Welp, piss on the dogs and call in the fire — it’s definitely fall.
The weather has been so gentle lately that we shut off all the HVAC machinery; I can’t remember the last time the air conditioners clicked on.
And thus the furnace mos def did not click on last night, which — along with the news flash from Acu-Rite pictured above — explains why I felt a tad chilly upon awakening this morning despite being wrapped in sheet and blanket like a geezer burrito.
The uniform of the day immediately shifted from shorts and T-shirt to pants and flannel shirt over long-sleeved henley. Also, wool socks, which should go without saying. I stopped short of a watch cap and gloves.
Miss Mia knows what time it is, and what the temperature is, too.
Having mowed the lawn yesterday with plans to water today, I had to trot outside at stupid-thirty to change the sprinkler system’s start time from 5 a.m. to 10. The sun doesn’t clear the Sandias until well past 8:30 and there’s no point in creating a rink in the back yard when neither of us owns skates.
And ride time just got pushed back until noon, because it’s gonna take me some time to remember where I stashed all the cool-weather Lycra.
Tell you what, though. That first cup of coffee sure smells good when the first freeze is nipping at your nose.
It’s not really fall until instead of taking arm warmers on a ride you actually wear them.
I packed mine on Wednesday’s ride and pulled them on after the first descent. Yesterday I had them on before I rolled out of the garage.
And both days I was wearing knickers.
Only three of us showed for Wednesday’s Geezer Ride — our senior leadership, two 80-somethings who also ski, plus Your Humble Narrator — and the outing turned out to be something of a bust once we turned south into a ridiculous headwind.
The cadre has not been much interested in climbing lately, so the ascent of Simms Road was right out. And grinding along into that brisk headwind was — well, if not exactly Mao’s Long March, neither was it your barrel of monkeys of which it is said that nothing is more fun.
So when my companions suggested cutting the ride short, I agreed. It seemed colder than the alleged temperature indicated, and the wind has been my least favorite weather feature since my very first bicycle race, a 40km out-and-back time trial that I thought I was crushing because guess why? Huge tailwind on the way out. On the way back? Um, not so much.
Had I been alone on Wednesday I would’ve done what I usually do in those conditions: commence random changes in direction like a spook trying to lose a tail. Off the road and onto the trails, this way and that, using the Sandias’ rubble and shrubbery as a windscreen.
I was on the Soma Double Cross, with some mildly knobby Hutchinson Caracals in 700x35mm and a triple crank with a low end of 24x34T (19 gear inches) that lets me spin instead of stomp. Nearly perfect for that sort of getaway. But leaving the lads on their own would’ve been rude, so I shelved the idea and didn’t peel off until home was just a few blocks away.
Yesterday was warmer and less blustery — starting at noon instead of 9 was definitely a factor — but I still wore arm warmers and knicks and opted for a solo, two-hour Vuelta de Variable Surfaces.
Bear Canyon to Elena Gallegos.
It’s a great ride to do on a brisk Thursday in fall. The kids are in school, their parents are nose to grindstone, and a lone geezer can do as he pleases. Generally I ride side streets to the Embudito trailhead, slalom over to the Bear Canyon/Michial Emery trail, take that into the Elena Gallegos Open Space, and pick a loop or two from the non-technical menu.
Then I’ll blast down Simms and turn north into Sandia Heights, climb a series of low-traffic hills I like, and on the way home sample a selection of the unofficial trails that provide off-street options along Blue Gramma, Academy, Spain, and Tramway.
It’s not hard to cobble together a ride of 20 miles or more this way. And like crucifixion, it gets me out in the open air.
If I’m careful I don’t collect any fresh stigmata.
Not a great photo, but it gave me the idea for the headline, so … winning?
Ah, October in Duck!Burg. The temps have dropped, the rain has stopped, and the streets are alive with the cars of eejits.
I enjoyed a near miss on a fast descent the other day. I was braking (and signaling) for a left turn when a motorist halfway-rolls the stop sign at the street I planned to enter, glancing only to her left.
Well, shit. I’ve seen this movie and I don’t like the ending. Couldn’t turn in front of her, as I could have had she yielded the right of way at the stop sign. And I wasn’t thrilled about the idea of ripping the turn on her right side, because while she appeared to be about halfway into a left turn I couldn’t see if she had the left blinker on. The right most definitely was not on. And nobody in this town uses their turn signals anyway, not even the cops.
