Back in the day I had a dog, name of Jojo. Leave a door or a window ajar and Jojo would shoot through it like a bottle rocket, a decidedly unguided missile.
He would come home, eventually, looking like he had been shot at and missed, and shit at and hit. But he always seemed to have had a good time.
Jojo never learned much from me. But I clearly learned something from him, because every time a window opens … well, you get the idea.
My window opened yesterday, and I shot through it with the idea of cycling through Pueblo to Penrose, there to stay at a nearby hot springs overnight before returning to El Rancho del Perro Loco to ride herd on the cats, Herself having planned to toddle off to Texas with Buddy to visit family.
What the hell? It was only 80-some-odd miles, and who cares if I get the traditional late start, as in 10:30 a.m.?
Well, me, for starters, once I finally got to Pueblo three hours later after fighting a headwind all the way with a couple dozen pounds of this and that lashed to the rack of my Soma Double Cross. It was 98 degrees at Bingo Burger, the skies were looking decidedly ominous toward the west, and despite having packed and consumed three bottles I was so dry I was farting dust.
I slammed two IZZE Grapefruits with my burger and fries, reloaded my bottles with water and ice, took one more look westward — goddamnit, the wind is out of the west now! — and made a command decision: Fuck Penrose, I’m staying in the Hampton Inn & Suites, where there is air conditioning, a swimming pool and a liquor store within walking distance.
Plus I got Hilton points, which also scores points with Herself. This is important if one is not supposed to be staying in a motel in the first place.
This morning I got up bright and early, took advantage of the Hampton’s free breakfast, and snagged Herself via cell phone en route to Texas as I departed. We met, I took Buddy for a quick walk, Herself took herself for one too, and we agreed that we would not kill me until she came home.
My ride north was a good deal easier, though longer. It helps if one starts before the sun is on full fry-the-fat-guy mode.
• Extra-credit bonus snark: The movie “Unstoppable” is one of the silliest flicks it has been my misfortune to stumble across with a remote control, a mild case of heatstroke and a six-pack of Odell’s 5 Barrel Pale Ale in an air-conditioned motel 30 miles from where I had intended to park myself for the evening. I actually have been hit by a train, and I would gladly endure that indignity again if only I could be driving a bus containing everyone responsible for this miserable piece of shit as we hit the crossing in front of old Triple-7 doing 70 per.
Mad Blog Media 
I’d love to take credit for making the beer you just enjoyed, but my occasional honesty happens to be kicking in right now, so I feel obligated to point out that the nice fellows in Ft Collins are British Odells, not Irish O’Dells. I’m not holding that against them, though!
Steve, thanks for the diving Gaelic catch. I see an “O,” I just have to put an apostrophe after it. As in, “O’Shit, I turned Odell’s into O’Dells.”
I thought that movie was pretty far fetched, so I asked my brother, a career rail road guy, if it was possible. He said it is, but not too probable. He told me of a couple of runaways around here due to lazy engineers not wanting to get in and out of the engine and were driving a car ahead of the engine to throw switches. Lunch pail on the safety. Now with cameras in the cab, it doesn’t happen any more.
Just getting over a bout w/ Lyme’s disease, can’t wait to have a bike ride and a beer!
Boz, your bro’ probably felt the way I do every time I see a newsroom depicted on TV or in the movies. “No, no, no, no, no, hell no, no, no. …”
Cameras in the cab, eh? Well, there goes the neighborhood. I saw my first watching-the-workers camera in a newspaper circa 1980. The outfit had been through an ugly labor struggle before I got there and their new building looked like a bunker, with walls and guards and a slot by the door into which one had to slide an ID to gain entry, just like my Hampton motel room (forward-thinking lot, these guys were).
Anyway, the composing-room dudes — who took it in the shorts during the labor struggle — used to sneak up on these cameras with cans of black spray paint and tag the lenses.
I think we need more of that sort of thing these days.
Glad to hear you’re getting past the Lyme’s disease. I remember when I used to think that had something to do with having had too many margaritas. Based on my consumption in the Seventies and Eighties I think I’m a low risk for scurvy for at least the next few decades.
Patrick, in my book camping is sleeping in a strange bed, so you get full-credit there, though I wonder about the choice of mid-ride repast of burger and fries…..I get a gut ache just thinking about it! Reminds me of my last dumb move like that, years ago stopping at a joint about 30+ miles from our place in Sioux City that once had Little Debbie stuff, hoping to refuel a bit Turned out they no longer had anything of the sort, only their “restaurant” (and I use this term very loosely) as any source of replenishment so I stupidly ordered the famous Iowa pork tenderloin sandwich. BIG MISTAKE! This thing arrived on a paper plate, looking much like the planet Saturn – a small rounded bun ringed by what they called a pork tenderloin in the shape and size of an LP record! I ate a few bites, trying to eat my way to a bit of carbohydrate though the “ring” of greasy breading covering a thin layer of pork. I gave up once I arrived at the ice-cold bun, with its pickle chip and blob of mayo. I paid the price for this stupidity with a gut ache all the way home!
