Month: May 2011

Down time, men

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 7 Comments
We got us a convoy
Geese and goslings, all in a row.

With the Memorial Day weekend safely behind me and no chores, obligations or other distractions on the schedule, I got out for a nice two-and-a-half-hour ride today.

Well, “nice” is a bit of an exaggeration. The skin-blistering headwind on the outbound leg, down the trail to Fountain, took some of the joy out of the experience. Nothing quite like being hunkered down in the drops, blazing along at 13 mph on a downhill while the prairie dogs titter at you.

But that tailwind on the way home — fat city. I felt 20 years younger and 20 pounds lighter.

Plus I got to see a couple Canada geese and their goslings in a pond down by the soccer fields east of Harrison High School. That sort of thing is always good for an “Awwww. …” moment.

Tomorrow it’s June already, and time to carpe that old diem, because Le Tour starts on July 2, and it looks like Super Spaniard will be cleared for takeoff. Talk about your speed bumps along the bike path.

Everybody’s working for the weekend

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 5 Comments

Where the hell did the week go? Seems like just a couple minutes ago I was wrapping up the weekend’s work when all of a sudden holy fuckin’ shit it’s weekend-work time again.

“There is no peace, saith the Lord, unto the wicked.” That’s there’s Scripture, fella.

And yea, there will be much wickedness this weekend, sayeth the Dog — much of it spewing from his mouth as he works on a holiday weekend — and thus no peace, for him or for anyone else within earshot.

There’s the Giro d’Italia, the USA Cycling National Championships, the Iron Horse Bicycle Classic, the Killington Stage Race, all bearing their dark gifts of stories and sidebars, PDF’d results and photo galleries, rider diaries and technical jabber, plus video — did I mention video? And almost none of it featuring podium girls gone wild.

And they call this a holiday weekend.

But there are steaks, chicken and beer in the ’fridge, wine bottles in their racks and bicycles in the garage. And God willing, I will sample each of these between bouts of velo-reportage. You’re welcome.

And should you be reading this from one of America’s various military garrisons throughout the world, please be advised that I’m only bitching for practice in case I should ever have something to bitch about — like serving tour after tour after tour in some overheated nightmare wherein the locals smile at you during the day and prep roadside bombs for you at night.

If you think we’re in the shit now, just wait until they start drafting 57-year-old fat white guys. I can’t think of anything that would bring troops home sooner.

Unless we were to be drafting the 57-year-old white guys’ children.

Peace.

It’s quiet out there … too quiet

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 24 Comments

“Tweet of the day,” notes a colleague, forwarding this:

lancearmstrong Happy hour w/ the whole @LIVESTRONG team here at the house. For those who think we’ll be distracted, think again. We’re here to serve.

The old Million Pound Yellow Shithammer of Denial just ain’t what it used to be, hey? Not as long as Big George Hincapie may be one of the moles in need of a stout whacking. This shot will require some finesse, muses Big Tex, consulting his caddy: “What club do I use here, do y’think?” All the anticipation makes one’s putter flutter.

I get a feeling we’re on a rest day here on the Tour de Lance. But sometime soon it’s gonna be game on and Big Tex will have to start taking some very long pulls indeed, with the Devil running alongside him. And I ain’t talking Didi Senft here.

Meanwhile, I awakened to the sound of rain, thunder and hail at Chez Dog. I think I’ll sell all the bikes and buy a submarine. A yellow one. I bet I know where I can get one cheap, and all the rats should be out of there momentarily, if they haven’t all leaped overboard already.