So much for spring break. Our tour wrapped up on Friday afternoon and I spent the evening in a South Tucson motel enjoying all the benefits of modern living — hot shower, cold beer, a bed that doesn’t stuff neatly into a waterproof sack and of course, another combo plate at El Minuto. Two of my riding buddies and I went there post-tour to eat, drink and talk of things both great and small before drifting back to the motel for a dolorous chorus of hasta la vista muchachos, compañeros de mi vida.
Come morning at least five cars had been burgled in the parking lot, windows bashed out and various items liberated in the name of the people, and the manager was muttering about chicken-shit gangbangers and forming a motel owners’ co-op to hire armed security. Seemed like a good time to get out of Dodge, as my weaponry consisted of a Swiss army knife and a rapier-like wit.
I hit the road in shorts and T-shirt, watching gloomily as the Subie’s thermometer slid from the high 60s to the low 40s by Socorro, New Mexico, where I switched to jeans and long sleeves.
By dinner (green-chile cheeseburger, fries and IPA at Second Street Brewery in Santa Fe) I had pulled on a fleece jacket and gimme cap. First day of spring, my large Irish ass.
But wait, it gets worse. En route to a platter of sausage-and-cheese enchiladas this morning at the Guadalupe Cafe I was wishing I’d thought to tug on a tuque and winter gloves; the Subie told me it was all of 25 degrees in The City Different. Waaah.
Well, whatever. Nut up or shut up, as Woody Harrelson said in “Zombieland.” As soon as the sun gets a little higher in the sky I plan to soak my battered carcass in the public tub at Ten Thousand Waves, no matter what the ambient temperature, and then it’s off for the final leg of my trip, over icy Raton Pass and back to Bibleburg. Rain and snow are in the forecast until Friday, and I fear for my larval tan lines.
But the pants fit a little more loosely, and I kind of like that feeling, so I’ll break out a fendered cyclo-cross bike and reacquaint myself with neoprene kit in the never-ending struggle to keep my inner fat bastard under lock and key.
Mad Blog Media 
Back to the Great Cold North, eh, Patrick?
I’m doing the Sunday chores first today and waiting for the temperature to rise above freezer-locker numbers so I can get in a ride. Weather service claims it will get to about 50 and change today in BombTown. Shoulda told you to stop by for a ride…
Like you, I am in the Old Guy tug of war between my sleek imaginary self and the reality of not being able to zip up my jeans. Ugh…
Ditto here. Our tour arrived back in Tucson Friday as well. We moteled it all week, so the only added benefit to better civilization was more hot water and fluffier towels. I finished with 420 miles for 6 days riding and my not-so-large Swedish ass welcomed the break. We must have been on the same route yesterday and I arrived home here in Pojoaque to watch the snow still melting off the roof. Ugh.
This week looks to be weather in the 50’s and sunny. Mileage time, my brothers!!
I see that Matt Wiebe has a story in BRAIN to the effect that Phil Wood just rode off into the sunset.
http://www.bicycleretailer.com/news/newsDetail/3856.html
Patrick,
A woman I know spent yesterday mushing her ragged ass and raggedier pack of curs into Nome, Alaska, finishing second-to-last in the Iditarod. I tell you this to put your goose bumps into proper perspective.
By the way, each night on the 1,000 miles of frozen trail, before she fed herself or stretched out with a cold one, she massaged every dog and fed each one several thousand calories’ worth of raw, oily salmon to keep their engines going. Since I had the opportunity to have my ass pulled around in a sled by some of these same mutts, I can tell you that raw salmon goes through a sled dog like a bobsled goes through the icy chute at the B.C. Olympics, and our four-legged friends don’t even pull off the trail to let it fly.
So, let us not whine about the rigors of bike riding in the Arizona sunshine. Let us think of poor Jane Faulkner, who — since she was not the lead dog — spent the last few weeks staring into those myriad brown eyes ahead of her, ducking every time one of them winked.
Welcome home, amigo.
C
Thanks, Chris, for putting this all in perspective.
Can’t help but say spring has sprung here in Italy. We saw “La Primavera” on Saturday (from atop the Poggio) and it’s aptly named and though the sun was not too present, temperatures were certainly spring-like with blooming flowers and green grass. Returned to Viterbo last night and was amazed at how warm it was — I could walk back from parking our rental car outside the city walls in just a light sweater at 9 pm. Today it was cycling on dry roads with a light long-sleeve jersey and knee warmers….I’m starting to get “Italian” with temperatures — in Iowa in this temp it would have been shorts and short sleeves for sure. Looks like a great week of big-time cycling, I just hope we get most of it via RAI3 rather than the satellite channels that we don’t have. Otherwise we’ll be looking for bars on the sundays of Paris-Roubaix and Tour of Flanders and just griping about not seeing the mid-week races.