New Year’s Eve blows

The Fat Guy, circa 2002
The Old Guy Who Gets Fat In Winter, circa 2002. How little things change in a decade.

The wind is clocking a Brazilian miles per hour out there today, which means it can strip you of your pubic hair in an instant (after first blowing off your pants).

Happily, I’m safe inside, doing a bit of light pixel-pushing for VeloNews.com, thinking halfheartedly about riding the trainer, and wondering what I can whip up to fetch to an informal New Year’s Eve gathering at a neighbor’s place. Tequila surprise? Nope, there are too many surprises lurking in that Mexican cactus whiskey. I don’t know these people well enough for that. Homemade salsa and chips will suffice.

I had hoped to get in one last ride to close out 2011, but the wind disabused me of that notion. Plus given my calorie consumption this holiday season it felt something like bolting the gate to the sty after the pig had escaped.

A quick check of my training log finds that I rode just short of 3,500 miles this year, about half of what I did 20 years ago when I was still racing a ton. No records exist of my 2001 mileage. However, I had begun losing interest in competition after a brief peak as a cyclo-crosser in 1999, and living outside Weirdcliffe made training on the road difficult and getting to races problematic and expensive, so I expect I had already begun my glide path toward the lower mileage of the recreational rider.

But there’s something about working in cycling journalism that — for me, at least — makes cycling less recreational than it might be for, say, a radiologist, carpenter or accountant. I write columns, edit stories and draw cartoons about people who ride bicycles over impossible distances with authority and panache, then perform a poor imitation of them in my free time. Some days it can feel something like dressing up in other people’s clothes, like a fat kid wearing a Superman costume.

This is one reason I was glad to find I could take up running again after a few months off. I don’t earn a dime from the sport or know anything about it and thus can contentedly lumber along, nodding sympathetically at the pained expressions on the other runners I encounter. It’s more medicinal than recreational, the equivalent of a hearty dose of fish oil or flossing your teeth.

And man — you want to sample an activity that elevates cycling above other pasatiempos, take up running three days a week. It makes a brand-new Brooks saddle feel like the gentle hand of the Lord.

So let’s all do more of it in 2012, no matter how badly. It’s an election year, after all, and people will need the comic relief.

Happy New Year to you and yours.

• Late update: Thanks and a tip of the Mad Dog Media IWW tuque to the folks WordPress tells me are the Most Active Commenters of 2011:

  1. Khal S. (473)
  2. Larry T. (296)
  3. Ben S. (117)
  4. James (116)
  5. Libby (111)

You folks keep the joint lively and it’s a pleasure to have you — and all the rest of you — stopping by.

Season’s growlings

Christmas 2011, Santa's elves
Capping off another terrific Christmas: from left, Bouncing Buddy Banzai the Spinning Japanese Chin; Field Marshal Turkish von Turkenstein, who clearly had too much eggnog last night; and Miss Mia Sopaipilla.

Preparations for the annual holiday feast have begun at Chez Dog. Herself’s gift, a Canon Vixia HF M41 camcorder, is charging on the kitchen table (she aced a video-production class this fall) as she assembles a raspberry cobbler.

Next up is a cornbread-stuffing recipe we’ve never tried before — the cornbread itself is already done, and top-notch it is, too — followed by an appetizer of toasted baguettes topped with a rich spread of prosciutto, butter, Parmigiano-Reggiano and pine nuts (also a newcomer); mashed spuds; sauteéd spinach with mushrooms; giblet gravy, cranberry relish; and last but not least, roast turkey.

I usually do something offbeat for Christmas, like a Northern New Mexican feast or a chicken cacciatore, but this year I decided we needed the comfort food. The leftovers are the best part of a traditional turkey dinner — turkey sandwiches, turkey enchiladas, turkey soup, and whatnot. You cook like a mad bastard for one day and reheat leftovers for three days. What’s not to like?

Meanwhile, the traditional Humiliation of the Animals has been accomplished. The furry swine failed to get me a MacBook Air or an iPhone 4, and I’ll be damned if I’ll let that pass without retribution. You can order that stuff online, f’chrissakes. No messy human interaction or trips to the mall required:

“Hello, how may I help you?

“Meow.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Meow!”

“Come again?”

Meeeowwwwwwrrrr. ... Oh, fuck it, Buddy, you try.”

“Woof?”

More daylight at the end of the tunnel

The Great Blizzard of Dec. 22, 2011
Finally, enough snow to shovel. And shovel, and shovel, and. ...

We finally got a snowfall worthy of the name — about eight inches’ worth over a couple of days, just in time for solstice.

Lacking a gym membership and possessing the feeble upper body of the geriatric cyclist I suffered through multiple repetitions of precipitation redistribution between other chores — running VeloNews.com, cooking, serving as staff to cats, fetching the holiday vittles from Whole Paycheck, some last-minute gift-shopping and a welcome visit to the backcracker (though she probably found it less so, as I make her earn those BMW payments).

The Great Blizzard of Dec. 22, 2011, Part 2
Nearly eight inches ... and just about the biggest dumper we've seen in our eight years here.

The VeloNews.com thing has been particularly irksome. I haven’t worked five days a week for 20 years — not at the same mind-numbing task, anyway — and frankly I don’t know how you poor bastards stand it. We’re still minus a web editor, and I’m minus a 2012 contract until said executive gets hired, so with eight days remaining on my 2011 deal with these people I’ve been spending more than a few of our very short daylight hours revisiting many of the late George Carlin’s fabled Seven Words.

A couple things caused me to dial down the volume a bit, though. While motoring around in the snow the other day I noticed some poor sod in a hard hat, up to his tits in a right-lane ditch, digging away as the heavy holiday traffic slalomed around him. As working for a living goes this makes pixel-pushing look like sharing a hot tub with Elle MacPherson, Scarlett Johansson and a couple flagons of Perrier-Jouët Belle Epoque.

Then my friend and colleague Hal Walter reported in from Weirdcliffe, recounting a tile-and-carpet project that turned into your basic 17-day nightmare, forcing him and his family from their home as appliances and furniture were torn from their proper places and stacked in the living room while various artisans were hired and fired. At least I get to be pissed off in my own house.

And finally another friend and colleague, Charles Pelkey, who has been enduring weeks of chemotherapy for cancer, had another health scare. While taking his latest infusion he developed a dysrhythmia that sent him to the ER for a battery of heart tests; seems potentially fatal dysrhythmias are a rare side effect of the drug Taxol and his oncologist wasn’t taking any chances.

Happily, the problem disappeared when Charles got on a treadmill and elevated his heart rate. And better still, the doc decided that enough was enough already and gave Charles a get-out-of-chemo card — he had been slated to continue treatments through the holidays and most of January 2012.

Me, I take an aspirin now and then when I get a brain cramp.

So it looks like I don’t have anything to bitch about, goddamnit. But wait … I can always bitch about not having anything to bitch about! It’s the best present ever!

Here’s hoping y’all have nothing to bitch about, too. Happy holidays to you and yours.