Month: April 2011

April flowers bring May showers

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 7 Comments
Weather over the mountain
Shorts weather down here, not so much up there.

May is lurking around the corner like a thug with a fistful of pipe. I rode in shorts and short sleeves today, watered the trees fore and aft, even mowed what passes for a lawn in Dog Country. It was 75 degrees and sunnier than the smile on the face of someone who hasn’t been paying attention.

Naturally, tomorrow the temps will drop like an elevator full of fat bastards and there’s rain, snow, and rain mixed with snow in the forecast.

Whatever. I don’t care. Our Canadian red cherry is showing some blossoms, and I had a wonderful ride today, just goofing around in Palmer Park, trying to stay out of the wind. I was on the Voodoo Nakisi drop-bar 29er and rode like I knew what I was doing for a change, kinda sorta, even cleaning a couple rocky bits that have been setting me afoot. Plus I stumbled across an entire gym class of young folks riding mountain bikes at the behest of their teacher, which as an industry observer I call good news.

One, on a loaner bike, was having trouble with parts of the Grandview Overlook trail and just a tiny bit lost. “It gets easier,” I promised, lying shamelessly through an encouraging smile, and showed her the way to the paved road that leads to the overlook parking lot.

I took a shortcut and advised teach’ that one of his students once was lost, but now was found, and then got the hell out of there while things were still going good. I’m not greedy, and I’d already had more than my share of good news.

• Late update: I capped the day off with a simple new recipe, ale-braised sausages with bell peppers, from Williams-Sonoma. I dicked around with it a bit, having neither apple cider (I used organic cranberry-pomegranate juice instead) nor fresh thyme (due to a persistent case of brain damage I have three or four jars of the dried stuff cluttering up the kitchen). And surprise, surprise, it turned out just fine. I used Deschutes Brewery’s Red Chair NW Pale Ale and Niman Ranch bratwurst, for anyone tracking my movements. The mashed spuds were your basic organic russets with chives, parsley, butter, heavy whipping cream, sea salt and freshly ground black pepper.

Baldilocks and the three bears

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 17 Comments
Mama Bear, Yogi and Booboo
There's a reason they call the area "Bear Creek." Three reasons, actually.

I had grand plans this morning. Ride through Bear Creek Park to Gold Camp Road, then take Gold Camp as far as felt sensible — preferably past High Drive, perhaps even around the collapsed tunnel.

That is, until I met the bears.

It’s a lousy shot — never, ever use the lame-ass zoom on an iPhone 3GS — but you get the general idea. There I was, just riding along, when all of a sudden. …

Looks like mama is teaching the kids how to forage in some high-dollar trash cans. There are some nifty properties up there overlooking the Broadmoor, and I’ll bet the garbage is pretty damn’ fine.

Tulips and Tea Baggers

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 11 Comments
Frosty tulips
The tulips seem to be saying, "If this is spring, you can have it."

This is the second day lately we’ve awakened to a light, slightly crunchy frosting on the ground.

I don’t know whether it’s a light snow or a heavy frost. I do know the lawn drinks it like Birthers chug Insane-O-Tea®. You want a solid argument against evolution, these folks are your poster children. Chimps look at these asshats, shake their heads and say, “I ain’t got nothin’ to do with it.”

On the water(y)front

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 10 Comments

The Universe is amusing itself at my expense again.

I sez to Herself, I sez, “Watch it start snowing as soon as I get all kitted up for a ride.” And what happens?

I shoulda gone into meteorology, is what. I coulda had class. I coulda been a contender. I could been somebody, instead of a bum, which is what I am, let’s face it.

The Barbour cuts … and runs

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 7 Comments

Haley Barbour will not be running for the presidency of these here U-nited States of America. Seems he couldn’t find the requisite fire in the belly, and to be fair, it must’ve been quite the hunt.

“I shore thought it was in here some’eres,” said Barbour, sloshing through rancid puddles of barbecue, bourbon, fatback, moonshine, sowbelly, grits and nicotine-drenched jism from Big Tobacco. “Mebbe some nigra stole it.”

Goes to show you how much times have changed since I was a sprout. I remember when you couldn’t find a white guy who would give a black man a job. Now it seems you can’t find one with the balls to take one from him.