A bowl, empty

February 9, 2026 ~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 13 Comments

This bowl would be super with some soup in it.

I’m not very interested in my opinion of football.*

A scrawny child, I clearly wasn’t cut out for the game, and never really paid it any mind growing up. That I chose competitive swimming as my sport at age 8 should tell you much. It certainly told my dad a thing or two.

Swimming was a great sport for a bookish kid who mostly lived for the undiscovered country in his head. Especially the distance events. Back and forth I’d glide between flip turns, undisturbed by cheering spectators (our meets never drew much of a crowd, and what you hear in the pool is mostly a dull rumble) or the jeering of teammates (that would come in the locker room, after the meet).

Frankly, the whole attraction of sports — especially the stick-and/or-ball variety — eluded me. Just one more opportunity for public failure and vituperation. I had school for that; a new one every couple of years. I liked being outdoors doing things, but bristled at structure and governance.

I just wanted to, y’know, like, do shit, an’ shit.

Swimming in its individual aspect was basic. “Swim fast.” That about covers it. The sportiest components were the relay events, medley and freestyle. Teamwork was very much in play there. If one guy screwed the pooch, three others had to unfuck that mutt. Lots of shrinkage in the ol’ Speedo if you were swimming the anchor leg and starting a handful of seconds down.

Too much pressure for The Kid. I just wanted to go back up into my head and play with my toys. And after 10 years in the pool I did exactly that, after a half-hearted attempt to make the swim team at Adams State College in my first quarter there.

I’d discovered drugs and alcohol in high school, and turned out they had them in college, too. Even better, my parents were back in Bibleburg, where I couldn’t hear them asking why I was growing all that hair, digging Jimi at top volume (“Actin’ funny and I don’t know why. …”) and quitting the swim team after we went 11-0 in the South Central League in 1969-70 (coach didn’t like all that hair either, and I didn’t like coach trying to repo my varsity letter).

I did eventually get into sports, obviously. Bicycling was my gateway drug. I started cycling to lose weight, tackled the occasional century, and began watching what little of the Tour de France I could find on American TV. Eventually I entered a time trial, just to see what would happen, and the bug bit. To coin a phrase, I was off to the races.

When I quit newspapering to freelance for bicycle magazines I described it as a marriage of profession and passion. And I watched the marquee events the way my countrymen watched football, only with less frequency and considerably more difficulty. American TV didn’t cover bike racing the way it covered football — it was strictly soft-focus, personality-driven, 30-seconds-of-action fluff, centered on the Tour, with a soundtrack nobody could dance to, especially in cleats.

Some years later a cyclocross promoter once gave me a pirated videotape of a World Cup race that had been converted from PAL to NTSC so we Yanks could get in on the fun. It was like watching cyclocross underwater, through swim goggles, on acid. Dieter Runkel was pioneering top-mounted brake levers. John Tesh was conspicuous by his absence. I watched it over and over and over again.

But over the decades it got to be too much of a good thing to stay good. Everything I did to earn a living — reporting, writing, editing, cartooning, website maintenance, live updates — had something to do with bicycling. And I burned a lot of daylight doing those things instead of doing the actual bicycling. I quit racing, skipped group rides, and finally lost all interest in watching the races. Does a line cook watch cooking shows on his days off?

I knew bicycling was a business. One of the magazines I worked for covered the business of bicycling. After the Pharmstrong years anybody who didn’t know pro cycling was a business would definitely flunk a dope test. But it was starting to feel like bicycling was giving me the business.

In the end, I got my own dope-slap from the invisible hand of the market. The vulture capitalists swooped down and did what buzzards do — eat and shit, eat and shit — and as my earning opportunities dwindled my love for cycling rekindled. I quit watching, and got back to doing.

First to go was pro cycling. Leave that noise to The Wall Street Journal, I thought. Or The Lancet. And maybe Interpol.

Now I can’t remember the last Tour I watched. So you can bet the farm that I didn’t watch the Super Bowl yesterday. I don’t have any idea who won — hell, I don’t even know who played.

Herself tells me that the MVP was someone name of “Bad Bunny.” Bugs I know, but he played baseball and raced cross country, dabbled in bullfighting, even boxed a bit.

“Bad Bunny?” Jesus. And they call football a “sport?” At least pro cycling had Cannibals and Badgers.

* Hat tip to Jim Harrison, who was speaking of Boston in his book, “Wolf: A False Memoir.”

