The Rio Gonzo, seen at 10 a.m. Thursday from the Gail Ryba Memorial Bridge along I-40.
If the Rio had a pulse yesterday, I couldn’t find it.
Our local water wizard, John Fleck, noted Wednesday that the Bernalillo County Water Utility Authority, with the Middle Rio Grande Conservancy District and Audubon Southwest, was releasing “a pulse of water” from Abiquiu Reservoir on the Rio Chama in northern New Mexico “as an experiment – what might a several-day pulse of water do to help the aridification-starved riverside forests along New Mexico’s Middle Rio Grande?”
Then he went out to chase that pulse. And on Thursday, I so did I.
What I saw, you see, right up top there. Nada. Niente. Bupkis.
It was a good day for a ride down to the bosque. Not a good day for the bosque. As far as I could see in one quick pass, anyway.
The Journalfound something to celebrate, but Matthew Reisen and Eddie Moore may have paid their visit later in the day and/or further north along the Rio, closer to the Alameda bridge than the Gail Ryba. I skipped the Alameda trailhead in favor of the most direct route west from El Rancho Pendejo — Bear Canyon Trail, North Diversion Channel Trail, Paseo del Norte Trail, and finally the Paseo del Bosque Trail.
A parched path.
Everything looked parched along the path. Lots of leaves on the deck already and some very unhappy trees. A smallish crop of roadies in various flavors plus a few dudes rocking gravel bikes on the unpaved trails who were definitely going to want to give a little postride love to their dusty drivetrains. Some water in an irrigation ditch east of the bosque path, but the river was as you see. It seemed an odd day to be riding a bike that takes its name from the Spanish for “fishmonger.”
Fleck hasn’t posted an update yet, but that’s to be expected. He’s the expert, not just another rando rambling along the road to Perdition.
It seemed a very long, hot ride back to the rancho, where water springs from the tap at the twist of a wrist. For the moment, anyway.
We have a new swimming pool in the cul-de-sac. One lane, and a tough flip turn.
It’s been a week since I got sprung from jury duty and I’m (a) still slightly bemused by the experience, and (2) not particularly interested in diving back into the sewage lagoon of the 24-hour news cycle.
Anyway, the fiber-optic fairies have been scurrying hither and yon in the ’hood, barricading streets and sidewalks; parking trucks, trailers, and arcane machinery in the right of way; digging holes and then filling them up again (or not); cutting gas lines and unplugging cable TV; and like that there.
It seems like a treasure hunt, albeit slightly spastic, and for some spray-tanned Suits in air-conditioned offices it almost certainly is. But for the sunburnt dudes with the shovels it’s hard labor with a side of heat stroke. And for the casual blogger it’s a noisy pain in the brain that takes his eye off the ball.
Well. Maybe not. Unless you can find me a real little one. Some toddler’s teddy, maybe.
Instead I go for a ride.
Yesterday I’d planned to wind southwest along the Paseo de Las Montañas Trail and through downtown to the bosque, before it dries up and blows away, then come home via the Paseo/North Diversion Channel Trail/Osuna/Bear Canyon route, or take the NDCT through Balloon Fiesta Park and up Tramway.
But NDCT south of the brief stretch of I-40 Trail west of Carlisle was closed for some reason, so I skipped downtown and the bosque and rode north to the Tramway climb, which I hadn’t done in two months.
The North Diversion Channel Trail hooks up with Balloon Fiesta Park.
I usually ride this gradual 5-mile ascent from I-25 to County Line BBQ as an individual time trial, just for shits and giggles, not trying to prove anything. My “training,” if you can call it that, is focused on having fun, testing myself a little when the spirit moves, and not getting centerpunched by some leadfoot “making his day” on TikTok.
A half hour for the distance is not shameful. My best time is 26:37, set four years ago on the DBR Prevail TT.
Yesterday, aboard the Soma Pescadero, I didn’t feel like I was crushing it — maybe a slight cross/headwind, p’raps sloth and torpor, or some combination of the two — so I was surprised to check the ol’ chrono at the finish and see a time of 28 minutes flat.
It seemed familiar, possibly because it was. When I got home and checked my training log to see how 28 minutes flat added up to previous Tramway time trials … well, it was the exact same time I’d ridden back in June, on the New Albion Privateer.
That was weird. What was really weird was that my time for the entire ride — from El Rancho Pendejo to the I-40/NDCT trails, Balloon Fiesta Park, Tramway, County Line, and back to the rancho — was likewise identical to my June outing, which covered the same ground, to the centimeter.
