A thousand thank-yous to all who proffered happy-birthday wishes instead of death threats.
The festivities began with a pleasant two-hour bike ride — headwind out, tailwind back — and concluded with a high-speed burst of cookery after Herself invited the neighbors over.
We’ve been to their house for eats a couple of times, but had yet to reciprocate, so never having cooked for them I stuck with my basic skill set — a simple pico de gallo with blue corn chips followed by a pot of pintos in chipotle, which I turned into burritos smothered in hot Pueblo green chile with a side of roasted potatoes in red Chimayo chile.
Herself contributed a salad and a delicious raspberry cobbler. Beer and wine were consumed, along with a dollop of uisce beatha. Laughter ensued, and a fine time was had by all, except for the Turk’, who despises company, especially if it includes an aggro’ Chihuahua named Cujo.
Now it’s deadline time at the DogHaus, and somebody around here needs to get real funny real fast. We didn’t spend much on my birthday, but the White Tornado has a new fuel pump and the upstairs toilet has new guts, and Toyota mechanics and plumbers don’t work for free.
That's "Hanover," not "Hangover," though I have felt hungover here many a time while chasing leather-lunged leg-shavers back in the Nineties.
I don’t care what the calendar says — yesterday was the first day of fall. It was mostly cool and overcast until late in the day, when summer made something of a comeback. Nice change from the 90-plus weather we’ve been enjoying lately.
Naturally, I didn’t get out for a ride. It’s been heavy lifting around here, what with breaking in a new dog, working the VN.com site by myself on weekends, and deadlines for Velo the magazine (Monday) and Bicycle Retailer and Industry News (Wednesday).
The BRAIN column was a real bitch to write. The turmoil at Velo and VeloNews.com has been much on my mind, as has my friend Charles Pelkey’s cancer, and of course the never-ending mad-hattery in the nation’s capital, where the League of Small Hat Sizes holds sway. So I’ve been oscillating between rage and despair, neither of which is exactly fertile ground for bicycle comedy.
Nevertheless I prevailed — I shat out something, words in a row, and beat the clock with minutes to spare. And today I fled the office and the Innertubes for a fat-burning 50-miler that really flushed out the old headgear.
I’ve been contemplating a short bicycle tour, but finding a safe, pleasurable route out of Bibleburg has proven problematic. I’ve never liked riding Highway 24 west — too easy to get picked off by an 18-wheeler or RV between Manitou Springs and Cascade. North lies Jesus country and then Denver; no, thanks. And nobody in his right mind goes east. We’re Westerners, goddamnit.
That leaves south. But Highway 115 is under construction through October at both ends — Fort Carson and Penrose — and after a short recon by Subaru the other day I crossed that formerly delightful highway off my list, too. Single-lane climbs, gravel trucks and commuting prison guards give me the heebie-jeebies.
Thus the mainline out of Bibleburg is Interstate 25 — not exactly the sort of bucolic backroad one sees chronicled in Adventure Cyclist magazine. Still, you tour with the road you have, not the road you might want or wish to have at a later time. So today’s outing was something of a recon on two wheels, and it proved very illuminating indeed.
I wanted to avoid as much of the interstate as possible and so took Las Vegas Street to Highway 85/87, and portions of both roads sucked very much indeed, as in crumbling 55-mph two-laners with little or no shoulder. Nonetheless I survived and picked up I-25 at the Fountain exit. Hoo-boy, was that ever a barrel of laughs. At least the endless parade of tractor-trailer rigs blunted the headwind until I pulled off at the defunct Pikes Peak International Raceway, 22 miles south of the DogHaus.
Coming back was excellent. I not only had a tailwind, I skipped the interstate in favor of Old Pueblo Road, which is a staple of the leg-shavers’ Saturday ride out of Acacia Park downtown. It’s a winding two-laner that heads back to Fountain, and traffic was light, practically non-existent.
At Fountain I briefly considered revisiting the 85/87-to-Las Vegas route and then said screw it, instead picking up the Fountain Creek Regional Trail, which leads to the Pikes Peak Greenway Trail and home. Fat city, especially with a tailwind. More miles, but more smiles.
This, incidentally, is how Brian Gravestock of Old Town Bike Shop and the Bike Clinic Too gets out of Dodge when he has a hankering for some Mexican food in Pueblo, 45 miles south of here. He rides the trail to Fountain, picks up Old Pueblo, and then takes the frontage road where it’s available and the interstate where it’s not.
Sure beats sweltering in the office, awaiting evil tidings.
Herself and I dined out this evening with a neighbor and some of her out-of-town family, with whom we have become friendly over the years.
There was wine afterward on our back deck, and as it was getting dark nobody noticed (I hope) the half-assed mowing job I did yesterday. Miss Mia Sopaipilla and Buddy the Wonder Dog made brief appearances to rave reviews, but Turkish refused to leave his dressing room, citing obscure union regs about dogs and cats and never the twain shall meet outside the Thunderdome, and certainly not while the party of the first part is wearing a ridiculous purple harness and leash, which is the only way the big galoot gets outside since collecting a nasty and expensive abscess while at large and unfettered.
All in all, it was a pleasant way to end a day of making bricks without straw at PharaohNews. A casual glance at the interwebs at midshift unearthed a few small-helmet types aghast at our lack of investigative journalism. This is not unlike complaining that the free blowjob you just got from the unemployed barmaid didn’t include a free shot of top-shelf tequila with an artisan-beer back.
“Pathology is mixed. Nodes are clean, but tissue margins are not. Ready for Round II. The Rolling Stones were right: ‘What a drag it is getting old.’
Charles faces a second round of surgery to clean up around the edges, plus a dash of radiation, but he’s not lying around on the floor, drink-sodden and weeping, the way I would be (and often am anyway, regardless of how well things are going). He was in court today, handling a case, and another client just walked into his office for a consult as we were chatting on IM. So he’s still very much up and at ’em.
In other Velo news (ho ho ho), Neal Rogers has been named editor in chief, replacing the departed Ben Delaney. Please say a prayer, light a candle or sacrifice a goat on his behalf, but don’t blame him for the unintelligible quotes in the press release, which appears to be a Google machine translation of the original Cretin.
My personal fave is attributed to Peter Englehart, CEO of CGI: “His sense of what makes a strong editor will continue to represent Velo as the voice of authority in the cycling space that speaks with authenticity and uniqueness to the sport’s many fans.” But I doubt he actually spoke these words. Nobody can be this stupid, not even a TV guy.
My man Charles Pelkey says he is out of surgery and drinking a nice French red while awaiting the pathology report.
For those of you who don’t subscribe to my wisdom via RSS, drill deeply into comments or follow Charles on Facebook or Twitter, he posted on Facebook as follows:
“Well, I guess I can quote one of my favorite Python flicks: ‘I’m not dead yet.’ Surgery went well. Pathology reports pending. Thank you to all of you who sent kind messages of support and good karma. You guys are the greatest.”
I should be drinking a nice French red myself, because it’s pissing down rain and a flash-flood watch has been issued. But I’ve gotten hooked on this Victory Prima Pils, which is one mighty fine summertime sipper. Feel free to join me in hoisting a glass to Charles, to his family and friends, and to good news from the pathology report.
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