Not all of the fallen are found on the battlefield.
Some don’t turn up until later.
Less of both sorts, please.
Toward that end, what say we give our men and women in uniform better civilian leadership? It’s not much to ask of those of us here in the rear with the gear where there is no fear.
I don’t know what possessed me.
Actually, I do.
Herself joined me for a ride on Friday, her first of 2025. We covered a moderate distance at a leisurely pace. The idea was for her to ease back into the activity while we looked for Gambel’s quail in the foothills. Not to eat. Just to see.
Both missions were accomplished. The high point was a pair of quail leading a dozen or so thumb-sized chicks through the scrub.
Back at the ranch, I glanced at Herself’s dusty, cobwebbed old Barracuda A2T mountain bike, slouched on two flats in a corner of the garage.
It’s so old I can’t remember just when I acquired it. But I remember where. Durango, during some long-ago Iron Horse Bicycle Classic, possibly the 1995 edition. So, exactly 30 years ago.
That would’ve been the year that Barracuda was sold to Ross Bicycles — you can read more about the company’s history here — and was blowing out Taiwan-built Tange Ultimate frames for $75 a pop during the Iron Horse.
“Why not?” I thought, being a cash-strapped freelancer trying to make his mark in Bibleburg. So I snatched one up and Old Town Bike Shop built it for me with some stuff I had on hand and a few bits I had to buy. (Sound familiar?)
There’s an anonymous RockShox elastomer fork, Deore V-brakes and levers, Crank Bros. Candy pedals, STX triple crank and rear derailleur with XT front, GripShift twist-shifters, Avenir stem and Zoom bar, and a mismatched wheelset — Mavic 230 SBP rim and anonymous hub (front) and Araya TM18 rim with Parallax hub (rear). A Terry saddle perches atop some ugly-ass no-name seat post.
And that was the high point of the 1995 Iron Horse for me. I had a shit road race, pulling a hamstring on Coal Bank Pass while leading a chase group and still facing the ascent of Molas Pass plus a snowy, wet descent into Silverton — “Worst time I’ve ever had at Iron Horse,” as I wrote in my training log — and spent the rest of the holiday weekend limping around Durango, covering the Roostmaster and the cross-country MTB race for VeloNews.
So, for the 30th anniversary of all that, I replaced the tubes in the Barracuda’s tires, checked the shifting, and took ’er for a spin round the cul-de-sac to see if everything worked.
It did. Including the hamstring.
Famous sperm donor Elon Muskhat is returning to fucking up his companies instead of fucking up the government, according to The Atlantic.
And not a moment too soon.
Nobody is compelled to deal with this asshole’s companies. But it’s kind of hard to avoid dealing with the government. It’s always telling you where you can’t hike, or fucking poor people while blowing the Pentagon, or shipping your neighbors off to the Sheik of Yerbouti for challenging new careers as rare-earth miners and/or sexytime playthings.
He’s got his own town in Texas, I hear. Let him fuck that place up for a while.
The Wicked Witch of the White House thinks Beelzebozo can chant “Habeas corpus!” and make people disappear.
Uh, no.
If I were the secretary of homeland security and I couldn’t even secure my purse at a burger joint, I might keep my pancaked, plumped-up piehole shut for a spell.
I hope Sen. Maggie Hassan was wearing gloves when she handed this bimbo’s ass to her. Oz only knows what she’s been up to with those flying monkeys.
It’s been one of those Mondays.
Monday is a watering day. But the forecast called for rain, so early this morning I went out to shut off the irrigation system.
“Huh,” I thought. “Doesn’t look like rain to me.” So I left it on.
Monday is also Geezer Ride Day. So, naturally about the time the watering was done, the clouds started creeping in and the wind began ramping up.
“Huh,” I thought. “Better bail on the ride.” Which I did.
Monday is not Grocery Day. That would be Sunday. But I blew off Sunday’s grocery shopping for a two-hour bike ride in the wind plus a meet-and-greet with the mayor and a few dozen of his supporters.
So suddenly Monday was Grocery Day. And off I toddled to the Sprouts at Tramway and Central, en route nearly getting croaked by a street racer who roared up behind me in the right lane, then shot into the left and around me, barely missing both me and the dude slightly ahead of me in the left lane.
He then swerved onto the shoulder to pass everyone else in sight at about 25 mph over the 50-mph limit, which encouraged another jackass to do likewise, scattering dust, gravel, and debris from previous eejit-triggered crashes across the traffic lanes.
It happened so fast, in so much traffic, that I couldn’t grab the iPhone for a shot of either license plate. And it wasn’t the first time I’d wished I had some other sort of shooter with a tad more authority, like a Browning Hi-Power or a Colt 1911. I mean, you can’t AirDrop one or both of the silly sonsabitches.
Anyway, I got to the grocery without being killed to death, and only then did I notice that I’d left my grocery list at home.
“Huh,” I thought. “Maybe I can do it off the old internal hard drive.”
And I did! Didn’t miss a single item, and even picked up a bonus packet of ground turkey for a chili con carne in case the weather turned ugly.
Which of course it did, since I’d decided earlier to water the lawn. Our widget makes it 0.08 inch of precip slashing down sideways out of the north, and I expect that statistic does not include the hail.
“Huh,” I thought. “I suppose a run is out.” Which it was.
So instead of running, since a few of you seemed to enjoy our little Tour of Memory Lane, I decided to spend a couple hours collecting and posting PDFs of a few of my Adventure Cyclist reviews.
Naturally, I couldn’t find the one about the Rivendell Sam Hillborne, the bike I was riding in yesterday’s wind-fest (13 mph with gusts to 23). If I recall correctly, that one didn’t make the print magazine, but was posted to the Adventure Cyclist blog, where it languishes behind the membership paywall.
“Huh,” I thought. “I bet I have my original copy on another Mac.” And I do.
But I’m not gonna post it. Not yet. I got chili to cook.
Mad Blog Media 