Talk about spinning your wheels to no particular purpose. No wonder I never go viral. You gotta give The Algorithm something to work with.
Why is a Steelman Eurocross better than a BMW 7 Series?
Well, for openers, it’s a Steelman Eurocross. And you can’t just slide on down to your local Steelman dealer and drive one off the lot, because Brent Steelman isn’t making them any longer.
Even if you could, its touchscreen wouldn’t be showing you an ad for “Spider-Man: Brand New Day” the instant you climbed aboard, which BMWs are doing. My Steelman Eurocrosses ain’t got no steekeeng touchscreens. Oh, sure, they share an ancient Cateye Velo 8, but it doesn’t say shit to me because it saw what I did to Herself’s sportswatch with a claw hammer when the fucker started beeping and wouldn’t shut the hell up.
I knew this day was coming the first time I pulled into a gas station for a tank of the cheap stuff and the pump started shrieking advertising bullshit at me. I nearly drove off right then and there, but I was running on fumes, and figured that if one station was doing it, they all were.
And they all are.
The Eurocross “touchscreen.” One button, no Spider-Men.
So, guess what? If six-figure BMW 7 Series sedans are inflicting advertisements upon their owners — and nobody at BMW gets fed feet first into a wood chipper over it — your $24K Kia Shitbox will soon be pitching Happy Meals, weight-loss programs, and boner pills at you.
My 2005 Subaru Forester? Not so much. The only screen in that sucker is the windscreen, as the Brits call it. The clear one I look through to see where in the hell is it that I’m going.
This is absolutely insane, especially for cars that people own. If you own a car and an ad is shown in your car, you should get paid for the ad. And you should need to agree to it first. BMW is supposed to be a luxury brand, and one meant for driving enthusiasts. This is so absurd it’s hard to believe it’s real.
I’ve been trying to mix things up a bit lately, do something out of the ordinary at least one day per week, and today it was a spin along a local stretch of John Steinbeck’s “Mother Road.”
Come fall, which it very much is not, the Geezers usually have a go at the climb to the Morning Star Grocery. This is an out-and-back ride, and mileage varies because not all of us start in the same place. Some, me among them, ride from home; others start from the Smith’s parking lot at Tramway and Central.
All of us get the same seven rolling miles of Mama to Tijeras, where the actual climbing starts as we turn right onto NM 337 and gear down for the 9.7-mile climb to the grocery. There we take five, patronize the shop, have a wee, and assign Manly Points, using a sliding scale that factors in the number of laps around the sun a rider has logged before the day’s exertions.
For me the ride winds up being a 45-mile round trip, more or less, with about 2,500 feet of vertical. A nice day in the saddle.
Today, I had planned to ride solo. No real purpose, beyond doing something other than roll around in the Sandia foothills, and before it got too hot, too; the NWS had issued another heat advisory for any and all mad dogs out in the noonday sun. So eight-ish I pulled the mango Steelman Eurocross from its hook and off we flew down Tramway, the idea being to ride to Tijeras and then … whatever.
From left, Gazette veterans Chris Coursey, Merrill Oliver, and Your Humble Narrator kit up for a California trip.
This would seem an odd choice of bike for anyone who didn’t know my habits. It’s a cyclocross bike, dates to 1998 or thereabouts, and in its present incarnation sports bar-end shifters, an eight-speed drivetrain, Dura-Ace hubs laced to Mavic Open Pro hoops, Paul’s cantis, just the one bottle cage, and a mixed pair of majorly old ’cross knobbies, MXPs from Clément (front) and Donnelly (rear). In 2006, I rode it from Santa Rosa to Hopland for a wedding, but not with those tires.
Mostly I ride it on trails, and so I forget what a great road bike the Eurocross is, especially on shitty roads. So I was having a high old time as we rolled into Tijeras, where on impulse I hung a right on NM 337 and started climbing because why the hell not?
Well, the answer to that was I only had one water bottle, one tube of Clif Blox, and no money, I probably felt swell because I’d had a tailwind pushing me to Tijeras, and sure it’s all downhill from the grocery except for where it isn’t and that headwind ain’t gonna eat itself.
So — believe it or not — I actually did the smart thing for once. I decided to ride to the Otero Trailhead and then turn around, which gave me a 30-mile ride with 1,600 feet of vert’ and nary a bit of bonk or heatstroke.
No Manly Points, though. I’m harsh but fair.
