In honor of Super Sunday, I decided to get my inner Belgian on.
It had been snowing feebly all day — zero accumulation, just cold, wet, gray and dreary. I thought briefly about riding the trainer, but after watching today’s Superprestige cyclo-cross online, indoor cycling seemed sissified.
I wasn’t exactly in the mood for cyclo-cross, either, though. ’Cross means filth, and Herself is opposed to same, having logged many hours this weekend doing loads of laundry without end and putting a sparkling shine on the palatial manse. If I were to prance in from the cold sporting a thick coat of goo like a retarded Irish setter, she’d blow me back into it with my own .357.
Thus the flat-bar Voodoo with fenders seemed just the thing. I pulled on wool socks, neoprene leg warmers and bibs, two long-sleeved polypro undershirts, one long-sleeved jersey and a winter jacket, tugged neoprene booties over the Sidis, donned tuque, balaclava, cycling cap and helmet, slipped on the winter gloves and rode off into a brisk north wind.
I had to take five under a bridge to loosen the helmet straps, ’cause the ol’ chrome dome was so heavily swaddled it felt like my lid was screwed down a few turns too tight. Then I gnawed on the wind and snow for about a half hour until I got good and cold and turned around to enjoy a bit of tailwind.
The comparative warmth almost lulled me into a false sense of my own sturdiness. “Hell, I suppose I could stay out a couple hours, log a few more miles,” I thought. And then the wind shifted a bit, firing a warning shot of sleet across my bow. Nope.
So home I went, and quickly too, thinking of hot toddies brimming with Bushmills and humming a bit of Irish doggerel:
Musha rig um du rum da, / Whack fol the daddy O,
Whack fol the daddy O, / There’s whiskey in the jar.
Hey, we can’t all be Belgians.
Mad Blog Media 
…”retarded Irish setter…” is that not a bit redundant, Patrick? Or is that the Palin(Sarah), definition of “retarded” that you are referring to? The Palin (Michael) definition may be different.
We can’t all be Belgians indeed. Yours truly woke up to a chilly windy day here in Viterbo and blew off going out on the bike pretty quickly. I’m sure all our friends in Iowa would have gone out there but we instead opted to walk around the town in heavy coats and hats, visit the Etruscan museum and join our friend for a multi-course pranzo. Superbowl? We took a nap, a bath and went to bed — though the big game was broadcast here in Italy, no way in hell was I going to stay up to 4 am to see it! The Olympic Games coming up is a different story — some of those sports are actually interesting to watch.
Felt pretty wimpy after writing the previous post about Sunday — so got my fat ass out there this morning (Monday) wearing every warm piece of cycling garb I brought for a brisk (that’s the weather not my pace) 40 kms through olive groves, finishing with a road that goes back to Etruscan times slotted into the tufa rock. At it’s deepest and narrowest it must be 50 feet to the surface and the slot’s only about 15 feet wide — and it’s a TWO way street! I’ll never be as tough as a Belgian or even a native Iowan, always just a wimpy guy who grew up on SoCal where there is no weather only 4 seasons, riot, earthquake, fire and flood. But here it’s tough not to be inspired to get out there and ride, the motorists are courteous, scenery wonderful and I came back to a hot bowl of Tuscan-style “ribollita” soup and a glass of Sangiovese wine to go with it. It’s truly “la dolce vita” here!
It was chilly here yesterday, too — low 50s. Brrrr. Almost broke out the full-fingered gloves.
Theresa and I took our daughters to Ireland a few years ago, and in Dublin we hopped on a tourist bus that cruises around town. At the stop outside of the Jameson’s distillery, the driver sang a few verses of “Whiskey in the Jar,” with yours truly providing harmony on the choruses.
Whack fol the daddy-o, indeed.
After several years of no significant snow, the third storm since mid-Dec. has covered everything again with the white Satan-jizz from the sky. Haven’t ridden yet this month, and I’m starting to get nostalgic for the 20-odd degree rides in Jan. Not as yet so desperate that I’d drown my sorrows in that Prod whiskey, though. We’re sticking to Jameson’s or good old domestic rye here.
Alas, Bill,
The bit about Bushmills being a Prod whiskey is a canard, thanks to the ever-growing tentacles of global capitalism. I recall seeing this debunked a while back, and here’s an example of one Mick’s take on the topic. The Frogs (Pernod Ricard) have the Jameson, and the Limeys (Diageo) have the Bushmills.
Myself, I prefer Paddy, but I don’t believe it’s imported any longer.
Late addendum: Hold the phone. Seems we Yanks may be able to buy some Paddy this very month so. Slainte!
Diageo has everything — the rats even converted the beloved Cinzano plant in Santa Vittoria d’Alba into some sort of distribution center when they bought up Cinzano. Now they make it in a horrible concrete tilt-up on the outskirts of Novi Ligure – we see this blight on the landscape each time we take our clients to see the Museum of Champions. I’ll stick to wimpy Sambuca for my post-prandial tipple, grazie!
Ahh, but if we only had a vino sfuso shop in the neighborhood, like Larry does….