Month: December 2025

Winter wonderland revisited

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 14 Comments
“Bike lane.” Ho, ho. You can see how much safety that implies by the indifferently tarred seams and that tire scuff on the curb.

With the Ice Capades on pause and my cabin fever in triple digits I found time for a lazy 20-miler yesterday.

Back when I was a man, instead of whatever it is that I am now, I thought nothing of driving for a few hours to race cyclocross for 45 minutes plus one lap in conditions that made the ice planet Hoth look like Epstein Island.

Now I perch like a zopilote on the frozen carcass of my summertime fitness, pecking away at the Weather Underground website until the temperature creeps into the mid-40s.

It finally got there around 11:30 yesterday and I sprang into action, which looks an awful lot like some old bald dude tottering into his bedroom to see if he has any clean winter cycling kit.

Lo and behold, he did — Sugoi tuque, long-sleeve Paddygucci base layer, long-sleeve Gore Bike Wear jersey, full-finger Pearl Izumi gloves, Voler bibs, Pearl Izumi tights, Smartwool socks.

I glanced longingly at my Shimano SH-XM700 GTX clodhoppers with their Gore-Tex liners and Vibram soles. Toasty warm? To be sure. But there is always the chance of shoe-fender conflict when riding a bicycle so equipped, as I intended. Furthermore, your Duck! City driver — unpredictable at any time of year, in all conditions — doubles down on the dumbass on weekends, in poor weather, and during holiday seasons. When rocking the trifecta you want to be able to get out of your pedals faster than a Republican fleeing a primary (or his constituents).

So the beater Sidis it was, and boy, do I ever need a new pair of them. The soles have been ground flat by Dog only knows how many skidding dismounts at speed and long runs up muddy hills. And the Velcro straps are basically ornamental at this point, flapping in the breeze like my tongue at any heart rate over 150 bpm.

This dithering proved bootless (har de har har). Not only did I not need the fenders, I could’ve ridden in Birkenstocks, the way my old pal John “Usuk” O’Neill once did while we climbed Hardscrabble Canyon in Colorado. The roads were free of ice and snow, the only menace to traction being a scattering of white powder, which I assume was the remains of whatever the transpo dudes use to melt that mess. Probably fentanyl seized by the John Laws. Maybe there’s a tariff on road salt. There sure as shit is on Italian bicycle saddles. No, don’t ask.

Anyway, toward the end of the ride, just a few meters east of that bike-lane sign, some northbound asshat in a sporty red auto blew right through the stop sign at the intersection of High Desert and Spain as I approached headed south. Never even touched the brake pedal. An eastbound motorist gave him the horn, and the asshat gave one right back.

I left my Incredibell unrung. Why add my little tinkle to that sonic stream? That’s what blogs are for.

Winter shows its teeth

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 13 Comments
Where my cross-country skis at?

The bad thing about snow is it keeps me indoors, where the news is.

The good thing about snow is it gives me something else to shovel.

We got a couple-three inches of the white stuff here yesterday, about double the official tally at the airport (which is stupid, because I don’t know anybody who lives at the airport).

It started falling overnight. This I know because the Cold Moon reflecting off the accumulation in the back yard blasted me out of a sound sleep around 2 a.m. I howled at it, briefly, then drifted back into a fitful drowse that ended at stupid-thirty, when I had to drag ass out of the sack and shovel the Driveway of Doom for Herself, who had an early appointment with the dentist and a 2WD Honda to get her there.

I got her half of the drive cleared without breaking a hip or throwing out my back, and she navigated the descent without incident, so, winning, etc. Then I went back indoors, microwaved my half-finished second cup of coffee, slammed it, and went back out to shovel my half, as I too had an appointment with the very same dentist, but at a reasonable hour.

