We’re back on track here in Dog Country. The most pressing deadlines have been met, a weekend in the VeloBarrel logged, and the exercise regimen has resumed after a stretch of too many miles behind the wheel and too few in the saddle.
Naturally, the weather had gone to hell during my absence — snow on the roads and ice on the trails had me second-guessing my decision to skip a stop at McDowell Mountain Regional Park outside Fountain Hills, Arizona, on the way home from California.
Oh, well. I’d probably have logged about one decent trail ride and then spent the remainder of my desert sojourn frantically cranking out the word count in some wired java shop, half asleep from trying and failing to nod out on the ground in the old Eureka two-man. That first day of camping is always the worst.
And anyway, the credit card was beginning to pulse and glow in my wallet; wisps of smoke periodically leaked from my hip pocket and I thought it might be wise to take it home, air it out a bit, let it heal.
So, yeah. I celebrated homecoming with a splashy run through the goo on Friday, rode for an hour on Saturday, then for 90 minutes on Sunday, and today — well, today was one of those days that makes me wonder why I don’t live someplace where the weather is a tad less psychotic.
It was sprinkling early on, so Herself and I bundled up for a short run. This seemed wise until about 30 minutes in, when the sun popped out and we both started shedding layers like snakes with leprosy. I was sweating like old dynamite and jogging along with a rain jacket in one hand and my hat in the other, gloves having been stuffed down the tights I wished I had left at home.
The sun being out, I considered a ride, but a squint in the ’fridge disabused me of that notion. It was back in the Subaru and off to the Whole Paycheck, where I tallied a personal best — $258, most of it basics rather than larks’ tongues, wrens’ livers or jaguars’ earlobes.
Like I said, we’re back on track here. Can y’smell what the Dog is cookin’?
Mad Blog Media 
Hey Pat,
I was wondering where you’d been. I thought maybe Palin or DeLay had you hit or something. I haven’t ridden since New Years and we have freezing rain turning back to snow turning to God knows what else after that. I’ll have to make due with the Airdyne and my local Trader Joe’s !
Was in Scottsdale a week ago for the winter’s low of 50 something. Twice the temp I flew away from. At least Marcus from Bicycle Ranch would go out in the cold for a ride. Off into the ‘hills’ where I truly sucked. I’ll take our psychotic upper mid-west weather over those vertical roads.
$250+ at Whole Foods? You’re worse than me! Though this year at the branch in Santa Barbara I tried the salumi they had from Fra ‘Mani. FINALLY the real thing just like in Italia! Paul Bertolli knows what he’s doing…I brought back a whole one to Iowa (interestingly enough I think the pork comes from here) since the Omaha Whole Paycheck doesn’t have it. But we’ll get it shipped out here next time so along with the wonderful La Quercia (from right here in Iowa) prosciutto and pancetta we can sort of pretend we’re eating in Italy until we go back there.
Now if we could just find some “vino sfuzo” for less than $2 a liter (and I mean something drinkable not Two Buck Chuck) we’d be almost in heaven right here in Iowa. But wait, the Repuglicans and Tea Partiers are bringing me back to reality. Taxed enough already? Look up the happiest countries on earth, then compare ’em to the ones who have the highest tax rates — Norway, Sweden and Denmark top the charts in both categories — so maybe we’re not taxed enough?
Of course THOSE countries don’t squander the tax revenue on endless, useless wars. Instead they take care of their citizens with good healthcare, pensions and the like. I didn’t look at where Italy is on the happiness scale but I know they’re up there on the tax charts! Our plan is to retire there so we can enjoy “la dolce vita” while living on our retirement savings kept in US banks and away from the Italian tax man.
I highly recommend doing twenty years for Uncle Sugar and then sticking it to the rest of the taxpaying population by sucking down commissary privileges for the rest of your life. I usually drop $250 every time I drive to Buckley, but the upside is that I drag tailpipe pulling out of the parking lot, what with cargo bed of the Soobie bulging at the seams. Not unlike my trousers these days.