Riding the storm out

January 10, 2026January 10, 2026 ~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 18 Comments

Purple Haze, all in my brain … lately things just don’t seem the same. …

Ridin’ the storm out, waitin’ for the thaw-out
On a full-moon night in the Rocky Mountain winter
My wine bottle’s low, watching for the snow
I’ve been thinking lately of what I’m missing in the city — Gary Richrath, REO Speedwagon

Rolling out of bed this morning after dreaming of bicycles I fell right into the old spin cycle, rolling down Memory Lane.

While inhaling my first cuppa I browsed over to Rivendell where Grant Petersen was musing about a well-used Centurion Accordo he saw recently, parked at a BART station. He made it for a 1985 model, priced in the low-$300s, which set me to recalling my own Centurion, the bike that put me back in the game in 1984.

Mine was a $320 Le Mans 12, red and silver, at 60cm just a skosh too tall for me. Didn’t care. I was an old Schwinn guy trying to quit smoking cigarettes and snorting cocaine, dial back my gargling of the tonsil polish, and in the process maybe shed a few elbees. I weighed 184 at the time, and sometimes — depending upon how many bumps and beers I’d had the night(s) before — it felt more like kilos than pounds.

I was already swimming laps in the overwarm pool at the Pueblo YMCA, and lifting weights. But the scenery never changes in the pool or the gym. So getting back on the bike seemed just the ticket.

And it was! It just took more than one bike, and more than a few years.

• • •

Moving on from Centurions (and their resemblance to his own A. Homer Hilsens) Grant went on to extol the virtues of SunTour components, in particular the Cyclone group, which did battle with the more expensive Shimano 600 group. He writes:

Shimano’s derailers were fine, too, but [in terms of] purely beauty and strength and value, nothing could beat SunTour’s Cyclone derailers. SunTour’s Cyclone went head to head against Shimano 600 (later, Ultegra) and I remember Bridgestone engineers explaining to me in great detail how much better it was … metallurgically, polish, design, and value (it sold for about 20 percent less than Shimano 600). That was SunTour’s strategy to fight Shimano’s better indexing, but partly because the Cyclone stuff was cheaper, people thought it was worse.

Well, wouldn’t you know it? My next bike, a 1985 Trek 560, was equipped with SunTour New Cyclone-S, and I certainly didn’t think it was worse than whatever was on that old Centurion. Sleek and smooth, or so it seemed to me. As for the frameset, its main triangle was double-butted Reynolds 501, the stays True Temper cro-mo, and the fork Tange Mangalloy CCL. This was the bike that got me riding centuries and, eventually, racing.

Racing was good. I wasn’t, but trying to be helped me keep my nose clean (har de har har). And instead of pissing away money on expensive and illegal drugs, I pissed it away on equally expensive but completely legal bicycles and related gear, apparel, and aftermarket “upgrades.”

Like everyone else I left steel, SunTour, and friction shifting behind for aluminum, carbon, and Shimano STI. The old Trek was demoted to a bad-weather/wind-trainer bike, and eventually went away altogether, drifting off the back as technology drove relentlessly forward, Your Humble Narrator clinging to the wheel.

But the Great Wheel also spins, and I eventually found my way back to the idea of that bike.

• • •

We got a bit of winter this week that kept me off the saddle and in something of a mood. Trying to fill the frosty void I spent a little time swapping handlebars on my red Steelman Eurocross. I’d been muttering about getting rid of its deep-drop, long-reach Deda 215 road bar for a while, and with an assist from Old Man Winter I finally got ’er done, swapping it out for a Soma Hwy One bar just like the one on my other Eurocross.

Big Red with its new bar (Cinelli cork bar tape not included).

The red Steelman, like my old Trek, is a blend of Reynolds and True Temper. No classy SunTour jewelry, alas; just clunky, scuffed Shimano ST-R500 Flight Deck brifters running Shimano 600/Ultegra derailleurs and Spooky cantis. I thought, briefly, about going to bar-end shifters, maybe nine-speed; new cassette with more teefers on the fat side, new rear derailleur, new chain, new brake levers and … and maybe not.

Frankly, it felt just a little bit too much like work. Skill set and personal preference dictate that I ride these things rather than wrench on them. Maybe some other time, on some other bleakly cold snow day.

And I couldn’t have gone back to downtube shifters even if I wanted to. There’s a set in the garage, awaiting the callup, but the Eurocross routes its cables along the top tube. No shifter bosses on the downtube. Maybe some bridges are better off burned.

Garbage miles

December 11, 2025 ~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 18 Comments

The ever-readable Mike Ferrentino has a meditation on “garbage miles” in his “Beggars Would Ride” column over at NSMB.com.

