Category: Bibleburg

Coming up for air

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 33 Comments

Whew. Long week in the old VeloBarrel, helping cover the likes of the Tour of Qatar, for reasons that elude me. I mean, props to anyone putting on a bike race anywhere, but jeez, we’re not exactly talking Paris-Roubaix here. The comedic cyclist-rides-camel pic is right up there with the obligatory Tour de France sunflowers shot as one for the who-gives-a-shit file.

There is other “news,” of course. Alberto Clenbutador is telling anyone who will listen about his innocence and how he will fight until the last dog is dead. Stop the presses, boss, we’ve never heard that one before. Now he’s said to have given up beef, just in case. Better become a Breatharian, ‘Berto old scout; it’s the only way to be sure. And try not to inhale around anyone using an inhaler, burning a fatty, operating a chemical plant, etc., et al., and so on and so forth.

And then there’s Riccardo Riccò, that silly shit. If he really managed to transfuse his dumb ass with some bum blood, then Fabian Cancellara has it exactly right: Send him to the moon. Pow, right in the kisser! One of these days, Riccò, straight to the moon!

Hey, the moon would be an upgrade from this place lately. It’s 6 degrees right now in Bibleburg and we’re looking at a low around zero, 2 degrees, something like that. Plus there’s no Innertubes on the moon, so you don’t have to read about 20-something fuckwits who mistook the ketchup bottle for the blood bag when it came time to gas up for the Tour Med.

Less than zero

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 21 Comments
The folks at NOAA have some chilly news for Bibleburgers.

Great googly-moogly! It’s colder than the ice cubes in Weepy John Boehner’s breakfast martini out there.

The weatherfolk say we may crack zero today. But when I got up we were at minus-8 and we’ve been inching downward ever since. Right now we’re at 10 below zero.

I guess this means the nude sunbathing is right out. Poo.

Blue Monday

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 12 Comments
Bare trees, a la Fleetwood Mac
There's a big-ass mountain behind there somewhere. We know it's there. We just can't see it.

Nope, not so much. January hits the door running, taking our blue skies with it — so this Monday, what we have is gray with a side of snow.

Oh, well. Mondays are supposed to suck, right? And it ain’t like there isn’t any work that needs doing. I wrapped up my review of the Voodoo Nakisi for Adventure Cyclist magazine — look for it in the April edition, I believe — and more bikes are en route to the Caramillo Street Beacon of the Revolution Bicycle Examination Collective & Proving Ground as we speak, including a Soma Saga and a Raleigh Port Townsend.

But before they get here and the fun stuff resumes, VeloNews needs a cartoon, Bicycle Retailer wants ’toons and columns, and VeloNews.com has requested the honor of my presence in the virtual barrel a few extra days in February while Management attends the Tour of Qatar.

And given the weather, it looks like the only bike I’ll be examining is the one bolted to the Cateye CS-1000 in the office.

So, yeah. Monday. There’s always a little blue in there if you know where to look. A professional can always find that dark cloud surrounding the silver lining.

Speaking of dark clouds, check out Paul Kimmage’s interview with Floyd Landis, posted at nyvelocity.com. Good read, but a sad story. Makes a guy feel like a low-level mafioso for writing up pro bike races for fun and profit.

The new old normal

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 4 Comments
Racing back to the ranch.
I shot this at sunset out of the driver's-side window. Kids, don't try this at home. Or in your car.

We’re back on track here in Dog Country. The most pressing deadlines have been met, a weekend in the VeloBarrel logged, and the exercise regimen has resumed after a stretch of too many miles behind the wheel and too few in the saddle.

Naturally, the weather had gone to hell during my absence — snow on the roads and ice on the trails had me second-guessing my decision to skip a stop at McDowell Mountain Regional Park outside Fountain Hills, Arizona, on the way home from California.

Oh, well. I’d probably have logged about one decent trail ride and then spent the remainder of my desert sojourn frantically cranking out the word count in some wired java shop, half asleep from trying and failing to nod out on the ground in the old Eureka two-man. That first day of camping is always the worst.

And anyway, the credit card was beginning to pulse and glow in my wallet; wisps of smoke periodically leaked from my hip pocket and I thought it might be wise to take it home, air it out a bit, let it heal.

So, yeah. I celebrated homecoming with a splashy run through the goo on Friday, rode for an hour on Saturday, then for 90 minutes on Sunday, and today — well, today was one of those days that makes me wonder why I don’t live someplace where the weather is a tad less psychotic.

It was sprinkling early on, so Herself and I bundled up for a short run. This seemed wise until about 30 minutes in, when the sun popped out and we both started shedding layers like snakes with leprosy. I was sweating like old dynamite and jogging along with a rain jacket in one hand and my hat in the other, gloves having been stuffed down the tights I wished I had left at home.

The sun being out, I considered a ride, but a squint in the ’fridge disabused me of that notion. It was back in the Subaru and off to the Whole Paycheck, where I tallied a personal best — $258, most of it basics rather than larks’ tongues, wrens’ livers or jaguars’ earlobes.

Like I said, we’re back on track here. Can y’smell what the Dog is cookin’?