes to sitting atop the Motorola DSL modem and Turkish curls up on the boss-fella’s shorts. The big galoot even wanted some time in the actual lap today, which is a sure sign of a tough winter ahead, the Farmer’s Almanac be damned.
Herself is off to some soiree in Mile High, so it’s just me, the cats and VeloNews.com for a few hours. Last night’s buffalo tacos will enjoy a return engagement this evening, as will a few drams of Castillo de Monséran 2007 to ward off the grippe.
If all goes well I will be a free man on Tuesday, and the comedy will resume shortly thereafter. Until Interbike, that is, when it’s back in the barrel for Your Humble Narrator.
What does one drink to ward off a trade show? I used to use single-malt Scotch, but that was in Vegas, when the publisher was buying.
Mad Blog Media 
If you like good Bourbon the owner of Knolly often has some back at his booth at Interbike….
Hey, Rush,
I was never particularly big on Bourbon, being more of an Irish or Scotch fancier. I can drink Maker’s Mark, though, and George Dickel (a Tennessee whisky) is not half bad.
A fine general-purpose whiskey for my money is the original Bushmills. Fine neat, great as a hot toddy when one has the grippe. I would drink some right now if I had any in the house, but I try to keep the sidewalk-softeners to beer and wine for the most part. I may buy a bottle of Herradura Añejo to celebrate the end of my stint in the velo-barrel on Tuesday, though.
I thought Interbike was off your calendar these days. Are you going this year?
Hey, Jeff,
Nossir, not me. I’m going to be editing remotely for VeloNews.com, which is sending a ton of folks.
This will be the third consecutive year with a Dog-free Interbike, something that should please Interbike no end. Frankly, I wouldn’t have minded popping in for a day this year to catch CrossVegas and gauge the industry mood, maybe play with the toys at Outdoor Demo — after all, I do work for two bike mags and one bike website.
But I can make a few bucks right here at home and spare myself the casinos and concrete, to say nothing of the nightly Scotch tastings at Ruth’s Chris Steakhouse. Those suckers are brutal.
I thought you liked the nights at Ruth’s Chris, as long as it was on someone else’s dime?
Pity no more of those social commentaries of yours from the Vegas Strip about the invisible bikers trudging off to work on Walmart Specials while avoiding streets designed to kill. That had real social value in an age when cycling has become synonymous with overpaid yuppiedom. Myself included, I suppose.