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.