Or what would’ve been a reasonable hour, had I not already burned some critical daylight freeing the driveway of Itztlacoliuhqui’s icy booger-snots. There was no time left for my traditional X-rays-and-cleaning breakfast of sardines in mustard sauce sprinkled with chopped anchovies, red onions, and feta, which keeps these visits short and to the point.

So instead, as the hygienist chiseled, scraped, sanded, power-washed, and polished, I was compelled to listen as she prattled on and on — backed by a soundtrack of treacly holiday ditties clearly penned by Satan Himself — about how lovely Herself is and how she was sure someone had made a mistake when listing her birthdate on the paperwork, with nary a word about the striking male beauty of Your Humble Narrator, his wrinkly old Irish-American apple cheeks aglow from an hour’s snow-shoveling in the frosty high-desert air.

Oh, well. At least it wasn’t news. Not to me, anyway.

R.I.P., Steve Cropper

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 9 Comments

Damme if Steve “The Colonel” Cropper wasn’t in my ear from day one.

Booker T. & the MGs. Sam & Dave. Otis Redding. Leon Russell. John Lennon. Wilson Pickett. Levon Helm.

And, of course, the Blues Brothers, with his teenage bandmate Donald “Duck” Dunn, “Blue” Lou Marini, Matt “Guitar” Murphy, Tom “Triple Scale” Scott, Tom “Bones” Malone, Steve Jordan, and all the rest of ’em, including John Belushi and Dan Ackroyd, who could actually play (drums and harp) when they weren’t busy being funny.

Man. The Pearly Gates Bar & Grill has one hell of a house band.

Collateral damage

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 13 Comments
God of War Henery “Pistol Pete” Hegseth (major, National Guard, ret.). Apologies to Chuck Jones/Warner Bros.

When the going gets tough, the tough get going, and God of War Henery “Pistol Pete” Hegseth is no exception.

Left unsatisfied by (and roundly criticized for) sinking small craft in America’s Oceans® — including a double-tap that finished off a couple survivors of one such strike — the retired National Guard major and Faux News foghorn set out after bigger game.

And he may have holed an admiral below the waterline.

Not that he’s taking the credit for that particular kill, mind you.

Writes Stars and Stripes:

“Secretary [Pete] Hegseth authorized Adm. [Frank M.] Bradley to conduct these kinetic strikes. Adm. Bradley worked well within his authority, and the law, directing the engagement to ensure the boat was destroyed and the threat to the United States was eliminated,” White House press secretary Karoline Leavitt said.

The buck stops where? Tell you what, grunt — uh, pardon me, admiral, sir — you don’t want to be on duty when that particular dollar lands in your lap.

Just ask Herbert “Spermwhale” Whalen, a major in the U.S. Air Force Reserve who flew in World War II and Korea before joining the Los Angeles Police Department. Speaking of a superior officer in Joe Wambaugh’s novel “The Choirboys,” the burly street cop observed:

“I always knew he was behind us. I felt him there many times.”

Hello, December. …

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 5 Comments
Not exactly a Jack London hellscape, but still … first snow.

Well, December got right down to business.

So, too, did our Geezer Ride leader, who after checking the weather forecast for today pulled the ripcord on Sunday:

Monday is too wintry for me to ride and Tuesday may not be any better. In fact, we have entered the wintry season, which is too cold to plan bike rides. I don’t plan to send out any more emails until warm weather returns.

So it goes.

Anticipating a rideless Monday I made sure to saddle up yesterday, taking the Soma Double Cross out after lunch for a 90-minute sampler of roads, trails, and sandy washes. Even so, temps in the 40s had me sporting two long-sleeved jerseys, tights over bibs, wool socks, a tuque, and full-fingered gloves.

Only once did I feel slightly overdressed, while gutting it up a long, sandy grade leading to the Indian School trailhead. But then this is why God made zippers.

Right now, at 10 a.m., I’m looking at 36° with a brisk wind out of the northwest. I’ve set out and retrieved our trash and recycling bins, and I think that’s about it for the operation of human-powered wheeled vehicles today.