Speaking of which, when we finally hound the brigands out of the government and into prison cells or boneyards, I propose that we seize their fleet of 250 Cadillac Escalades in The Name of the People and use these bloated pimpmobiles to give hungry poor folks free lifts to the grocery. Not everyone has the bike and can make the climb, especially since the swine started croaking the bike lanes.
“DEI” me bollocks. If we’re talking about the bozos these land yachts are intended for it should stand for “Douchebags, Eejits, and Idlers.”
The Rio Gonzo, as seen last Friday by Your Humble Narrator.
What a difference a day makes. Or even a few short hours.
On Friday I rode down to the bosque because why the hell not? I was sick of all my usual foothills routes and wanted to log some respectable mileage for a change, so off I went.
The New Albion Privateer sails the Paseo del Bosque.
Also sick of its usual route was the Rio Grande, which has buggered off to parts unknown. You can tell because rivers don’t usually sport tire tracks, not even if Jeebus is driving.
I knew the Rio had run dry since I last saw it back in April. But it’s one thing to know and another to see.
Anyway. The dearth of river notwithstanding, it was a lovely day, if warmish — 81° when I got a regrettably late start, 10 degrees hotter when I finished — and then Thor woke from his nap, got his clouds in a row, and began swinging Mjölnir like he meant business. Hammer time!
Boom! Our rain gauge showed 0.90 inch in less time than it takes to type “Our rain gauge showed 0.90 inch.” The National Weather Service told the Urinal that 1.74 inches fell at Indian School and Moon in a half hour, with near-record winds that peaked at 78 mph.
Photo liberated from what remains of the National Weather Service.
I mean, that storm flat parked itself overhead and let go, like a cow pissing on a flat rock.
“Remind me to turn off the sprinkler system,” I said to Herself. And it stayed off. Y’can’t touch this.
• • •
Now, of course, Loki is back on the job. Regular heat advisories from 1 to 8 p.m., high 90s to low triple digits.
No records set, as far as I know, but 9 in the a.m. is starting to feel a little late for the twice-weekly Geezer Rides. A second bottle goes in the seat-tube cage. Attacks are few and far between.
And mowing the lawn post-ride, like I did yesterday? That’s just stupid.
Having a lawn in the desert is stupid in and of itself, but having one and mowing it noonish moves the bar up a few notches.
Still, there’s the lawn, growing, and it won’t mow itself. I’ve been watching. That shit does not happen.
Maybe what I need is a bicycle with rotary blades attached. A velo-mower. And an early start. I could create a whole new thang and a magazine to chronicle its adventurers.
Nah. That’s even dumber than having a lawn in the desert.
• • •
Speaking of greenery stuffed into the ground, it seems that we may finally be getting the fabled fiber optic here in the cul-de-sac.
The Company Formerly Known As CenturyLink, a.k.a. CenturyTel, Qwest, et al., now calling itself Lumen Technologies, has provided our internet service for ages, even before we moved here in 2014. But for some reason Duck! City DSL is twice the price for half the speed we enjoyed in Bibleburg.
Even there, the tales of comically inept customer service were endless. Once we had a modem croak on us and The Company agreed to send us a new one. In that they proved better than their word. They sent us five of them, one after another, like Red Chinese soldiers marching to B-burg from Beijing over the bodies of their comrades.
Miss Mia loved her some Qwest modems on a chilly day in Bibleburg.
I may still have one in an old-tech box around here somewhere. I’m fairly certain I brought one with us when we moved because, hey, you never know, amirite? Miss Mia Sopaipilla loved toasting her po-po on one of those Qwest-branded Motorola jobbers Back in the Day®.
But I digress. We were talking about getting some fiber in our digital diet.
The water-company boyos were out in the cul-de-sac yesterday afternoon, spraying their blue cryptograms and hieroglyphics ever’ whichaway, so I asked one what was up. Thus I learned that the diggers are coming to bring us The Future, which we had in the B-burg a dozen or so years ago before time-traveling back to the stone knives and copper wire of Albuquerque.
“Take photos of your property before they get started,” the water dude advised. And I followed his advice. At least three of the companies charged with bringing fiber optic to Duck!Burg have been slapped with temporary stop-work orders after reports that they made a shambles of various properties.
I won’t lie. It’ll be great to have a faster, cheaper on-ramp to the Infobahn. But be careful what you wish for. The news of the day — a river of sand in Duck!Burg, shit monsoons in DeeCee — is already bad enough at a piddling 13.5 Mbps.
And it comes in a whole lot faster if it’s breaking just beyond the office window, where some rando rocking a backhoe is uprooting your sewer line.
Mad Blog Media 