Does a moral handicap count when it comes to reserved parking? Asking for a friend.
I had time to sneak in a quick ride around the Elena Gallegos Open Space on Friday before motoring off to the Sunport to collect Herself, who was inbound from Tennessee after spending a week helping her sisters give bro-in-law Bill “Wild Man” White a proper sendoff to The Source.
And now things are more or less back to what passes for normal in these parts, if you overlook the rain. “Normal” precip’ for September is 1:15 inch; we’ve already gotten 3.12 inches and the month ain’t even over yet.
Mind you, I’m not complaining; just observing.
Anyway, the deluge made a pedestrian of me for three days last week and two this week. I got carried away and put fenders on the Soma Double Cross, which was both unnecessary (I had three fendered bikes already) and unsmart (the short wheelbase means some serious and unwelcome toe-fender overlap).
So that poor decision will get reversed directly and the DC will once again sport some bare-ass 42mm Soma Cazadero knobbies, which are better suited to riding trails, especially now that they’ve been guttered all to shitaree.
There’s more time for this sort of aimless wankery in the mornings these days because the sun doesn’t show its face above the Sandias until around 8:30 and it won’t be much longer before I greet it wearing pants instead of shorts.
The sliding glass doors remain closed until sunrise because our friendly neighborhood bear is back. We finally caught him on our trail cam at 3:08 a.m. on the 22nd, dropping a deuce by the butterfly bush.
This may be retribution for my bringing the bird feeders in at night and storing garbage in the garage until pickup day. If we won’t be his restaurant we will be his restroom.
The skunk is likewise back, rooting around in the yard for tasty morsels. So is the Cooper’s hawk. As for the hummingbirds, they’ve never left. It still looks like the Battle of Britain out there every time we refresh their feeders.
And Miss Mia Sopaipilla has found herself a new sweet spot for naptime — a scattering of fluffy bits and bedding that we’re calling The Pile. Just the place to sleep off a medium-heavy breakfast, treats, and thyroid medicine.
Sure beats watching His Excremency King Piggy the Sticky-fingered waddling along the red carpet alongside the Red Menace, who looked as thrilled to be there as an OYO Rooms C-suiter tallying pecker tracks on the hot sheets at a Motel 6 in Chlamydia, Nevada.
“No, I don’t care to see your ‘ballroom.’ I can smell them from here.”
