Sunday! Sunday! Sunday! Yes, it’s time once again for the Tour of Flanders, and no, I have absolutely no idea who’s gonna win the sonofabitch, so don’t ask.
Still, it should be fun to watch (it pretty much always is). And if your idea of a good time is watching the hardmen tackle the cobbles via your computer, well, you can follow the Ronde on one of the feeds provided by cyclingfans.com.
The video could be live as early as 6 a.m. Eastern, and most of the usual suspects will be on the road — Peter Sagan, Fabian Cancellara, Tom Boonen, Sylvain Chavanel and a whole lot of other mugs who have all the chance of a banana in the monkey house.
Next week, Charles Pelkey and I plan to crank up the Live Update Guy machinery for Paris-Roubaix, so stay tuned. In the meantime, enjoy the comparative peace and quiet of strong men weeping at the Ronde.
I didn’t get to ride my age this year. Not in miles, kilometers or even minutes.
In fact, the whole first quarter of 2013 has been a little sketchy, ride-wise, thanks to bugs, chores, the natural Irish predilection toward sloth blended with storytelling — say, did I ever tell you the one about the Mighty Dugan?
No, let’s not get started down that particular path. There be dragons.
But today, after wrapping up a bit of video for the folks at Adventure Cyclist, I straddled the Voodoo Nakisi and hit the trails in Palmer Park. It was a casual ride that lasted nearly two hours, which for me these days is something of an expedition.
The afternoon was 60-something and sunny, if a bit breezy, and I must have been just tired enough to not give a shit if I fell over, because I was easily cleaning obstacles that ordinarily confound me.
I stopped at one intersection to pull off the knee-warmers and up rolled a couple of young gents on double-boingers who likewise were having a fine day on two wheels. They professed to be astounded that a gentleman of my years would be riding a cyclo-cross bike on Palmer Park single-track, and I confessed that while it appeared to be your standard unsuspended steel drop-bar bike, it was in fact a stealth 29er with a triple ring and 700×43 tires and thus not so much of a much.
Did the wheels stand the strain? they asked. To be sure, I replied. Built by Brian Gravestock himself they were, using Mavic Open Pros from this millennium and Hügi mountain bike hubs from another. Brian says steel bikes are making a comeback, they confided. I agreed, and with that we went our separate ways.
Back at Chez Dog a neighbor’s landscaper said he’d seen me on the bike and that I looked “like a young man.” He was trying to sell me some yardwork — successfully, as luck would have it — and I forgave him the Good Friday falsehood.
We didn’t make a big deal of it. Herself and I had already enjoyed our group birthday dinner out with friends. And anyway, 59 is kind of a bullshit birthday, don’t you think? I mean, it’s good to be on the right side of the lawn and all, but The Big One is a year off, and for that bad boy I want something special: a freshly cloned body to house my exquisitely twisted brain. Say, something in the mid-20s chronologically, as that’s about when I began to start showing the hard mileage.
That’s not to say I disliked my 30s, what I can remember of them. And hitting the “big” three-oh didn’t bug me at all. I got off work at The Pueblo Chieftain, had a quiet beer or two at the Irish Pub, and went home. I’ve gotten crazier than that on the job.
Forty I did not like for some unknown reason. There was a party. I was the pooper. That shit put a stop to the parties, I can tell you.
Fifty? Meh. The AARP gets you by the plums with a downhill pull and that’s that.
But 60? That’s gonna be the shiznit. You lot better start saving your pennies for my birthday body, as I expect the cloning procedure to be expensive, even with Obamacare. I’d like to have some hair in places other than my nostrils, ears and shoulders, maybe do without the vision correction, and be hung a little better, and ain’t none of that shit covered, not even for Democrats.
First a video camera gets snarky with me on Thursday, and then yesterday my backup hard drive commits suicide and tries to take the iMac with it.
I’m talking refusal to boot, the blue screen with spinning wheel, all the dire portents of the End Times, which the Bible tells us will be heralded by an Irish-American bearing a smoking Visa card to the Apple Store (see the MacBook of Jobs, Ch. 10.6.8).
So I forced a shutdown, unplugged all the peripherals, reminded myself of the first of the Four Noble Truths (life is qualified by suffering), and hit the power button.
Banzai!
A series of diagnostics indicated that my 2TB miniStack v3 Firewire drive was FUBAR, and today the wizards at Other World Computing agreed and told me to return that bad boy for regrooving. It’s the only product of theirs that’s ever failed me, and they’re taking care of bizniz, more power to their Torx wrenches.
I won’t be able to back up my bullshit until they send a replacement, but I expect that the world can get by with only one whiff of my stink for a few days.
Today started and ended well, lightly toasted slices of metaphorical bread comprising an actual shit sandwich.
On arising I recalled that we had a huge slab of meaty Ranch Foods Direct bacon in the fridge, so breakfast included coffee, eggs over easy, American fried potatoes, buttery English muffins and great thick rashers of pigmeat. Your basic heart-attack special, but I like it.
My plans for the workday hinged on breaking a piece of new technology to harness, but despite a hearty breakfast I couldn’t even get my rope on it, much less my brand.
Being something of a persistent cuss — you may call it “obsessive-compulsive,” I call it “persistent” — I kept working at it, trying first this and then that and finally the other, all the while taking copious notes on each fresh dysfunction with an eye toward eventually tattooing same on someone using an icepick and ball-peen hammer, with a sack of wormy dogshit for ink.
Thus the hours passed and the daylight faded, and the technology breezily countered my every move. By late afternoon, which saw the mailperson deliver an overdue check for services rendered that was redeemable for slightly less than half the expected quantity of Dead President Trading Cards, I was at a rolling boil, hissing like a teakettle full of vipers, blistering steam boiling out of both ears.
Herself and I had earlier scheduled a joint birthday dinner with friends, so I stuck my head in the freezer, counted to a thousand in Irish, and off we went to The Blue Star, where the four of us ate all manner of good things while discussing music, metaphysics and literature. Also, we solved every last one of the world’s problems save mine (you’re welcome).
Now I’m hardly pissed off at all. But tomorrow is another day.
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