Aqua, man

August 23, 2026 ~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 26 Comments

There seems to be a theme to the news this morning.

A drought-stricken Colorado river is drying up.

The water in Cañon City and northern El Paso County tastes foul.

And the future of the Colorado River? Well … we’re probably gonna have to wear shades, but it ain’t exactly looking bright.

No wonder the bears are coming down from the mountain to kick ass.

“All y’all are fuckin’ this shit up,” says Yogi.

“We’d eat you, if we thought it would help, but you don’t even taste good anymore,” adds Boo Boo. “Like cheap industrial lager and soda pop.”

“And B.O.,” says Yogi. “You using any of this water to take showers, or are you just soaking the lawn and washing the Suburban?”

Here in the Land of Entrapment the monsoon has been more of a non-soon, and when asked when we might expect some relief the answer is “Not soon.”

The administration’s drought map shows that 3% of New Mexico is in “severe drought,” namely Albuquerque, Santa Fe and parts of the northeastern corner of the state. About one-third of the state, predominantly in northern New Mexico, is suffering from “extreme drought,” the map shows.

The outlook notes that conditions are unlikely to improve over the next two weeks, with all but the northern and western edges of New Mexico facing 100% probabilities of above-average temperatures.

Meanwhile, my old stomping grounds around Española remain on fire.

I’d love to claim the moral high ground here. But I’m down here in the sandbox with the rest of the dummies. Part of the problem.

We have a lawn. Smaller than the one we got when we bought the house, at the northern edge of the Chihuahuan Desert. But still.

I drink two cups of coffee and one tall mug of tea every morning, plus a bottle or two of water on my bike rides, and more after I get home. There’s that daily shower too. Sometimes it’s jailhouse style, but occasionally I go full Hollywood.

I let God wash the car, when She’s of a mind to. Lately She’s not in the mood. Keeps sending us bears.

Digging my way out

August 21, 2026August 21, 2026 ~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 12 Comments

We have a new swimming pool in the cul-de-sac. One lane, and a tough flip turn.

It’s been a week since I got sprung from jury duty and I’m (a) still slightly bemused by the experience, and (2) not particularly interested in diving back into the sewage lagoon of the 24-hour news cycle.

Anyway, the fiber-optic fairies have been scurrying hither and yon in the ’hood, barricading streets and sidewalks; parking trucks, trailers, and arcane machinery in the right of way; digging holes and then filling them up again (or not); cutting gas lines and unplugging cable TV; and like that there.

It seems like a treasure hunt, albeit slightly spastic, and for some spray-tanned Suits in air-conditioned offices it almost certainly is. But for the sunburnt dudes with the shovels it’s hard labor with a side of heat stroke. And for the casual blogger it’s a noisy pain in the brain that takes his eye off the ball.

“Fuck this noise, I’d rather go 10 rounds with the bears.”

Well. Maybe not. Unless you can find me a real little one. Some toddler’s teddy, maybe.

Instead I go for a ride.

Yesterday I’d planned to wind southwest along the Paseo de Las Montañas Trail and through downtown to the bosque, before it dries up and blows away, then come home via the Paseo/North Diversion Channel Trail/Osuna/Bear Canyon route, or take the NDCT through Balloon Fiesta Park and up Tramway.

But NDCT south of the brief stretch of I-40 Trail west of Carlisle was closed for some reason, so I skipped downtown and the bosque and rode north to the Tramway climb, which I hadn’t done in two months.

The North Diversion Channel Trail hooks up with Balloon Fiesta Park.

I usually ride this gradual 5-mile ascent from I-25 to County Line BBQ as an individual time trial, just for shits and giggles, not trying to prove anything. My “training,” if you can call it that, is focused on having fun, testing myself a little when the spirit moves, and not getting centerpunched by some leadfoot “making his day” on TikTok.

A half hour for the distance is not shameful. My best time is 26:37, set four years ago on the DBR Prevail TT.

