New Year’s Eve blows

The Fat Guy, circa 2002
The Old Guy Who Gets Fat In Winter, circa 2002. How little things change in a decade.

The wind is clocking a Brazilian miles per hour out there today, which means it can strip you of your pubic hair in an instant (after first blowing off your pants).

Happily, I’m safe inside, doing a bit of light pixel-pushing for VeloNews.com, thinking halfheartedly about riding the trainer, and wondering what I can whip up to fetch to an informal New Year’s Eve gathering at a neighbor’s place. Tequila surprise? Nope, there are too many surprises lurking in that Mexican cactus whiskey. I don’t know these people well enough for that. Homemade salsa and chips will suffice.

I had hoped to get in one last ride to close out 2011, but the wind disabused me of that notion. Plus given my calorie consumption this holiday season it felt something like bolting the gate to the sty after the pig had escaped.

A quick check of my training log finds that I rode just short of 3,500 miles this year, about half of what I did 20 years ago when I was still racing a ton. No records exist of my 2001 mileage. However, I had begun losing interest in competition after a brief peak as a cyclo-crosser in 1999, and living outside Weirdcliffe made training on the road difficult and getting to races problematic and expensive, so I expect I had already begun my glide path toward the lower mileage of the recreational rider.

But there’s something about working in cycling journalism that — for me, at least — makes cycling less recreational than it might be for, say, a radiologist, carpenter or accountant. I write columns, edit stories and draw cartoons about people who ride bicycles over impossible distances with authority and panache, then perform a poor imitation of them in my free time. Some days it can feel something like dressing up in other people’s clothes, like a fat kid wearing a Superman costume.

This is one reason I was glad to find I could take up running again after a few months off. I don’t earn a dime from the sport or know anything about it and thus can contentedly lumber along, nodding sympathetically at the pained expressions on the other runners I encounter. It’s more medicinal than recreational, the equivalent of a hearty dose of fish oil or flossing your teeth.

And man — you want to sample an activity that elevates cycling above other pasatiempos, take up running three days a week. It makes a brand-new Brooks saddle feel like the gentle hand of the Lord.

So let’s all do more of it in 2012, no matter how badly. It’s an election year, after all, and people will need the comic relief.

Happy New Year to you and yours.

• Late update: Thanks and a tip of the Mad Dog Media IWW tuque to the folks WordPress tells me are the Most Active Commenters of 2011:

  1. Khal S. (473)
  2. Larry T. (296)
  3. Ben S. (117)
  4. James (116)
  5. Libby (111)

You folks keep the joint lively and it’s a pleasure to have you — and all the rest of you — stopping by.

Parking brake

Palmer Park, 12-16-2011
The Front Strange as observed from the saddle of a Voodoo Nakisi MonsterCrosser® in Palmer Park, just above the intersection of Union Boulevard and Austin Bluffs Parkway.

That meteorological puta, La Niña, is having her way with our winter here in Bibleburg.

Strictly speaking, it’s not actually winter — the solstice doesn’t arrive until the 22nd — but I mark the arrival of winter not by the calendar, but by when I start wearing long pants both indoors and out. Thus it’s winter here and has been for some time now.

We’ve had next to no snow and only a few wickedly cold days, just one of which forced me aboard the stationary trainer. Yesterday I went for a short trail ride in Palmer Park, and today I took a whack at Sondermann Park, which is a little closer and a lot less crowded on a sunny December day.

In both cases I was aboard my trusty Voodoo Nakisi MonsterCrosser®. But I spent more time in its saddle in Palmer Park than in Sondermann. That sonofabitch has some steep climbs, too steep for even the Nakisi’s triple-chainring setup.

I nearly came to grief on one gravelly stairway to Heaven after the rear wheel came unhitched in its dropouts and jammed against the left chainstay while I was in the lowest of the low gears, my nose practically touching the stem. That I did not go ass-backwards down the hill was pure luck.

Either that or Heaven is full and Hell is afraid I’ll take over.

• Late update: Meanwhile, if you require further proof that it is already winter, I made this Spanish vegetable soup the other day and we’re about to get our third meal out of it. There may be a fourth. Talk about your bang for the buck, even considering that all the ingredients are organic. …

That was absurd, let’s eat dead bird

Mia and Turkish
Mia and Turkish watch as Buddy (not pictured) gets a grooming from Herself.

The mighty river of VeloNews finally slowed to a trickle today. I fired off an invoice to Corporate and slipped out for a short ride.

