The tulips popped up the other day, just in time to catch a good old-fashioned spring soaking, our first in many a moon.
Yay! It’s Tax Day, my favoritest holiday ever, just ahead of National Polka Festival Day and George W. Bush’s birthday.
Naturally, I don’t concern myself with taxes, being an arteest rather than an accountant. But Herself, who serves as Mad Dog Media’s Custodian of Records, advises me that the State of Colorado screwed the pooch on our return, sending us a refund check for $199 when in fact we owed $24 and had sent them a check for same.
Goldurned gummint can’t get nothin’ right. Where’s m’tea-bag hat? I feel a protest comin’ on. ‘Specially after reading this Mother Jones piece about how tax-prep outfits scam the poor.
Rising gas prices have made a virtual wasteland of Interstate 25 in Bibleburg. Or not. And the "Keep Right" sign is an amusing redundancy here.
If rising gas prices are curtailing driving, as so many of the usually reliable sources are reporting, I sure haven’t seen it here in Bibleburg.
I drove the Subie north to Whole Paycheck yesterday and felt like a minnow caught up in a salmon run. Eighteen-wheelers, SUVs and pick-em-up trucks zooming by at 10 to 20 mph over the 65-mph limit, honking and swerving, tailgating and gesticulating. In short, just another day on the American highway.
“We have an au pair from France, and she recently filled up our minivan and gave me a bill for $70,” said Melanie Janin, a mother of three from Bethesda. “I was like, ‘Oh, my God.’”
Indeed, I tremble for my country when I reflect that God is just; that his justice cannot sleep forever.
The Jamis Aurora Elite, rigged for heavy touring. I've been riding this for a couple of weeks now. I'd tell you about it, but then the folks at Adventure Cyclist magazine would have to kill you.
Again with the hysterical gas-prices stories. The difference in this latest run-up, says analyst Trilby Lundberg, is that the national average price of $3.765 would be even higher had refiners and retailers passed on rising crude-oil prices to consumers, who already seem reluctant to put that tiger in their tanks as the mythical $4-per-gallon ceiling looms like a windshield full of oncoming Peterbilt with a full load of live pigs and a drunk, texting driver who doesn’t realize that he’s drifted across the yellow line into oncoming traffic.
“Demand has been falling at these prices,” Lundberg told the Reuters news agency.
I bet. If you don’t have a job — anyone remember the unemployment figures? You know, the story that kinda-sorta mattered before deficits, gas prices and The Donald sucked all the metaphorical oxygen out of the virtual pressroom? — a tank of gas must look like a bottle of Cristal champagne; too rich for your tastes.
But if cash-strapped drivers are buying less gas, how are they getting from point A to point B? Driving hybrids? Scooters? Bicycles? Skateboards? Hush Puppies?
Being biased, I’d like to think “bicycles.” It’s spring, and the weather is improving — well, as much as a Coloradan can expect in April, anyway — and suddenly that two-mile commute from the family seat to the cube farm looks doable on two wheels.
But can the typical Chubbo-American too pinched to buy gas afford the kind of bikes my people sell, or even look at them without hearing their dads, long dead of heart disease, liver failure and homophobia, calling them gay? Are they gonna trade in the family battlewagon for a couple of gaudy plastic-fantastics with saddles shaped like designer perfume bottles and wheels that look like the rings of Saturn? Will they spring for the reasonably priced, sensible machinery like the bikes I’ve been reviewing for Adventure Cyclist magazine?
Frankly, I have no idea. But, ever the optimist, I keep envisioning a graphic depicting the Descent of Motorist — from SUV to small car to hybrid to motorcycle to scooter to pawn-shop bicycle to Keds.
I’ve always been able to find that dark cloud surrounding the silver lining.*
* And yes, I know those front panniers should be swinging lower than an old man’s testicles over the toilet, but I didn’t have a low-rider rack that would work with disc brakes.
Johan van Summeren and his cobblestone trophy. Photo liberated in the name of The People from Jacques Brinon, AP
Sometimes it’s not good to be the king. Fabian Cancellara found himself in the hot seat again at Paris-Roubaix, with Thor Hushovd stuck to him like a decal and two more Garmins up the road, so rather than tow the world champion up he shut the C-train choo-choo down. Then he still found the legs in the finale to lose all the hangers-on and take second behind a most surprising victor, Johan Van Summeren.
Hushovd did the smart thing, the team thing, but it sure didn’t look good on TV — the rainbow jersey marking moves instead of making them. This is one of the many reasons why Americans have trouble understanding the sport. “Why don’t he ride?” they ask, before changing the channel to something involving sticks and balls.
Meanwhile, chapeau to the big Belgie for a fine win. Word is he rolled it in on a softening tire, just 19 seconds ahead of a charging Cancellara, and then proposed to his sweetie. Quite a rock for an engagement present, no?
Turkish, who also loathes the wind, gives the hairy eyeball to one of his toys shortly before kicking its ass.
Jeebus. I say this every April, I know, but still, damn — this wind is insane. Right now it’s barreling out of the south-southwest at 29 mph with gusts to 48.
Sucker flat pile-drives the pollen up the snotlocker, let me tell you. Feels like some evil plumber is ratcheting down an extra-large hose clamp on my brainpan. I should be out logging miles on the Jamis for review purposes, but I’ve been wrestling this accursed wind all week and I’m kind of over it. For now, anyway.
Still, could be worse — Flagstaff is under about a foot of snow, I-17 is closed, and the white stuff is still coming down. This is why we keep cross-country skis and snowshoes around. April showers, don’t you know.
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