Yesterday, aboard the Soma Pescadero, I didn’t feel like I was crushing it — maybe a slight cross/headwind, p’raps sloth and torpor, or some combination of the two — so I was surprised to check the ol’ chrono at the finish and see a time of 28 minutes flat.

It seemed familiar, possibly because it was. When I got home and checked my training log to see how 28 minutes flat added up to previous Tramway time trials … well, it was the exact same time I’d ridden back in June, on the New Albion Privateer.

That was weird. What was really weird was that my time for the entire ride — from El Rancho Pendejo to the I-40/NDCT trails, Balloon Fiesta Park, Tramway, County Line, and back to the rancho — was likewise identical to my June outing, which covered the same ground, to the centimeter.

Talk about spinning your wheels to no particular purpose. No wonder I never go viral. You gotta give The Algorithm something to work with.

I mean, like, tik fuckin’ tok, yo.

Take the highway that’s the best

July 30, 2026July 30, 2026 ~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 14 Comments

This morning I was getting my kicks on Route 66.

I’ve been trying to mix things up a bit lately, do something out of the ordinary at least one day per week, and today it was a spin along a local stretch of John Steinbeck’s “Mother Road.”

Come fall, which it very much is not, the Geezers usually have a go at the climb to the Morning Star Grocery. This is an out-and-back ride, and mileage varies because not all of us start in the same place. Some, me among them, ride from home; others start from the Smith’s parking lot at Tramway and Central.

All of us get the same seven rolling miles of Mama to Tijeras, where the actual climbing starts as we turn right onto NM 337 and gear down for the 9.7-mile climb to the grocery. There we take five, patronize the shop, have a wee, and assign Manly Points, using a sliding scale that factors in the number of laps around the sun a rider has logged before the day’s exertions.

For me the ride winds up being a 45-mile round trip, more or less, with about 2,500 feet of vertical. A nice day in the saddle.

Today, I had planned to ride solo. No real purpose, beyond doing something other than roll around in the Sandia foothills, and before it got too hot, too; the NWS had issued another heat advisory for any and all mad dogs out in the noonday sun. So eight-ish I pulled the mango Steelman Eurocross from its hook and off we flew down Tramway, the idea being to ride to Tijeras and then … whatever.

From left, *Gazette* veterans Chris Coursey, Merrill Oliver, and Your Humble Narrator kit up for a California trip.

This would seem an odd choice of bike for anyone who didn’t know my habits. It’s a cyclocross bike, dates to 1998 or thereabouts, and in its present incarnation sports bar-end shifters, an eight-speed drivetrain, Dura-Ace hubs laced to Mavic Open Pro hoops, Paul’s cantis, just the one bottle cage, and a mixed pair of majorly old ’cross knobbies, MXPs from Clément (front) and Donnelly (rear). In 2006, I rode it from Santa Rosa to Hopland for a wedding, but not with those tires.

Mostly I ride it on trails, and so I forget what a great road bike the Eurocross is, especially on shitty roads. So I was having a high old time as we rolled into Tijeras, where on impulse I hung a right on NM 337 and started climbing because why the hell not?

Well, the answer to that was I only had one water bottle, one tube of Clif Blox, and no money, I probably felt swell because I’d had a tailwind pushing me to Tijeras, and sure it’s all downhill from the grocery except for where it isn’t and that headwind ain’t gonna eat itself.

So — believe it or not — I actually did the smart thing for once. I decided to ride to the Otero Trailhead and then turn around, which gave me a 30-mile ride with 1,600 feet of vert’ and nary a bit of bonk or heatstroke.

No Manly Points, though. I’m harsh but fair.

Speaking of which, when we finally hound the brigands out of the government and into prison cells or boneyards, I propose that we seize their fleet of 250 Cadillac Escalades in The Name of the People and use these bloated pimpmobiles to give hungry poor folks free lifts to the grocery. Not everyone has the bike and can make the climb, especially since the swine started croaking the bike lanes.

“DEI” me bollocks. If we’re talking about the bozos these land yachts are intended for it should stand for “Douchebags, Eejits, and Idlers.”

