Category: Bike stuff

Red blanket by the freeway

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 23 Comments
If this looks chilly, it’s because it is.

The weather took a seasonal turn yesterday. The gods knew I’d be dropping the Subie at Reincarnation downtown around 8:30, and they didn’t want me to be too comfortable as I cycled home on the Soma Double Cross.

It wasn’t what I’d call wintry. There was a pretty brisk wind, but hey, this is New Mexico. Wind ain’t blowing when you wake up, you may have died during the night. Anyway, it was pushing me along the North Diversion Channel Trail. So, winning, etc.

I was properly attired, with a light jacket over a long-sleeved jersey and an ancient Hind base layer, bibs and tights, wool socks, full-fingered gloves, and a tuque under my helmet. Kept it all on, too, as the wind became a little less friendly on the Osuna-Bear Canyon trail.

When you start your day with a 65-mph sprint down I-40 to University and then cycle from Mountain and 2nd, up Odelia-Indian School, and along the NDCT from Indian School to Osuna, you see the homeless folks getting their mornings on, if you know where to look.

One dude was camping beyond rough, rolled up like a burrito in a red blanket on a concrete slab off on the north side of I-40. I might not have seen him were it not for that blanket. If he had a shopping cart, a bicycle, or even a bindle, it was pretty well concealed.

As I pedaled up the NDCT a small group was shaking itself awake just off the trail below Montgomery. One guy had a bike; we exchanged waves.

Later, after I was home and warm and full of lunch, Reincarnation rang me up to say my 20-year-old rust-bucket would require a deeper dip into the wallet than I had anticipated, imperiling a considerable slice of what I had until that moment considered disposable income.

I felt sorry for myself, briefly, until I remembered that at least I’d have the Subie to sleep in if everything went south on me all at once. There’s even a locking rack up top for the Double Cross.

Snowbored

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 10 Comments
Poor skiing conditions in the backyard.

We got another wee dusting of the white stuff on Wednesday. It seems 0.02 inch is how Heaven doles it out to us these days. A bit stingy, que no?

Funny how a big dumper is more fun to deal with than one of these piddling dribbles, which barely shift the needle on the Drought-O-Meter®. It’s the little things that suck. Or blow, as the case may be, since these non-events usually come with a side of gale-force wind.

My go-to running garb for this noise includes Merrell Moab Flight trail-running shoes; Darn Tough wool socks; thermal Hind tights over some truly ancient Hind shorts; a long-sleeved Patagonia base layer that’s so old it was made in the USA; a pilled-all-to-hell zip-up North Face vest to keep the pipes from freezing (and transport the iPhone in a side pocket); a long-sleeved, high-collared, quarter-zip polyester VeloNews shell by Columbia; a Sugoi tuque; Smartwool gloves; and Rudy Project shades to keep the windblown sand out of my baby blues.

I shouldn’t need most of this kit today, since it should be warm enough — a high of 52°, with “light and variable” winds? — to ride the ol’ bikey-bikey. But I’m keeping that Paddygucci base layer on standby.

Right in the eggs

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 9 Comments
Cool with a side of clouds.

Whew. Looks like I picked a good week to go on a news fast. These pendejos are pitching fastballs. At this pace there won’t be a wall without shit running down it before Valentine’s Day. A lot of it won’t stick, but it’s gonna pile up. The forecast calls for deep doo.

My news fast coincided with a cold snap that kept me off the bike. I don’t object to cycling in the 30s if the sun’s out, but when Tōnatiuh abdicates in favor of Ehecatl, it’s time to go for a run.

Thing is, I’m not a runner. Not really. A runner certainly wouldn’t call me one. Especially if s/he’d caught me at it.

I can pretend for 45 minutes but that’s about it. And that doesn’t burn a lot of daylight for a fella trying to avoid the doomscrolling.

Still, I managed. For about four days. Who can avert his or her eyes while passing a domestic disturbance in daylight or an unshaded window at night? This is like driving past a five-car crash without checking the gutters for rolling heads.

So I eased back in, slowly. A little Kevin Drum. Then a bit of Charlie Pierce. This is akin to reading the police report, if Joseph Wambaugh wrote it. The Atlantic, for a soupçon of button-down viewing with alarm.

Finally, I hit the hard stuff. The New York Times. Holy shit, etc.

I hope the rubes who elected this bozo are enjoying the shitshow. Looks like it’ll be a good long while before he gets those egg prices down.

Not-so-little fluffy clouds

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 10 Comments
These are not the clouds The Orb was thinking about in 1990.

Clouds we got, sometimes. Rain, snow? Not so much.

The mornings are chilly in these early days of the Year of Our Lard 2025, but once the sun finally creeps over the Sandias, shortly before 9, things warm up considerably. The weather wizards predict a high of 60° today.

Yes, I said 60°. Six-oh degrees Fahrenheit. In January.

Miss Mia would like to invite the birds to dinner.

Good for the healthful outdoor exercise, for those of us who take it. Unless we’re talking skiing. Also, not so much for the plants and wildlife and drinking water come summer. See John Fleck for more.

In the meantime, we need not bundle up like the Michelin Man for running and riding so far this winter. It’s been so unseasonably warm that my brother geezers, who ordinarily are traveling to ski or working out in the gym, have called a ride for today.

In the early afternoon, of course. No need to wear the hair shirt. We are not children, with their barely tested HVAC systems fresh from the factory.

Meanwhile, Miss Mia Sopaipilla gets to bird-watch at the patio door, where I scatter a little seed for the house finches and dark-eyed juncos who don’t feel like battling the bigger birds at our feeders.

There’s a little bit of Sylvester and Tweety Bird going on there in her little mind. Bad ol’ puddy tat. …

In other news, the cuckoos in the House of Reprehensibles nearly give their Squeaker the bird. Says NYT’s Carl Hulse: “House Republicans certainly relish their internal drama.” Dinner theater for the insane.

A shadow of my former self

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 5 Comments
The shadow knows.

Glancing back through my training log it strikes me that I have spent November and December intercoursing the penguin, as we used to quip at Live Update Guy.

This isn’t necessarily a bad thing.

In the Before-Time, when I was still racing cyclocross, September through December felt like one big pile of miles, perhaps because it was.

In my Golden Years, the glide from summer through autumn into winter seems better suited to a gradual change of pace. Trail runs, hikes, short rides; that sort of thing. Shake the old brain-box like a dice cup, see what comes rattling out, seven, 11, or snake-eyes.

This year the numbers told me I was getting slightly carried away for a geezer who wasn’t training for anything other than staying on the sunny side of the sod. I was grinding out weeks of 100, 120, even 150 miles. Which can be fun. But it burns an awful lot of daylight for a cat wrangler-slash-cook-slash-blogger who Frankensteined his dead podcast back to life around Halloween for no discernible reason. And come November I was starting to feel rode hard and put away wet.

So I backed off. A lot. Maybe too much. Running three or four days a week, doing a leisurely hour here and there on the bike, mostly on trails. At first it was nice to ease off the accelerator, but after a while this old endorphin junkie was jonesin’ for his fix.

This past week I did three short trail runs — but I also managed four rides, including a pair of back-to-back two-hour outings on my Soma Saga touring bikes, which had been dangling dolefully on their hooks for far too long. They’re stout and sturdy, with fenders and rear racks, and I’m not inclined to do anything wild with ’em; just turn the pedals over until I get tired of it.

A ride of two hours or better not only refills the endorphin tank — it puts the Voices in my head to sleep for a spell, same as a car ride does a crying infant. It’s another welcome change of pace to have only the one murmuring to itself in there as the year winds down.