So I hit the binders, come to a stop, and shout “HEY!”
Well, then she saw me, if the deer-in-the-headlights look she pasted on her face was any indication. I was signaling my turn, wearing bright colors, and rocking a bright headlight as per usual, but if you don’t fucking look at me you won’t see any of that Sammy Safety shit.
I’m not big on driver education, what with everyone being armed these days, so rather than doing a war dance in my broken-down old Sidis I settled for the Universal Headshake of Disappointment — left, right, left, mmm, hmm, hmm, you stupid, stupid motorist — and went about my business. A cyclist has to keep the Third Eye wide open and way out on its stalk in these parts. Periscope up!
Speaking of feckin’ eejits, early voting began yesterday and we’re looking forward to receiving our ballots via uniformed federal employee and casting the moneychangers out of the national temple.
Unlike the Swamp Thing besmirching the Oval Orifice with its wet Mickey D’s farts we do not vote by mail, we just get our ballots that way. Then we fill them out at the kitchen table, screeching blasphemies as though the candidates were dumbass motorists rolling stop signs.
“Yeah, fuck you! Eat shit and die! That’s right! Go get a job in the private sector, you Brooks Brothers butt-kisser! Oh, wait, you can’t, because the private sector expects results!Boom! Now, piss off! Die, die, die!”
Etc.
Then we walk our ballots up to the neighborhood polling place and thank the workers for their service.
This year the herd-thinning process will be a breeze because anyone still claiming to be a Republican after two years of Swamp Thing v2.0 is not only a taco short of a combo plate but a clear and present danger to what little remains of the Republic. Christ knows the Democrats are bad enough.
But we don’t want to be hollering like that at our polling place. We don’t want to frighten any fainthearted types from the other team who may be coming, however belatedly, to their senses. The Republic needs all the help it can get.
The Albuquerque International Balloon Fiesta is up, up and away.
The Journal‘s homepage, never a thing of beauty even when it’s not rearranged for tourism, still isn’t displaying properly in Safari. And the managing editor was tapped to write the story about day one’s calamities, which included balloonists touching down in power lines, parking lots, and other unsanctioned locations.
Trust issues? Beats me. I got yanked off the Gazette copy desk once to help cover a tornado in Manitou Springs. But I was just a rim rat, not the managing editor. There’s a lot of names on that masthead you’d expect to see atop that story before the ME’s. But it’s been a lot of years since I pulled a shift in a newsroom.
Whatevs, as the kids probably don’t say anymore. I don’t attend the Balloon Feast for the same reason I’ve never driven up Pikes Peak. These things are for tourists, and I don’t do tourism even when I’m not in my hometown.
“Balloons. OK, what’s for breakfast?”
I rode a mountain bike up to Barr Camp once. And Herself and I bicycled down to the Balloon Feast one afternoon, early on in our residency in The Duck! City, before we realized that all the action takes place in the morning and evening.
Now I walk out onto the driveway at 7 a.m., squint to the northwest, and mutter: “Yup. There’s one.” Then I go back inside and finish breakfast before kitting up for a ride.
Summer’s heat and that late monsoon appear to be in the rear view, and the October weather is fine for cycling. The traffic is a little less so, but you can’t let it bust your balloon.
The monsoon was late to the party, but man, is it ever dancing up a storm now.
“Check this strange beverage that falls out from the sky.” — Tom Waits, “Til the Money Runs Out.”
Fenders and a rain jacket will not do the trick today. Maybe a wetsuit and flippers.
As of 6 a.m. Duck! City time our weather widget had recorded 0.43 inch of rain since midnight, 0.66 inch in the past 48 hours, and an astounding 3.78 inches for the month.
And it ain’t over yet. We have a flood watch that extends through late tonight for all of northern and central New Mexico.
Fine sleeping weather. I’d hop right back in the sack if I didn’t have two cups of strong black coffee in me. I’d just lie there with my eyes out on stalks, buzzing like an electric blanket with a short in it. Better maybe to chase the java with a steaming bowl of oatmeal and a tall mug of Irish tea with honey.
Herself has fishtailed off to work and I hope she hasn’t had to use her Honda’s air bags as flotation devices. I did insist that she take a second pair of shoes in case she had to hopscotch through a few puddles on her way into the Sanctum Sanctorum.
If I can squeeze in a short run in my mud shoes I’ll do it. But at the moment the only Miles I’m logging is of the Davis variety. As in “Kind of Blue.”
