It’s Friday the 13th, which is supposed to be an unlucky day. But I always feel pretty fortunate to see our front-yard maple greening up. That big boy keeps the house a few degrees cooler come summertime, if summertime ever arrives.

The weather lately has been a bit unsettled (read: typically Coloradan), but today looks like a fine day for some extended time in the saddle.

And as usual, it’s a case of get it while you can. The Amgen Tour of California joins the Giro d’Italia on the Big List of Things To Do for those of us working this weekend, and the weather is supposed to deteriorate once again, further restricting casual cycling opportunities.

Happily, when the temps drop faster than a GOP presidential candidate’s “moderate” posturing, a free-lance cycling rumormonger can stay inside where it’s warm.

Not so the poor saps who actually ride the bikes for fun and profit. The predicted weather for stage one of the AToC reminds me of one of the many reasons I no longer do the Iron Horse Bicycle Classic. I like to be able to feel my brake levers when I squeeze ’em, especially when descending from 11,000 feet.

Twenty-one years ago today, Herself and I were joined in holy macaroni in Santa Fe, and to the astonishment of just about everyone we know, (a) I’m still alive, and (2) we’re still together.

We celebrated with a bottle of Sofia, Francis Ford Coppola’s fizzy salute to his directorial daughter, and I laid an iPad 2 on her with a bit of the old sleight of hand, directing her downstairs to the nondescript brown bag containing it, saying it was a sack of cat turds from the litter box that needed tossing.

I hedged my comedic bets a tad, though, using a black Sharpie to scrawl “NOT REALLY TURDS” on the bag, just in case. Herself has been known to toss a bag of turds out the back door and onto the sidewalk to await transmission to the trash can at some later date.

What did I get, you ask? I got my gift 21 years ago.