I had hoped to take the Vespa out for a spin in honor of the Giro d’Italia, which began today with a team time trial, but it was not to be. It remained parked next to the lawnmower, which at least got rolled out of the garage and then rolled right back in without so much as a tug on its starter cord.

Those In Authority at VeloNews.com had thunk up a couple of new wrinkles they hadn’t told me much about until D-Day (the off-site contractor is always the last to know) and so the usual Saturday chores took just a wee bit longer today and involved several of the famous words that introduced George Carlin to the Supreme Court. The only two-wheeler I straddled, briefly, was human-powered, if you will concede that I am human, which is a subject of debate in some circles.

The fun continues tomorrow with a mostly flat stage that all agree practically has Mark Cavendish’s name spray-painted all over it. In the Manxman’s honor, however prematurely, I’m drinking beer instead of wine. We have a jug of Yellow Kite pilsner from the fine folks at Bristol Brewing, and a sixer of Red Chair NW Pale Ale from Deschutes Brewery, a longtime favorite here at the DogHaus.

We’re likely to need all of it to put out the fire from the tinga poblana I made last night. It’s a stew with chunks of pork, chorizo and chipotle chiles, and I think I put in a couple-three chiles too many, because the goddamn thing is nuclear. I’m surprised the leftovers didn’t burn their way straight through the bottom of the refrigerator and head straight for the earth’s core, which is only slightly hotter.