Time and temperature

February 2, 2026February 2, 2026 ~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 9 Comments

Didn’t we just have a full moon? Is God overstocked with these things and blowing them out? Or has He finally run out of patience and put His foot to the floorboard on the road to the End of Days?

This latest celestial spotlight is the Snow Moon, which, ha ha, etc. Yesterday’s high was 61, 10 (!) degrees above normal. Today’s may be warmer still. What little remains from last week’s snow lurks in dark corners, like ICEholes waiting for women and children to push around.

But we were talking about time, not temperature, yes?

Lately it seems that the instant I’ve finished washing the breakfast dishes it’s time to make lunch. Then, with luck, a bit of exercise, and boom! Dinner and bedtime.

Not a lot of unclaimed space therein to, as Whitman put it, “loafe and invite my soul.” My soul won’t even take my calls. Straight to voicemail they go.

Now, some may say that I burn an awful lot of dawn’s early light slobbering around the Internet like an ADHD kid working out on a Tootsie Pop — the National Weather Service, The Paris Review, various and sundry purveyors of products that I don’t need and can’t afford — before finally biting into its center, the homepage of The New York Times, which almost always shares a deep brown hue with, but is very much not, chocolate.

That this drives me to lunch is only because (a) I no longer drink, and (2) I desperately need something to take the taste of the NYT homepage out of my mouth.

Having eaten my way through the fridge and pantry, I feel a pressing need for either sleep or exercise. And exercise it is, because Miss Mia Sopaipilla is in the bed, and if I try to share a corner of that king-size bed with that 8-pound cat she will get right out of it and stalk around the house, meowing at the top of her lungs. She’s deaf as a post and her voice carries.

So out the door I go. And sure, if it’s 55 or 60 out there I’m liable to stay out a while, because see “the homepage of The New York Times” and “meowing at the top of her lungs” above. Last week I got 100 miles in, plus one trail run.

When I get home I’m hungry again for some reason as Herself inspects a gas range atop which dinner is very much not cooking itself with that look on her face that says, “Some people have to go to work in the morning.” I strive mightily to swallow a cheery, “Not me!” And get out in that kitchen and rattle those pots and pans.

And soon dinner is served, as is something less toothsome on TV, and since some people have to go to work in the morning (not me) everyone is in bed by 8 and asleep shortly thereafter.

Tomorrow, as the fella says, is another day. That Tootsie Pop ain’t gonna lick itself.

A fossil, fueled

January 15, 2026 ~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 17 Comments

Still no new pope? Whoops, wrong chimney.

Doesn’t look like we’ll be needing the ol’ kiva fireplace in the master bedroom for a while, if the long-range forecast is any guide.

Actually, we’ve never needed it, nor the bigger one in the living room neither. We both got our fill of wood-burning Back in the Day®, when we lived at 8,800 feet in frosty CrustyTucky and tossed big chunks of aspen, cedar, piñon, and oak into the Lopi fireplace insert faster than ICE Barbie’s masked goons throw brown people out of the country, only with less horseshit and gunfire.

Here in scenic cosmopolitan Duck!Burg, a couple-three thousand feet lower and more than a few Fahrenheit degrees higher, we manage to skate by with fossil fuels. This keeps Your Humble Narrator away from chainsaws, always a good idea, especially in these dark days. Will he do an injury to himself or someone else? Stay tuned!

The chainsaw always made me nervous, actually. What I liked was splitting rounds with the ax, another implement that should probably be under lock and key for the duration. The chainsaw is long gone, but I still have an ax, a couple smallish camping hatchets, and a few handsaws in case I need to dispose of a body … uh, of some downed limbs! Tree limbs!

Goddamnit, this is what comes of reading the news of a morning. Some days there just isn’t enough coffee in the world.

But it does look like we will have oddly springlike conditions for the near future, and so instead of burning wood or anything else, I can expend a few calories on the old bikey-bike. And without all the heavy-weather gear, too.

At this rate, an old white guy could find himself browning up enough to get deported. I hear South Sudan is lovely this time of year.