This being Zappadan, you are strongly advised to watch out where the huskies go.
Imagine my astonishment when I arose this morning to find a December morning that looked like … well, like a December morning.
The temperature has yet to reach the forecast high of 20 degrees, and there is an evil wind out of the north, which took all the joy right out of snow dispersal. As usual, no shoveling was required; a broom was equal to the task. Or would have been, had the underlying layer of snow not been frozen tight to the sidewalk.
All in all, a fine day for remaining inside, where the whiskey is.
The NWS forecast for the remainder of November (and yes, the headline is a George Carlin/Al Sleet reference).
I don’t like being cold and damp, shoveling snow, or having to wear pants indoors. But neither do I care for the idea of watching the Front Range turn into the Sonoran Desert, only without the great Mexican food.
The local fish-wrapper reported the other day that Bibleburg has enjoyed just a tenth of an inch of moisture this month and for the year to date is eight inches under normal precipitation. This is not a positive development, even for those of us who reach for a cold beer over a glass of water on a summery afternoon. For example, you can’t make beer without water. Unless you’re Coors, which seems to do just fine with Rocky Mountain trout piss.
South of us, in the Land of Enchantment, Elephant Butte Lake is experiencing drought conditions unseen since the year of my birth, which as regular readers know occurred the better part of quite some time ago.
And there’s no relief in sight. Not here, anyway. According to the weather wizards, there isn’t so much as a hint of a whiff of a rumor of a whisper of any precip’ in the Bibleburg forecast over the next 10 days.
What there is, is a parade of 60-and-sunny that will delight me in the short term (I have two bikes to review and more on the way) but gives me The Fear as regards the long term.
This autumn, for the first time since we’ve lived here, a neighbor declined my offer of the usual dozen or so bags of fallen leaves from our silver maple for use in her composting. She has also downsized her once-elaborate front yard to something better suited to a high-desert climate.
“What’s the point in gardening if it’s never going to rain again?” she asked.
Whaddaya know? Seems it’s not gonna be 70-something and sunny forever.
It was bite-ass cold this morning, and thank God only Herself had to be up and at ’em early. Me, I burrowed ever deeper into the blankets and stayed there until the crack of 7:30, when it was still too friggin’ cold for my taste. Why, I actually contemplated pulling on the old sweat pants once I tunneled out in search of hot coffee.
Happily, one need only read the morning news to get the blood boiling.
The UCI is starting to look like a Dumpster full of rats into which a lit string of inch-and-a-half Black Cats has been introduced. I’d prefer to nuke the entire site from orbit (it’s the only way to be sure), but if I can’t get a big bang I’ll take a series of little ones.
More shoes are said to be dropping directly (think an earthquake whose epicenter is directly under Imelda Marcos’ closet), so if it sounds like the combined New York, Boston and Chicago marathons are pounding by outside your window, well, you heard it here first.
Elsewhere, John McCain is about three brain cells away from telling squirrels to get off his fucking lawn. The whole point of marrying into the booze business is to avoid drinking the cheap popskull that dissolves you into an asshole and a mouth with nothing in between. I married into the book business, f’fucksake, but you don’t see me reading any of Sean Hannity’s bullshit.
Speaking of which, and finally, Triumph the Insult Comic Dog was at the last debate. So there is some good news after all.
The Kona Rove is a cyclo-cross-slash-whatever bike, with eyelets for racks and fenders and plenty of clearance for tires forbidden by the UCI.
Some folks hate Mondays. But since I work a weird schedule that mostly shits in my weekends and Wednesdays, I mostly don’t mind ’em.
And yesterday was one of the better Mondays, as the forecast called for 70s and sunny and I had only grocery shopping on the to-do list.
So I dragged ass out of the sack at 7 a.m., enjoyed some java and a piece of toast while surfing disinterestedly for fresh revelations regarding The Cyclist Who Shall Not Be Named, then went for a short run. Yeah, I’m starting that nonsense back up again, and yesterday I managed 20 minutes on grass without collapsing into a weepy heap of exploded joints, synovial fluid and torn tendons.
After elevenses I attached a cyclocomputer and bottle cages to the latest review bike, a Kona Rove (unfortunate moniker, that), and we spent an easy 90 minutes getting acquainted.
The thing I like best about reviewing bikes for Adventure Cyclist — besides cashing the checks, of course — is that I almost always get to play with something entirely new to me. This time it’s the bike itself (never rode a Kona anything) and Hayes disc brakes (Avid, si, Hayes, no).
As usual, I can’t say much about the bike before writing the review, other than to note that it’s steel and green and so what’s not to like?
I’ll ride it again today, and then hunker down for the second presidential debate, God help us all. We have a bottle of Leopold Bros. American Small Batch Whiskey on hand for medicinal purposes, should we start bleeding from the eyes.
Mad Blog Media 