No spoilers. Pop over and have a squint. I will say only that his thoughts on the topic have evolved over the decades, because he is mos def one of the higher primates.

This photo was taken three days before my 36th birthday. I was single, I had a job, and yes, that is a ponytail you see peeking out of the back of my helmet.
*Photo by Larry Beckner | The New Mexican*

I first encountered the concept of garbage miles back in the Eighties, while racing bikes out of Fanta Se. Logging a ton of miles I was, and getting ruthlessly flogged on race day by people doing half my weekly average, or less.

“The fuck?” I inquired.

“Too many junk miles,” they replied.

Junk miles, garbage miles, all samey same. Unfocused and thus unworthy. Or so they said, the rotten, podium-hogging sonsabitches.

But not me. Because whenever I was in the saddle spinning I was not parked at the The New Mexican‘s copy desk, where I had to log many junk miles indeed to underwrite my cycling habit. Many, many of them.

At least the bike miles, like crucifixion, got me out in the open air.

Once we moved to Bibleburg in fall 1991 I kept it up. The Sept. 15 entry in my training journal after a 157.5-mile week was: “A few respectable miles. Nice to not work — nothing like a job for fucking up your training.”

The fabled 115 ride from B-burg to Penrose and back, circa 1995 or thereabouts.

“Training,” he calls it. This is the hee, and also the haw. Oh, I was riding on road and off, first with Rainbow Racing, then later with the Mad Dogs. And I was running regularly, even doing a little inline skating and snowshoeing because I was freelancing pieces to a sports-and-fitness outfit in Boulder between my chores for VeloNews (see, I was actually trying to work and earn, kinda, sorta).

But at my first few Colorado cyclocrosses I was either OTB or DFL, eventually settling into a fairly reliable fourth-place kind of fella, out of the money yet very much in the way. Seventh of 11 finishers at the state championships at Chatfield State Park that year, after which I called it a season.

Too many junk miles. Garbage miles. Whatevs.

Oh, I got better. Or maybe they got worse, as one of the fast guys mused in my presence after I finally managed to finish a race in front of him. In any case, by the mid-Nineties I could podium at a ’cross every now and then, even win, rarely, if the weather got truly evil and the fast guys stayed home.

This could’ve been because I actually trained for cyclocross, which by this time was the only cycling discipline I really cared about.

I worked on technique, ran a ton to counter my lack of snap in the saddle, and even built my own course at altitude (at the base of our 43-acre plot at 8,800 feet outside Weirdcliffe in CrustyTucky).

During the seven years we lived there I rode a ’cross bike just about everywhere, because pavement was miles away and when I finally got to it I didn’t want to be herding the old mountain bike with its 26-inch knobbies and boingy fork. Though I missed its 24-tooth granny ring while cursing my way up the long dirt mile back to the house, 430 feet up from the washboarded county road.

Not a lot of junk miles in CrustyTucky.

In those years I logged my junk miles behind the wheel of a Toyota pickup, with my bikes in the bed. Our Mad Dog cyclocrosses were in B-burg, a 150-mile round trip from home base. The bulk of the state race series meant an even longer slog up the Front Strange, to Littleton, Denver, Franktown, Boulder, Mead, and Fort Collins. The weather was frequently wintry, masters were always first to race, and more than once to make the start I had to hit town the day before, overnighting in some low-rent motel.

Talk about your junk miles.

After a few years of that my training logs crumbled into random entries followed by none at all. It was starting to feel a whole lot like work — which was also suffering in part because the cycling community in CrustyTucky consisted of me, myself and I. It felt like being sentenced to Stationary Trainer Without Parole. I was taking all the pulls and yet going nowhere. In terms of fiscal and mental health it seemed prudent to seek out a few voices that weren’t coming from inside my head.

Dennis the Menace and Dr. Schenkenstein take the long view atop Bear Creek East, a once-active cyclo-cross venue.

In those first years back in Bibleburg I had a good crew. Quite a few of the Mad Dogs owned the clocks we punched and could rearrange at least one business day a week to log junk miles and devise solutions to the various crises facing the world (you’re welcome). Big Bill “Shut Up and Ride” McBeef and his bro Other Bill. Usuk and The Geek. Dr. Schenkstein and Dennis the Menace. The Old Town Bike Shop crew. And the rest of you lot; you know who you are. So in 2002 we went back there.

Took me right back to my riding roots it did. I no longer felt as though everything was uphill and into the wind in all directions. A couple years later I quit racing because I didn’t need it anymore. I had my junk miles. Garbage miles. Whatevs.

