The Supervisor, the M-Dogg, and Your Humble Narrator gear up for a 63-mile ride from Santa Rosa to Hopland in August 2006.
Looking back over some old training logs I was smugly congratulating myself on what I thought was a strong start to this, the Year of Our Lard 2026.
“366 miles for January,” sez I to myself, no one else being handy. “Wrapped it up with the first 100-mile week of the New Year. Not bad; not bad at all.”
And then I checked in with a couple old velo-newsie bros. No, not fellow refugees from that once-storied journal of competitive cycling — rather, fellow refugees from the Colorado Springs Gazette Telegraph. Like Your Humble Narrator, they also ride bicycles.
The Supervisor and the M-Dogg both live in Northern California now, and it’s been nearly 20 years since the three of us last saddled up together. I’m the only one who’s fully retired, in part because I’m the only one who has a wife with a job of work, which for an old slacker keen to skip his pulls into the wind is like drafting a UPS truck on a summer day.
Anyway, there we were, chatting away via text, and the M-Dogg mentions that he just wrapped a 49.6-mile ride with 2,020 feet of vertical.
Yow.
I mentioned having done a leisurely 3-mile trail run, explaining that I got a late start and didn’t feel like kitting up for a ride.
“And here the M-Dogg is already cranking out the half-centuries,” I added.
“Mo, tell him your January mileage,” says The Supe.
“760 in January,” replies the M-Dogg, “only possible in a very dry January.”
That’s 760 miles. Not kilometers, furlongs, cubits, rods, or whatever the hell it is that Californicators use to measure the distance between organic vineyards and fair-trade java shops. And here I was, cackling over the little 366-mile egg I laid last month, which was even drier here in the Duck! City desert.
“Comparisons are odious,” they say. Ho, ho. When When John Fortescue wrote that shit he was probably on the short end of a miles-gobbling contest with Henry VI, who covered a lot of ground during the Wars of the Roses.
“Better luck next year, Forty old chum! Oh, dear, here comes Edward, with that ‘Oo’ d’ye think is the bloody king around here, mate?’ look on his face. Right, I’m off. …”
Which brings us to this poem from James Crews, “Winter Morning,” from which our headline comes. Unwrap your gift and be grateful for whatever it is you find inside.
The proletarians have nothing to lube but their chains!
Wait a minute. That’s not right. …
The proletarians would also want to butter their chamois, lest they suffer knots on their knuts during pedal revolutions. When V.I. Lenin wrote “What Is to Be Done? Burning Questions of Our Movement” in 1902 he was not recommending remedies for saddle sores.
I’d been invited to smash the State at a rally in Fanta Se, but that was looking like an all-day affair, and with (a) it being Monday, and (2) Herself inbound from a long weekend in Minnesota, I had trash and recycling bins to set out and retrieve; sheets, pillowcases and towels to launder; plants to water; hummingbird feeders to wash and refill; the usual feline maintenance; and a general all-round, stem-to-stern, rapid reassembly of a living space in which only one-third of the occupants really cares about any sort of Better Homes & Gardens tidiness.
Guess who. Here’s a hint: It ain’t me or Miss Mia. I’ve always done my best work under deadline pressure, but I can guarantee you I’ve cut a few corners here today. The self-criticism session will be grueling.
So, anyway, instead of invading the capital with my socialist brethren and sisthren I spent a couple hours cycling around the foothills with my geezer comrades in what proved to be a delightful debut for September 2025 before buckling down to the task(s) at hand..
I flew the red jersey and took all my pulls. “From each according to his ability, to each according to his needs,” etc. And I stood by valiantly as one of our number was waylaid by a reactionary goathead or shard of glass. The lumpenproletariat traditionally recycles beverage containers at roadside, via passenger-side windows, during revolutionary holiday weekends.
“Glassholes,” as one comrade muttered.
When I returned home to a frugal working-class lunch I discovered that there were two — two! — Labor Day rallies right here in The Duck! City. And I had missed both of them.
The comrades in PR are way off the back here. I’m gonna have to start paying closer attention to my socialist-media accounts.
Big Bill McBeef, shredding the gnar. | Photo by Lolly AdventureGirl (lifted from FaceButt)
Our last track is a skull. — “Braided Creek: A Conversation in Poetry,” by Ted Kooser and Jim Harrison
The letter was returned, marked “Deceased.”
