Author: Patrick O'Grady

After decades with his scabby little nose pressed to various grindstones of journalism, Patrick O'Grady came away with plenty of mental scar tissue, a good deal less hair to cover it, and an undiminished appreciation for three subsets of the craft: drawing cartoons, writing commentary, and composing headlines. All three are short, punchy attention-getters, the literary equivalent of yelling, "Hey, look at me!" before hanging a moon out the school-bus window, and thus own a natural appeal for an overgrown class clown with the attention span of a rat terrier raised on angel dust and bong water. And thanks to the Internet, the best thing to happen to journalism since the invention of movable type, he gets to do all three of them without having to go to work at a newspaper, where management has slowly devolved into a button-down mutant hybrid of the worst aspects of the Spanish Inquisition, the dental bits in "Marathon Man" and the DMV of your choice. He and his wife, the long-suffering Shannon, share an adobe hacienda in The Duck! City with their cat, Miss Mia Sopaipilla.

Call of the not-so-wild

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 14 Comments
A dog and his desert, a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away. Photo: Peggy Sax
A dog and his desert, a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away. Photo: Peggy Sax

One week ago I’m in sunny Tombstone, Arizona, getting set to enjoy the final leg of the Adventure Cycling Association‘s Southern Arizona Road Adventure, an easy 23-mile spin into Benson. The high will be 64 degrees, and there will be a light tailwind for most of the ride.

Today I’m marking my 56th birthday in gray, frigid Bibleburg. There is snow on the ground and more on the way. The high is expected to approach 42, with a north-northwest wind of 30-35 mph augmented by the occasional 45-mph gust.

Some years back I began mimicking the practice of John Wilcockson of VeloNews, who rides his age on his birthday. But not even Jack London would tackle a 56-mile ride in this crap, unless he were Belgian, in which case we’d have had to read “The Call of the Wild” in Flemish (“Argle bargle Buck schmecka lecka John Thornton.”). No, thank you.

So instead I’ll do 56 minutes on the trainer. That’s almost the same, right? Riiiight.

You say it’s your birthday?

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 5 Comments
Coming soon to a post-office wall near you.
Coming soon to a post-office wall near you.

A bunch of us enjoyed a mass birthday celebration in Weirdcliffe last night. Herself, as has been recounted elsewhere, turned (ahem) 29 on the 12th. Our burro-racing buddy, Hal, hit the half-century mark yesterday. And tomorrow I will have achieved a venerable 56, like a finely aged cheddar, only smellier and less tasty.

As befits our advanced ages, we gummed down a little oatmeal, did a few shots of Geritol and called it a night around 9 (that’s a.m., not p.m.).

So here’s a tip of the Mad Dog sombrero to Peter for all the Mexican cookery, to Pueblo’s Hopscotch Bakery for the delicious cupcakes and to the Crusty County Sheriff’s Department, which graciously turned a blind eye to the drunken shenanigans in their bailiwick.

Snow fun

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 5 Comments
Six inches of snow — and since I'm male, you just know that looks like a foot to me.
Six inches of snow — and since I'm male, you just know that looks like a foot to me.

Well, there you have it — six inches of the chilly white stuff. We got bupkis all winter long, but as soon as spring arrives it’s time to break out the rubber boots and snow shovel. The Lord works in mysterious ways and has a twisted sense of humor to boot. Consider the platypus, for instance.

The forecast is for more of the same and then sunny on Thursday. Then we’re right back in the icehouse through Saturday before the sun returns — just in time for me to clock in at VeloNews.com on Sunday.

Meanwhile, we’re looking at highs in the 70s for Tucson and Fountain Hills. I haven’t unpacked my camping gear yet — if I can just get over Raton Pass with the rubber side down I bet you I can be in one place or the other in under 24 hours.

Birthday blues (with a white overlay)

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 10 Comments
That snow up there will start marching down the hill here shortly.
That snow up there will start marching down the hill here shortly.

The snow won’t be limited to Pikes Peak much longer, according to the weatherman — we’re supposed to get another heaping helping of winter here in Bibleburg either tonight or tomorrow.

The festivities are supposed to commence this afternoon with rain, then segue into wind and snow tonight and tomorrow, just in time to FUBAR our plans for a shared birthday celebration in Crusty County on Thursday with our friends Hal and Mary.

Herself turned 49 on March 12, Hal hits the half-century mark on Thursday and I will be 56 on Saturday. The plan was to meet up in their neck of the high-country woods on Thursday for food and drink, but we may wind up eating snow cones down here in the flatlands.

• Late update: Well, the weatherman was right, damn it. Looks like we’ve got maybe three inches already at 8:30 p.m. local time. If this is spring, you can have it. Instead of riding my bike I’m gonna be shoveling snow, cooking posole and serving as a heating pad for cats. Feh.

Home again, home again

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 3 Comments
Turkish shows his delight at my return ("Ho, hum, were you gone? I didn't notice.")
Turkish shows his delight at my return ("Ho, hum, were you gone? I didn't notice.")

Agh. Reality rears its ugly head once again. I am no longer a snowbird but a jailbird, locked in a cell of my own making, which is to say I’m back at work for VeloNews.com, posting stories about cycling instead of cycling my own bad self. Oh, the humanity.

Ten Thousand Waves was a treat as always, and I wished that I could have spent ten thousand years there, but without money there are no vacations and without work there is no money, so there you have it. But it’s a rude awakening nonetheless.

Turkish — a.k.a. The Turkinator, Turkenstein, Big Pussy, Mighty Whitey, et al. — was confused and displeased by my sudden reappearance at dinnertime and took a while to reacquaint himself with the luxury of the Large Irish Lap. Which, I might add, is a little less luxurious after 240 miles of roadwork — I’m down to 172.5 pounds, which for me is positively svelte. I bet it only takes me a trip and a half to haul ass now.

Miss Mia Sopaipilla, clearly smarter and braver than her big brother, instantly remembered who I was and marched right up to me for an ear rub while Turk’ pussyfooted around with a look of distrust on his whiskered mug. But eventually he came around and I was able to scratch his big shovel-shaped head without losing a finger.

Naturally, Herself recognized me straight away as the profligate swine who has been causing the Visa card to smoke like a poorly tuned diesel for the past couple of weeks. But she forgave me and even cracked a bottle of The Prisoner to celebrate my return. That rascal will rattle your cage at 15.2 percent alcohol by volume.

And so will clocking in at the old license-plate factory after 12 days on the road. Hey, screw, call my lawyer! I don’t belong in here … I’m innocent, I tell ya!