Some dogs just gotta tip over that trash can.

R.I.P., Samuel Abt

July 13, 2025July 13, 2025 ~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 25 Comments

One of the many books Sam Abt wrote about his summer vacations.

The great Sam Abt is finally done following the Tour de France. He went west this week at age 91.

I never met Sam, much less worked with him. He was an editor at The New York Times and the International Herald Tribune, a real chain-smoking pro who worked on the Pentagon Papers and other top-shelf stories and covered the Tour de France — in his spare time — because he loved it. I was a editor at a series of lesser papers who read Sam at work (if the paper subscribed to the NYT wire service) and rode bicycles in my spare time because I loved it.

But my friends Charles Pelkey and Andrew Hood knew and worked with Sam, as did James Startt, who has a fond remembrance of him over at Velo.

Writes James:

Simply put, his writing was exceptional. It was at once efficient, witty, insightful and at times downright transcendent. Oh, and his fans went well beyond the press room, as at least one head of state would call him during the Tour to get his take on the race.
All of this from a chain-smoking reporter who never really rode a bike. But he knew the sport like few others did.

Sam was covering Le Tour in those dark days when an American fan had to settle for a soupçon of “Wide World of Sports” coverage, a couple grafs from The Associated Press in your local paper’s sports section (if you were lucky), and Winning: Bicycle Racing Illustrated, which would hit your mailbox about three months after the race was done and dusted.

When VeloNews moved to Boulder in the late Eighties I latched onto the back of that breakaway and hung on for dear life, doing what I’d always done for newspapers — cartooning, writing and editing. I even helped cover a few Tours, from a distance, as an editor. The magazine offered to send me abroad a time or two, but I always declined, thinking I could get more done at home.

But that meant I never got to meet one of the titans of the Tour. Not a racer — I met more than a few of those folks — but Sam, who fed the monkey for all us bike-racing junkies.

As Hoody put it:

Abt was a mentor and inspiration for a generation of English-language journalists who later came to cover a once-exotic sport that’s since gone global.

Peace to Sam, his family and friends, and to his many, many devoted readers.

• Addendum: Here’s the NYT obit.

Psychlocross

November 4, 2024 ~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 10 Comments

A wee dose of winter in the backyard, just in time for Election Day.

My brother geezers were already abandoning the Monday ride on Sunday. Cold, wet, no thank you, please, etc.

I bailed too, mostly because I’m taking antibiotics and steroids to beat down a sinus infection, but also because I had my fill of cold and wet in the Before-Time™, when I fancied myself a cyclocross racer.

My interest in the activity started to flag after a few years living on our wind-whipped rockpile outside of Weirdcliffe, in Crustytucky County, Colo. (“Gateway to Gardner”).

I actually had some of my best races while we lived there, because I was living at 8,800 feet and training even higher, running a ton, riding a ’cross bike almost exclusively on the indifferently maintained and largely unpaved roads, and doing laps on my own short homemade course.

But evil weather was both my strength and my undoing. I needed a course with lots of running to have a chance against the roadies, who are like cowboys, reluctant to dismount from their steeds and proceed on foot. So, yeah: rain, mud, snow, anything to suck a few mph out of those tree-legged, leather-lunged sonsabitches.

But getting to the races in the kind of conditions that favored my limited skillset — run around for 45 minutes while wearing a perfectly rideable bike — could be something of a project. The nearest one was 90 minutes down and north in good weather, and it was the race I and my club put on twice a year in Bibleburg. The others were in Franktown, Littleton, Lakewood, Longmont, Boulder, Mead, Fort Collins, and like that there.

It got to where I would book a motel room, drive north the night before a race, eat dinner out, breakfast on coffee and energy bars in the room, get my ass handed to me at the event, clean up in a car wash, find something to eat, and drive home. After a while it began to feel a lot more like work than recreation, even if I did well, which mostly I did not.

Unless I saw heaps of snow on the deck when I got up on race day. Yay. And even then I had to drive home in it.

The travel got a little easier when we moved back to Bibleburg, but the racing never did. I was working a lot while training less, and at a lower altitude, too. The flesh was unwilling and the spirit was weak.

I could tell I was over it in 2004, when I rode my main race bike to a ’cross in Bibleburg . No spare bike, not even a spare wheel. And when I flatted about halfway through my race, I wobbled off the course, resolved the puncture (who brings a pump and saddlebag with spare tubes and tire irons to a friggin’ race?), and rode home.

And it wasn’t even snowing.