This is how my friend Michael Schenk stumbled across Bill Baughman’s final footprint in our lives, when one of his annual Schenk-family newsletters, sent via snail mail, bounced back from Bill’s last known address in Bibleburg.
Michael emailed me on Wednesday: “Bill Baughman passed away! Have you heard about this?”
No, I had not. And I immediately set out to learn the details.
Which … were not forthcoming.
No obituary in the Gazette. No other trail that I could backtrack via Google, DuckDuckGo, or Bing. Michael’s call to Bill’s former employer yielded only a vague reference to “health problems.”
Well, yeah. Sorta goes without saying, eh?
Bill was not always easy to catch, especially on the bicycle. But if true, this would be a breakaway unprecedented. We had always been able to find him again, somewhere. A bagel shop. A Mexican restaurant. At home, gaming, in his air-conditioned computer closet.
Old Dogs at the O’Neill farewell: Foreground, Joan Stang; background, Bill Baughman, Your Humble Narrator, Herself, and Karl Stang.
Herself and I last caught up with Bill in 2022, in Manitou Springs, during a celebration of life for another old velo-bro, John O’Neill. John, Bill, and his longtime friend Bill Simmons were among the O.D.s (Original Dogs) who joined me when I left Rainbow Racing to form Team Mad Dog Media-Dogs at Large Velo.
In those early days we trained a ton, barking Liggettisms at each other — suitcases of courage were opened, pedals danced upon or turned in anger, elastic snapped — on the Highway 115 rollers to Penrose and back; up Highway 24 through Manitou to Woodland Park and beyond; down to the racetrack south of Fountain, occasionally adding the dreaded Hanover Loop; or around the 1986 world-championships course at the Air Force Academy.
On race weekends we’d bunk three and four to a room in skeevy motels at Pagosa Springs, Durango, Crested Butte, and elsewhere. I was a popular roomie because I always packed my Krups espresso machine on road trips. The Bills proved extra popular with me after I broke a collarbone at Rage in the Sage; Simmons abandoned his own race to take charge of my bike, and Baughman drove me, my bike, and my truck back to B-burg.
Some three decades later, during our conversation at O’Neill’s sendoff, Bill seemed subdued, maybe even a wee bit sad, not at all his usual rollicking self.
His mother, ex-wife, and a son had all passed. He and Simmons had been out of touch. And he had been been hit by a car while riding his road bike, which snatched a knot in his fearlessness; he was avoiding both road and trail, and when he cycled at all he stuck to a few local bike paths. He drank only at home.
It seemed a stunning retreat by a renowned battler who, sweating tequila from a margarita marathon as the peloton thundered along, would turn a baleful eye on anyone who groused about the pace and growl, “Shut up and ride.”
Still, Bill looked good, as though he’d put on a few pounds. He’d always been thin as a frame pump. Holding his wheel during a group ride as he executed his famous “Marksheffel Plan” — an attack near the bottom of the long climb up the east-side road of that name — was like trying to draft a shark’s fin.
We talked about getting together again, the way people do when they reconnect, however briefly, to send some other old friend west. And after Herself and I got back to ’Burque I emailed him. He never replied.
How can someone just drop off the face of the earth with only the U.S. Postal Service taking the slightest bit of notice? I mean, sure, “Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.” But you’d think Google might have the jump on them these days, especially since Jan. 20.
Facebook, the Pony Express of the AARP, was basically useless. The number I had for Bill Simmons was no longer in service. Cindy O’Neill, John’s widow, hadn’t heard the news until Herself passed it along.
And then I remembered: Amber Shaffer, who catered O’Neill’s farewell gathering, was not just a part of his Colorado Running Club crew — she was once a neighbor of Bill’s on the east side of B-burg, not far from the ancestral home of the O’Gradys on South Loring Circle. Ours really is a small world at times.
Late Friday afternoon I called Amber at Roman Villa Pizza; she said that yes, she had learned via text of Bill’s passing late last year, and … and that was all she knew. Fridays are busy in the restaurant racket, so I thanked her, promised to drop in for a meal next trip through town, and said goodbye.
Looks like Bill has dropped us all again, dancing on the pedals, the elastic snapped for good. I hope there was a frosty pitcher of margaritas waiting for him at the finish.