Larry, these here are what’cha call some goor-may burgers — local grass-fed beef, local chile, fresh-baked buns (Hopscotch Bakery is owned by the same folks, friends of my old friend Hal Walter of Hardscrabble Times). Worth a 50-mile bike ride any day of the week.
I had actually planned on taking an extended break for purposes of digestion, then casually rolling along the Arkansas River Trail to Lake Pueblo, Pueblo West and thence to Penrose. It was, as usual, a great plan on paper. I’m great at theory, but weak at execution. The entire issue would be moot if only the State would finish work on Highway 115, which would turn this adventure into about 45 miles of really nice riding on shoulders broad enough for a double paceline of fat bastards.
Next time I leave at 7:30 and pack a little less weight with the idea of camping in a strange bed a la Lorenzo.
Goor-may or not, I couldn’t ride (even with an “after-lunch” gear”) very much after any burger and fries meal. I’ve learned a little pasta pomodoro, insalata and a glass (or three) of vino is just fine for lunch. Of course that’s not available much in this country – I did a fish taco lunch once with a training camp group out in San Diego…but really had to take it easy for quite awhile afterwards to avoid unpleasantness.
Larry, I usually don’t stop to eat at roadside roach-coaches for the reason you mentioned — the grub can be less than stellar on this side of the Big Ditch, and the aftershocks jarring for anyone drafting you. So I usually stuff my jersey pockets and/or panniers with items I know will get me from point A to B in case real food proves elusive, as it often does.
The pickins can be plenty slim in south-central Colorado. You can find good places to eat, but they’re mostly end-of-the-ride diners. Casual refueling spots are few and far between. This country needs to get crackin’ on the tapas concept — a bit of this and that, a glass of the vino tinto, maybe a brief daily siesta. …
Somebody slap me. I’ve clearly gone off the rails here. This will happen about the same time the College of Cardinals names the first lesbian Pope.
Thank you for all the purty pictures and all the laughs as you gear up for a full ‘unstoppable’ weekend of work and cat wrangling.
Libby, it’s my pleasure to see to it that the comedy choo-choo occasionally runs on time around here.
As for the cats, they are ecstatic at having a dog-free weekend. I stepped out for a bite earlier and when I came back they were sprawled in the living-room windows, meowing contentedly. When I stepped inside they commenced rolling about on the floor, batting at me and chasing each other around the house just ’cause.
Meanwhile, Herself reports from Texas that Buddy is a big hit with all the kinfolk and that if he could just shed a few IQ points the GOP would happily run him for governor.
“I’m not dead yet. …” I don’t know you look pretty comatose to me your not moving. Good for you.
Bro’, I do kind of look like a wooden Indian outside a cigar store, if wooden Indians wore Lycra and clutched bicycles. Don’t quite know what that tribe might be called. The Chamois? A highly mobile tribe whose tipis employ carbon-fiber poles and wicking fabrics made from the black stuff that comes out of the ground?
“Black stuff coming out of the ground? Civilization … ho!“
Patrick – You remind me of those I see up here in Oregon on Highway 101, their bikes loaded to the hilt with “stuff.” Some have one-wheel trailers attached to the bike. I wonder about these people! For the most part, they do not appear to be having much fun.
I keep asking “Why are they doing this?” One was killed the other day, an 81-year-old and an experienced cyclist who, for unknown reasons, veered into the end of a logging truck as it passed him. Not a pleasant way to go. His son was riding behind him at the time and watched the entire disaster.
Your burger and motel makes more sense to me, but I suppose I’m not a dedicated bicyclist! I’m just an old phart out for some exercise. 🙂
Bruce
Hey, Bruce … really, it’s just like riding a bike. Only slower. A lot slower. Don’t ask me how slow. I still dream of the glory days when I could cover a 40km time trial in under 57 minutes, which was only about 10 minutes slower than Kent Bostick and John Frey, two speedy gents with whom it was my misfortune to share an age group in New Mexico.
I remember the Oregon logging trucks well from my days in Corvallis. They scared the hell out of me in a 2WD Toyota truck. Happily, that was the one time in my life that I wasn’t riding a bike or for sure I’d be an ancient bloodstain on Highway 20 instead of the white-bearded font of velo-wisdom you have come to know and love.
Jojo woulda gone to Penrose.
Chris, he’da kept on goin’, too. That dog was a traveling fool. He stuck with me from one end of the country to the other — Colorado, Vermont, Arizona, California, Oregon and finally Colorado again. Did more time in the pound than some of the folks that worked there and won more fights than Ali.