A workin’ man finally clocks out. During one drink-and-drug-soaked road trip I played one of his “greatest hits” tapes so often that my copilot yanked it out of the deck and threw it out the window.
I let him live. I didn’t want to turn 21 in prison doing life without parole. ‘Cause Mama tried.
Well, I didn’t manage 62 miles on my birthday. Nor did I ride 62 kilometers.
How’s 62 minutes sound to you?
Yeah, sounds that way to me, too.
But this morning I managed a run that lasted exactly half that time, and I reckon that’s the equivalent of 62 minutes on the bike. So I got that going for me, which is nice.
It wasn’t an entirely unproductive birthday. My burro-racing pal Hal Walter has expressed interest in doing a podcast, so I broke out all the old hardware and software and gave myself a refresher course in Podcasting 101.
Everything still works — though what Apple has done to GarageBand while I was otherwise occupied is matched only by what they’ve done to iMovie — and we may do a short test run tomorrow, if time, Skype and Call Recorder permit.
If we actually manage to slap something together, I’ll give you the 411 on the sumbitch. Expect it to be heavy on the works of Jim Harrison.
Damn. I go flying past 62 only to hear that Jim Harrison hit the binders at 78.
My burro-racing pal Hal Walter and I have been Harrison fans for years. Hal especially, since he’s an outdoorsman, as was Harrison; me, I just like to be outdoors, to no particular purpose.
We caught a Harrison reading once at The Colorado College — weird thing is, it was right around my birthday, if not on the actual day itself — and I recall Mr. Harrison being less than pleased with the book I asked him to autograph. Seems “Warlock” was never one of his faves.
I liked it, though, along with other tales: “The Man Who Gave Up His Name,” “Sundog,” “Wolf,” the “Brown Dog” stories and of course “Legends of the Fall.” His essay collection “Just Before Dark” is a keeper, too, as his collection of poetic correspondence with Ted Kooser, “Braided Creek.”
He’ll be missed, and not just by Hal and me. Bon voyage, Jim. Thanks for the tales, and for that autograph.
“Every minute I stay in this room, I get weaker, and every minute Charlie squats in the bush, he gets stronger.”
Maybe. Especially if the bush is in a sunny window. It’s nearly noon, and all of three degrees above freezing, and the weather wizards say that’s about as good as it’s gonna get around here until sometime in 2016, when we could be looking at 45 and sunny.
The horror … the horror. …
Still, a man must ride. The world is full of bicycle reviews and deadlines, and never the twain shall meet if a man doesn’t ride.
And after the riding there shall be the cooking and the eating of the tinga poblana, a recipe I found when I was purging my collection in the process of searching for something I hadn’t prepared yet.
And after the eating there shall be … resolutions? Naw. I’d like to ride more in 2016, maybe (gasp) do some more self-supported touring, and toward that end I’m throttling back on the workload a bit, discarding the most irksome of my chores like unused recipes. That’s about it from this end.
How about you folks? Any big plans for the New Year? Sound off in comments.
The fine folks at Voler are beavering away at our little Old Guys Who Get Fat In Winter jersey project.
The original artwork for versions 1 and 2 has been unearthed, some minor alterations in design are being made, and before you can say, “No, really, honey, this is every bit as important as a donation to Habitat for Humanity, Greenpeace or Doctors Without Borders,” an online store will be up and running.
And shortly thereafter I will be doing my best Scrooge McDuck imitation, rolling around in my private vault piled high with greenbacks.
Well, you’ll have some jerseys, anyway. The vault project may take a little more time to get up and running.