I should’ve taken a picture. It would’ve been one of the few times when someone pointed a lens in Jim’s direction and he didn’t immediately point to his johnson just as the shutter clicked.
Sample photo only. Jethro not included.
Because I was at a celebration of my old amigo’s life. And Jim was in a Chock full o’Nuts coffee can.
It was a nod to “The Big Lebowski,” of course. Also, there were “The Blues Brothers” — brother Larry and Jim’s son, Kelly — who wore dark sunglasses on Saturday as they spoke of their loss to a standing-room-only crowd at the Bull & Bush Brewery in Glendale, Colorado.
Hey, it could’ve been worse. Jim and the El Rancho Delux gang watched a ton of “Miami Vice” Back in the Day®, so it’s nothing short of miraculous that Larry and Kelly weren’t stylin’ like Sonny and Rico.
Me, I went for the “Outside Bought REI and Went to Whole Foods” look: Santa Fe School of Cooking cap, Timberland fleece vest, Patagucchi flannel shirt, Levi’s 505s, Darn Tough wool socks and low-rise Merrell hikers.
One of the many things Jim taught me was how to dress more like Possibility and less like Probable Cause. Another was how many times you can play your favorite Merle Haggard cassette in your own truck without Jim snatching it out of the deck and tossing it out the window at 85 mph somewhere in Utah. (The answer: One time too many.)
Anyway, it was good that I stepped up my fashion game a bit for the celebration of my old friend’s too-short life. Because this wasn’t just the old El Rancho crew, even though we were all in the Bull, shouting at each other over drinks as in daze of yore.
Former Denver Mayor Wellington Webb and his wife, Wilma, were in the house, as was the mayor’s former press secretary, Andrew Hudson, who got us started down memory lane with tales of working (and goofing) with Jim.
Hizzoner likewise delivered a fond remembrance of his longtime fixer, whom he called his “Luca Brasi,” as Jim’s cigar-puffing pals from the Smoking Cave lined up along one wall like an honor guard.
Kelly, Larry, and Andrew Hudson.
For me, the sentimental journey reached its peak when Kelly backstopped Larry as emotion took him off-script during his remarks. Whenever someone told Larry how fortunate Kelly was to have his support after his dad’s sudden passing, Larry replied that it was the other way around. His nephew is a remarkable, self-possessed young man, running smooth on a strong blend of dad and mom.
Mom — the love of Jim’s life, Teri Sinopoli — was in the crowd with her sisters. So were Jim’s sis, Betty Jo, and her husband, Tom; Larry’s wife, Sherry, and their sons, Stefan and Will; Stan the Man; Rudi Boogs and his wife, Tanysha; cousin Guillermo. Lots and lots of cousins, real and aspirational.
I was honored far beyond any merit of mine to be called a brother on Saturday, though anyone who didn’t know the backstory must’ve wondered how this blue-eyed, baldheaded old gabacho with a mug like a dried-up creek bed could’ve been any kind of kin to these beautiful people.
“Oh, one day we thought we smelled a dead raccoon in the attic and found him up there in a nest of old girlie magazines, mumbling something about where was his daddy the mailman. Didn’t seem right, so we brought him downstairs, gave him a little chile. Bad idea. Never feed a stray perro. He ain’t all there, and he’s too often here, like evil tidings from DeeCee.”
I wish Jim’s mom, Lucy, had been there to chide me for making myself scarce in recent years. But she has a lot of mileage on the odometer, even more than the rest of us, and wasn’t up to the journey. And anyway, I wasn’t really a franchise player.
Her son had a deep bench, and never more so than on Saturday at the Bull. Friends and family. Young and old. Colleagues and co-conspirators. Politicos and pendejos. Tales were told; photographs submitted as evidence; the legend rewritten and amplified.
Chris James “Jethro” Martinez always left the light on and the door open. What a blessing it was to have crossed his threshold, to be made welcome, to feel at home; to feel like family.
Here’s a tasty bit of watermelon for all the veterans in the audience — sunrise over the Sandias — from your friendly neighborhood pinko.
Let’s also give a thought to all those who aren’t around to see it on Veterans Day 2024. Some of them might be a little upset with us for surrendering to the fascists they fought.
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