Several impatient motorists seemed in dire need of a brisk hosing down with a fire extinguisher full of tryptophan on this day before Thanksgiving. I tallied exactly 349,392 moving violations intended to kill me before abandoning the count.

Plenty of static violations, too, my favorite being the bulbous land yacht parked smack dab in the middle of the bike lane, right under the “No Parking In Bike Lane” sign. This appalling lack of reading comprehension is not encouraging to those of us who earn our meager livings from wielding the English language.

Oh, well. At least I got my big ass out in the late-November sunshine (this is not strictly accurate, of course; it was wearing bib shorts). Herself and I took the critters out for an airing, too. Field Marshal Turkish von Turkenstein, Miss Mia Sopaipilla and Banzai Buddy the Japanese Wonder Chin all scored themselves a little free vitamin D, which can be hard to come by this time of year.

That’s a little something to be thankful for in trying times when we 99 percenters hear the distant ring of carving knives clashing rhythmically against sharpening steels and wonder if we’re what’s for dinner.

And if that doesn’t get your drumstick throbbing, raise a glass to longtime Friend of the DogS(h)ite Boz, who notes in comments that he’s back to working for The Man.

From our family to yours, happy Thanksgiving.

Forward, into the past

It’s been 20 years since I had the traditional five-day, 40-hours-per-week job, and as those of you still manacled to same at wrists and ankles might expect I don’t miss it.

I quit for a reason. More than one, actually. Walking out of The New Mexican for the final time felt like taking one of those endless beer leaks after a long ride in an old truck on a bumpy road. Total relief.

O'Grady at The New Mexican
I don't recall which job I held at The New Mexican when this mugshot was taken — I went from copy editor to assistant sports editor to assistant feature editor to feature editor in less time than it takes to say, "Why the hell am I still working here?"

To be sure, there are (or were) perks — health insurance, 401(k), two days a week off, sick leave, paid vacation and The Company buys your gear and puts a roof over your workaday head. But otherwise it pretty much sucks. I know, because during most of my 15 years as a newspaperman I was keeping a journal — you know, sort of an analog blog that nobody else gets to read.

So, having hard evidence that doing journalism eight hours a day, five days a week is like volunteering to get a daily pepper-spraying from Lt. John Pike, why in hell would I agree to go back to it? Especially considering that this time around, I don’t even get the perks because I’m an independent contractor and hellbent on remaining one?

Larry’s wife knows the answer. As for me, I’ll just note that when VeloNews.com lost both senior editor Charles Pelkey (involuntary retirement) and web editor Steve Frothingham (fled like a rat out of an aqueduct back to a former employer, Bicycle Retailer and Industry News), there was nobody left to ladle sludge out of the old VeloBarrel and onto the readers’ titanium-and-carbon-fiber plates save Your Humble Narrator (and Lennard Zinn’s daughter Emily, who recently clambered aboard as a part-timer).

So when The Company came a-callin’, I picked up the phone, even though we have Caller ID.

Call it equal parts stupidity (“Well, shit, someone has to do it,” a knee-jerk reaction common to journalists) and avidity (“There’s a pink slip out there somewhere with my name on it and I’d better start stockpiling fiat currency if only to save money on toilet paper.”)

All this is the long way around to telling you that if you see anything outrageously defective on VeloNews.com from Saturday morning to Wednesday afternoon during the next month or so, while The Company shops for iEditor 4.0, you’ll know whom to blame.

And if the bloggery gets a little thin around here, well — you’ll know whom to blame for that, too.

Charles Pelkey has some ‘splainin’ to do

A beautiful friendship
"There are many exit visas sold in this café. ...

My friend and colleague Charles Pelkey has a couple reasons to celebrate today.

First, he’s over the hump as far as his chemotherapy treatments go — just nine rounds left.

Second, the former VeloNewser — who got his cancer diagnosis and a pink slip on the same day — is taking his popular “Explainer” column to Red Kite Prayer, an online project by another friend and colleague, my dopplegänger Patrick Brady (you have no idea how many Patrick Bradys and O’Gradys there are in the journalism biz).

In welcoming Charles aboard, Patrick called his decision in part “a protest against MBAs who focus on the bottom line above all other considerations.” But he added: “The greater truth here is that I love his work and I believe by bringing him into our fold I increase the value of this blog to both you our readers and our advertisers.”

Truer words, etc. Where Charles goes, eyeballs will follow. Congrats to both Charles and Patrick. I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.