Category: Automobiles

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.

Monday, Monday. …

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 19 Comments
Splish splash, I wasn’t takin’ no bath. …

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.

Ralph Spoilsport Motors, ‘The World’s Biggest’

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 14 Comments

Say, when did Ralph Spoilsport open a White House dealership?

Man, they really do it in the road at their West Gomorrah location. Let’s just look at the extras on this fabulous car! Wire-wheel spoke fenders, two-way sneeze-through wind vent, star-studded mudguards, sponge-coated edible steering column, chrome fender dents, and factory air-conditioned air from our fully factory-equipped air-conditioned factory. It’s a beautiful car, friend, with doors to match! Birch’s Blacklist says this automobile was stolen, but for you, friends, the complete price, only two-ninety-five hundred dollars, in easy monthly payments of twenty-five dollars a week, twice a week, and never on Sundays. …

Red blanket by the freeway

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 23 Comments
If this looks chilly, it’s because it is.

The weather took a seasonal turn yesterday. The gods knew I’d be dropping the Subie at Reincarnation downtown around 8:30, and they didn’t want me to be too comfortable as I cycled home on the Soma Double Cross.

It wasn’t what I’d call wintry. There was a pretty brisk wind, but hey, this is New Mexico. Wind ain’t blowing when you wake up, you may have died during the night. Anyway, it was pushing me along the North Diversion Channel Trail. So, winning, etc.

I was properly attired, with a light jacket over a long-sleeved jersey and an ancient Hind base layer, bibs and tights, wool socks, full-fingered gloves, and a tuque under my helmet. Kept it all on, too, as the wind became a little less friendly on the Osuna-Bear Canyon trail.

When you start your day with a 65-mph sprint down I-40 to University and then cycle from Mountain and 2nd, up Odelia-Indian School, and along the NDCT from Indian School to Osuna, you see the homeless folks getting their mornings on, if you know where to look.

One dude was camping beyond rough, rolled up like a burrito in a red blanket on a concrete slab off on the north side of I-40. I might not have seen him were it not for that blanket. If he had a shopping cart, a bicycle, or even a bindle, it was pretty well concealed.

As I pedaled up the NDCT a small group was shaking itself awake just off the trail below Montgomery. One guy had a bike; we exchanged waves.

Later, after I was home and warm and full of lunch, Reincarnation rang me up to say my 20-year-old rust-bucket would require a deeper dip into the wallet than I had anticipated, imperiling a considerable slice of what I had until that moment considered disposable income.

I felt sorry for myself, briefly, until I remembered that at least I’d have the Subie to sleep in if everything went south on me all at once. There’s even a locking rack up top for the Double Cross.

Home on the range

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 15 Comments
Where the skies are not cloudy all day (lately, anyway).

On Thursday the lads at Reincarnation had a look at Sue Baroo the Fearsome Furster and told me she required no heroic lifesaving measures at this time. It’s a red-letter day when a geezer on a fixed income with an equally ancient rice grinder can escape a mechanic’s clutches for under a hundy.

Plus I managed 30 cycling miles — 15 after dropping the old gal off downtown and then cycling back home, and another 15 picking her back up. Though the mileage is identical in both directions, the first leg feels the longest, with 1,150 feet of vertical gain. There’s less than 200 feet of vertical on the return trip, most of it in the first mile.

There are still a few hurdles to clear, though. The people whose “home” is the weedy industrial area alongside the North Diversion Channel Trail huddle together in what shade they can find come the heat of the afternoon, usually on the west side of the bicycle path’s underpasses, south of I-25/Pan American.

Like, wow. Like, bow wow, man.
Like, wow. Like, bow wow, man.

Many wear dark clothing and are hard to spot in the shade, if you’re new around here and don’t expect to roll up on a small crowd sprawled in a blind corner. Here’s a guy who looks like the Feral Kid from “Road Warrior,” with a dog instead of a boomerang. There’s a pensive young woman who seems to be revisiting her life choices as the temperature creeps into the mid-90s.

We were all on the same path, but not really. I was riding a bicycle that’s worth more than the car I was going to pick up. I was wearing sunscreen and about half a G’s worth of cycling kit, with an iPhone in one jersey pocket, wallet full of cash, credit cards, and health insurance in another. I knew where I was going to sleep that night, even if the Subie didn’t start (I was riding a bicycle, remember). The place has food, drink, beds, toilets, showers, doors and windows that lock, climate control, and a lid on all of it.

Cycling past the street people I always feel like a tourist gawping at the wildlife in some squalid national park. Possibly because I am one, and always have been, never more so than when I was pretending to be a hippie, hitchhiking, panhandling, and taking all those gosh-darned drugs that were so much fun.

Maybe the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come showed me around one dark night, way back when. Or maybe I just wised up to all that unearned middle-class-white-boy privilege I was wearing like a Superman costume under my hippie garb. Because I never had the balls or the bad luck to take anything that might leave me sprawled under a bridge on a searing August afternoon, as some bastard on a bicycle breezes by.